#EnglishWriters
Open thy gates To him who weeping waits, And might come in, But that held back by sin. Let mercy be
No man such rare parts hath, that… If favour or occasion help not him…
As is your name, so is your comely… Touch’d every where with such diff… As that in all that admirable roun… There is not one least solecism fo… And as that part, so every portion…
Love, like a gipsy, lately came, And did me much importune To see my hand, that by the same He might foretell my fortune. He saw my palm; and then, said he,
Tell, if thou canst, and truly, wh… This camphire, storax, spikenard,… These musks, these ambers, and tho… Sweet as the Vestry of the Oracle… I’ll tell thee:—while my Julia di…
From noise of scare-fires rest ye… From murders, Benedicite; From all mischances that may frigh… Your pleasing slumbers in the nigh… Mercy secure ye all, and keep
I call, I call: who do ye call? The maids to catch this cowslip ba… But since these cowslips fading be… Troth, leave the flowers, and maid… Yet, if that neither you will do,
When a daffodil I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead;
Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing, While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free,
Ye silent shades, whose each tree… Some relique of a saint doth wear; Who for some sweet-heart’s sake, d… The fire and martyrdom of Love:— Here is the legend of those saints
How rich and pleasing thou, my Ju… In each thy dainty and peculiar pa… First, for thy Queen-ship on thy… Of flowers a sweet commingled coro… About thy neck a carkanet is bound…
Since to the country first I came… I have lost my former flame; And, methinks, I not inherit, As I did, my ravish’d spirit. If I write a verse or two,
You say I love not, 'cause I do n… Still with your curls, and kiss th… You blame me, too, because I can’… Some sport, to please those babies… By Love’s religion, I must here c…
Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morning, sir, to you; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. Good morning to this primrose too;
Come, come away Or let me go; Must I here stay Because you’re slow, And will continue so;