Sir Walter Raleigh
To His Love When He Had Obtained Her
Now Serena be not coy, Since we freely may enjoy Sweet embraces, such delights, As will shorten tedious nights. Think that beauty will not stay With you always, but away, And that tyrannizing face
The Silent Lover ii
WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion. Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne’er
The Lie
Go, Soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Say
Like Truthless Dreams, So Are My Joys Expired
Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired, And past return are all my dandled days; My love misled, and fancy quite retired – Of all which passed the sorrow only stays. My lost
Stans Puer ad Mensam
Attend my words, my gentle knave, And you shall learn from me How boys at dinner may behave With due propriety. Guard well your hands: two things have been Unfitly used by some; The
My Last Will
When I am safely laid away, Out of work and out of play, Sheltered by the kindly ground From the world of sight and sound, One or two of those I leave Will remember
Epitaph
Even such is time, which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust, Who in the dark and silent grave When we have
The Silent Lover i
PASSIONS are liken’d best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are
Song of Myself
I was a Poet! But I did not know it, Neither did my Mother, Nor my Sister nor my Brother. The Rich were not aware of it; The Poor took no care of it.
Nature that Washed Her Hands in Milk
Nature, that washed her hands in milk, And had forgot to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and silk, At love’s request to try them, If she a mistress could compose To please
Her Reply
IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy Love. But Time drives flocks from field
On Being Challenged to Write an Epigram in the Manner of Herrick
To Griggs, that learned man, in many a bygone session, His kids were his delight, and physics his profession; Now Griggs, grown old and glum, and less intent on knowledge, Physics himself at home,
Now What Is Love
Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell? It is that fountain and that well Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell That tolls all into heaven or hell; And
The Artist
The Artist and his Luckless Wife They lead a horrid haunted life, Surrounded by the things he’s made That are not wanted by the trade. The world is very fair to see; The Artist
A Farewell to False Love
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error,