Some men there be which like my method well And much commend the strangeness of my vein; Some say I have a passing pleasing strain; Some say that im my humor I excel; Some,
But let us leave Queen Mab a while, Through many a gate, o’er many a stile, That now had gotten by this wile, Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who
Truce, gentle Love, a parley now I crave; Methinks ’tis long since first these wars begun; Nor thou nor I the better yet can have; Bad is the match where neither party won. I
To Humor You cannot love, my pretty heart, and why? There was a time you told me that you would; But now again you will the same deny, If it might please you, would
Another to the River Anker Clear Anker, on whose silver-sanded shore My soul-shrin’d saint, my fair Idea, lies, O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore The crystal stream refined by her eyes, Where sweet
Plain-path’d Experience, th’unlearned’s guide, Her simple followers evidently shows Sometimes what Schoolmen scarcely can decide, Nor yet wise Reason absolutely knows. In making trial of a murther wrought, If the vile actors of the
A witless gallant a young wench that woo’d (Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move), Entreated me, as e’er I wish’d his good, To write him but one sonnet to his
To the Critic Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace, Turning my papers asks, “What have we here?” Making withal some filthy antic face. I fear
All feathered things yet ever known to men, From the huge Rucke, unto the little Wren; From Forrest, Fields, from Rivers and from Pons, All that have webs, or cloven-footed ones; To the Grand
To the Soul That learned Father, who so firmly proves The Soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define: Anima – Gives her that name, as she the Body moves;
To such as say thy love I overprize, And do not stick to term my praises folly, Against these folks, that think themselves so wise, I thus oppose my Reason’s forces wholly, Though I
My heart was slain, and none but you and I; Who should I think the murther should commit, Since but yourself there was no creature by, But only I, guiltless of murth’ring it? It
To Admiration Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire, Ravish’d a world beyond the farthest thought, And knowing more than ever hath been taught, That I am only starv’d in my desire. Marvel
When first I ended, then I first began, The more I travell’d, further from my rest, Where most I lost, there most of all I wan, Pined with hunger rising from a feast. Methinks
Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamour’d Graces, The Goddesses of Memory and Wit, Which there in order take their several places; In whose dear bosom sweet delicious
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