On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea
You that affright with lamentable notes The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats Vex the grume porter’s surly conscience: That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence: You whose unknown and meanly
An Epitaph On Sr John Walter, Lord Cheife Baron
Farewell Example, Living Rule farewell; Whose practise shew’d goodness was possible, Who reach’d the full outstretch’d perfection Of Man, of Lawyer, and of Christian. Suppose a Man more streight than Reason is, Whose grounded
On His Lady Denys
Denys hath merited no slender praise, In that She well supplied the Formers daies. Conceive how Good she was, whose very worst Unto her Knight was This, that She dyed First.
In Commendation Of Musick
When whispering straynes doe softly steale With creeping passion through the hart, And when at every touch wee feele Our pulses beate and beare a part; When thredds can make A hartstring shake Philosophie
On Sir Thomas Savill Dying Of The Small Pox
Take, greedy death, a body here entomd That by a thousand stroakes was made one wound, Where all thy shafts were stuck with fatall ayme Untill a quiver this thy marke became, Had Cжsar
With Penne, Inke, And Paper To A Distressed Friend
Here is paper, pen, and inke, That your heart and seale may sinke Into such markes as may expresse A Soule much blest in heavinesse. May your paper seeme as fayre As yourselfe when
On The Death Of A Twin
Where are yee now, Astrologers, that looke For petty accidents in Heavens booke? Two Twins, to whom one Influence gave breath, Differ in more than Fortune, Life and Death. While both were warme (for
Her Epitaph
Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine That which makes thee a rich mine: Remember yet, ’tis but a loane; And wee must have it back, Her owne, The very same; Marke mee, the same: Thou
On The Death Of Sir Rowland Cotton Seconding That Of Sir Robert
More Cottons yet? O let not envious Fate Attempt the Ruine of our growing State. O had it spar’d Sir Rowland, then might wee Have almost spar’d Sir Robert’s Library. His Life and th’
An Epitaph On Mr. Fishborne The Great London Benefactor, And His Executor
What are thy gaines, O death, if one man ly Stretch’d in a bed of clay, whose charity Doth hereby get occasion to redeeme Thousands out of the grave: though cold hee seeme He
A Lover To His Mistress
Ile tell you how the Rose did first grow redde, And whence the Lilly whitenesse borrowed: You blusht, and then the Rose with redde was dight: The Lillies kissde your hands, and so came
On A Gentlewoman That Sung And Play'd Upon A Lute
Be silent you still musique of the Sphears, And every sense make haste to be all ears, And give devout attention to her aires, To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers Of
A Girdle
Whene’er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast. I here stand keeper while ’tis light, ‘Tis theft to enter when ’tis night. This girdle doth the wast embrace
A Watch-String
Tyme’s picture here invites your eyes, See with how running wheeles it flyes! These strings can do what no man could The tyme they fast in prison hold.
On The Life Of Man
What is our life? a play of passion; Our mirth the musick of division: Our mother’s wombes the tyring houses bee Where wee are drest for tyme’s short comedy: The earth’s the stage, heaven