But if that Golden Age would come again, and Charles here rule as he before did reign;
For a Benizon to fall on our meat, and on us all.
Her pretty feet like snails did creep A little out, and then, as if they played at Bo-peep did soon draw in agen.
In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Like will to like; each creature loves his kind. Chaste words proceed still from a bashful mind.
O native country, repossessed by thee! For, rather than I'll to the West return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn. Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; give thou my sacred relics burial.
So smooth, so sweet, so silvery, is thy voice as, could they hear, the damned would make no noise, but listen to thee (walking in thy chamber) melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
The starres of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare without number.
Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.
When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
And after they have shown their pride like you a while, they glide into the grave.
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.
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 on our meat, and on us all.
In sober mornings do not thou rehearse the holy incantation of a verse;
Lord, Thou hast given me a cell wherein to dwell; and little house, whose humble roof is weather-proof;
O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
So when or you or I are made a fable, song, or fleeting shade, all love, all liking, all delight lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then be not coy, but use your time; and while ye may, go marry: for having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry.
To get thine ends, lay bashfulness aside; who fears to ask, doth teach to be deny'd.
When the artless doctor sees no one hope, but of his fees, and his skill runs on the lees; Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When his potion and his pill, has, or none, or little skill, meet for nothing, but to kill; Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
And air-like leave no pression to be seen where'er they met, or parting place has been.
Buying, possessing, accumulating ? this is not worldliness. But doing this in the love of it, with no love of God paramount ? doing it so that thoughts of eternity and God are an intrusion ? doing it so that one's spirit is secularized in the process; this is worldliness.
Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see the dew bespangling herb and tree.
Here a little child I stand, heaving up my either hand;