ANTHEA'S RETRACTATION
Anthea laugh’d, and, fearing lest excess Might stretch the cords of civil comeliness She with a dainty blush rebuked her face, And call’d each line back to his rule and space.
TO DIANEME
I could but see thee yesterday Stung by a fretful bee; And I the javelin suck’d away, And heal’d the wound in thee. A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings I have in my
THE CEREMONIES FOR CANDLEMAS DAY
Kindle the Christmas brand, and then Till sunset let it burn; Which quench’d, then lay it up again, Till Christmas next return. Part must be kept, wherewith to teend The Christmas log next year;
GOOD PRECEPTS, OR COUNSEL
In all thy need, be thou possest Still with a well prepared breast; Nor let the shackles make thee sad; Thou canst but have what others had. And this for comfort thou must know,
TO THE ROSE: SONG
Go, happy Rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my Love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter’d me. Say, if she’s fretful, I have
Discontents In Devon
More discontents I never had Since I was born, than here; Where I have been, and still am, sad, In this dull Devonshire. Yet justly too I must confess, I ne’er invented such Ennobled
The Vine
I dreamed this mortal part of mine Was metamorphosed to a vine, Which, crawling one and every way, Enthralled my dainty Lucia. Methought, her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did
THE WATCH
Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never Wound up again; Once down, he’s down for ever. The watch once down, all motions then do cease; The man’s pulse stopt, all passions
Oberon's Feast
Hapcot! To thee the Fairy State I with discretion, dedicate. Because thou prizest things that are Curious, and un-familiar. Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We’ll see the Fairy Court anon. A little
UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY
Droop, droop no more, or hang the head, Ye roses almost withered; Now strength, and newer purple get, Each here declining violet. O primroses! let this day be A resurrection unto ye; And to
THE BAD SEASON MAKES THE POET SAD
Dull to myself, and almost dead to these, My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; Lost to all music now, since every thing Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to
TO MISTRESS KATHARINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers, To make for others garlands; and to set On many a head here, many a coronet. But amongst
MRS ELIZ: WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF THELOST SHEPHERDESS
Among the myrtles as I walk’d Love and my sighs thus intertalk’d: Tell me, said I, in deep distress, Where I may find my Shepherdess? Thou fool, said Love, know’st thou not this? In
The Bag Of The Bee
About the sweet bag of a bee Two cupids fell at odds, And whose the pretty prize should be They vowed to ask the gods. Which Venus hearing, thither came, And for their boldness
THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS, CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM
THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS, CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM DESUNT NONNULLA Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings, Let our souls fly to th’ shades, wherever springs Sit smiling in the meads;