Ben Jonson
To Lucy, Countess of Bedford, with John Donne's Satires
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are Life of the Muses’ day, their morning star! If works, not th’ author’s, their own grace should look, Whose poems would not wish to be your
Song To Celia – I
Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns
Venus' Runaway
Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say? He is Venus’ runaway. She that will
Have You Seen But A Bright Lily Grow
Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of
Ode to Himself upon the Censure of his New Inn
Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, Usurp the chair of wit! Indicting and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their
On My First Son
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy. Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate,
Hymn To Diana
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy
A Celebration of Charis: IV. Her Triumph
See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty
Begging Another
For love’s sake, kiss me once again; I long, and should not beg in vain, Here’s none to spy or see; Why do you doubt or stay? I’ll taste as lightly as the bee
My Picture Left in Scotland
I now think Love is rather deaf than blind, For else it could not be That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me And cast my love behind. I’m sure my
The Noble Balm
HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound: Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal; And doubtful days,
So Breaks The Sun
So breaks the sun earth’s rugged chains, Wherein rude winter bound her veins; So grows both stream and source of price, That lately fettered were with ice. So naked trees get crisped heads, And
Piccolo Valzer Viennese
A Vienna ci sono dieci ragazze, Una spalla dove piange la morte E un bosco di colombe disseccate. C’e’ un frammento del mattino Nel museo della brina. C’รจ un salone con mille vetrate. Ahi!
A Farewell to the World
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage. Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I
A Fit of Rhyme against Rhyme
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits True conceit, Spoiling senses of their treasure, Cozening judgment with a measure, But false weight; Wresting words from their true calling, Propping verse