Some brittle sticks of Thorne or Briar make me a fire, close by whose living coale I sit, and glow like it.
Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings be devoted to the memory of me: then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.
Twixt kings and tyrants there's this difference known; Kings seek their subjects' good: tyrants their own.
When words we want, love teacheth to indite; And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
And when all bodies meet in Lethe to be drowned, then only numbers sweet with endless life are crowned.
'Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe', I cry, 'Full and fair ones; come and buy':
Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
Here she lies (in bed of spice) fair as Eve in Paradise: for her beauty it was such Poets could not praise too much. Virgins come, and in a ring her supremest requiem sing; when depart, but see ye tread lightly, lightly o'er the dead.
In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin ( once my maid ) from whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.
Many a kiss, both odd and even; many a glance, too, has been sent from out the eye, love's firmament; many a jest told of the keys betraying this night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying!
Only Herrick's left alone, for to number sorrow by their departures hence and die.
Some would know why I so long still doe tarry, and ask why here that I live, and not marry? Thus I those doe oppose; what man would be here, slave to Thrall, if at all he could live free here?
There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.
Upon her cheeks she wept, and from those showers Sprang up a sweet nativity of flowers.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes, then, then, methinks, how sweeetly flows that liquefaction of her clothes.
And when I shall meet, thy silv'ry feet my soul I'll pour into thee.
Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime; and take the harmlesse follie of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die before we know our liberty. Our life is short; and our dayes run as fast away as do?s the Sunne; and as a vapour, or a drop of raine once lost, can ne?r be found againe: so when or you or I are made a fable, song, or fleeting shade; all love, all liking, all delight lies drown?d with us in endlesse night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; come, my Corinna, come, let?s goe a Maying.
Go, pretty child, and bear this flower unto thy little Saviour; and tell Him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known.
Here she lies a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood; Who, as soone fell fast asleep, As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.
It is an active flame that flies First to the babies in the eyes.
Maybe this world is another planet's hell.
'Oor the warm soft side of the resigning yet resisting bride. The kiss of virgins first-fruits of the bed; soft speech, smooth touch, the lips, the maidenhead; these and a thousand sweets could never be so near or dear as thou wast once to me.
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!'
Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never, But, like a laurell, to grow green forever.
We credit most our sight; one eye doth please Our trust farre more than ten eare-witnesses.