#EnglishWriters
Here, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand: Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to thee, For a benison to fall
IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed,
Farewell thou thing, time past so… To me as blood to life and spirit;… Nay, thou more near than kindred,… Male to the female, soul to body;… To quick action, or the warm soft…
Though frankincense the deities re… We must not give all to the hallow… Such be our gifts, and such be our… As for ourselves to leave some fra…
Come, Anthea, let us two Go to feast, as others do: Tarts and custards, creams and cak… Are the junkets still at wakes; Unto which the tribes resort,
1 Among thy fancies, tell me this… What is the thing we call a kiss? 2 I shall resolve ye what it is:— It is a creature born and bred Between the lips, all cherry-red,
Let us, though late, at last, my… And loving lie in one devoted bed. Thy watch may stand, my minutes fl… No sound calls back the year that… Then, sweetest Silvia, let’s no l…
Come, Sons of Summer, by whose to… We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours, and rough… We rip up first, then reap our lan… Crown’d with the ears of corn, now…
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
To gather flowers, Sappha went, And homeward she did bring Within her lawny continent, The treasure of the Spring. She smiling blush’d, and blushing…
How Love came in, I do not know, Whether by th’ eye, or eare, or no… Or whether with the soule it came (At first) infused with the same: Whether in part ‘tis here or there…
Only a little more I have to write: Then I’ll give o’er, And bid the world good-night. ’Tis but a flying minute,
Reach with your whiter hands to me Some crystal of the spring; And I about the cup shall see Fresh lilies flourishing. Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but…
’Tis not ev’ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy: No, but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles, Full of fire, then I write
MONTANO, SILVIO, AND… MON. Bad are the times. SIL.… MON. Troth, bad are both; worse… The feast of shepherds fail. SI… Of wassail now, or sets the quinte…