English Poet and Historian
English Poet and Historian
As that the walls worn thin, permit the mind To look out through, and his Frailty find.
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning. The world shall find this miracle in me that fire can burn when all the matters spent: then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, and that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent— thou mayst repent that thou hast scornd my tears, when Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
This many-headed monster, Multitude.
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.
No April can revive thy withered flowers, whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now; swift speeding Time, feathered with flying hours, dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Oh let not then such riches waste in vain, but love whilst that thou mayst be loved again.
To purge the mischiefs that increase And all good order mar, For oft we see a wicked peace To be well changed for war.
But ah, no more! this must not be foretold, for women grieve to think they must be old.
Pleasures are not, if they last; in their passing is their best: glory is more bright and gay in a flash, and so away.
By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my cares return.
We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come; possess these shores with me! The winds and seas are troublesome and here we may be free.
Short is the glory of the blushing rose, the hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass, and thou with careful brow, sitting alone, received hast this message from thy glass, that tells the truth and says that All is gone.
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; tor light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs, and frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near; when dark shall seem thy day that never clears, and all lies withered that was held so dear, then take this picture which I here present thee, limned with a pencil not all unworthy;
Fair is my Love, and cruel as she’s fair her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; and her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour, whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love,
Suffice they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
When your eyes have done their part thought must length’n it in the heart.