Come, My Celia
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
On Salathiel Pavy
A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel Epitaphs: ii WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death’s self is sorry. ‘Twas a child that
A Hymn to God the Father
Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part. Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein thy Love. If thou hadst not Been stern to me, But left me free,
The Hourglass
Do but consider this small dust Here running in the glass, By atoms moved; Could you believe that this The body was Of one that loved? And in his mistress’ flame, playing like a
It Is Not Growing Like A Tree
It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily
To John Donne
Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse; Whose every work of thy most early wit Came forth example, and remains so yet; Longer a-knowing than
To The Memory Of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare, And What He Hath Left Us
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
Simplex Munditiis
STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder’d, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found,
Epitaph On Elizabeth
Wouldst thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virture than doth
Song To Celia – II
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth
To Heaven
Good and great God, can I not think of thee But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? Oh be
Song from The Silent Woman
Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found,
An Ode to Himself
Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps doth die; And this security, It is the common moth That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
An Elegy
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise. A virtue, like allay
A Part of an Ode
to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison IT is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long