On The Death Of Mistress Mary Prideaux

Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong, But weepe because yourselves have livde so long: Age is not fild by growth of time, for then What old man lives to see th’

To A Valentine

Faire Valentine, since once your welcome hand Did cull mee out wrapt in a paper band, Vouchsafe the same hand still, to shew thereby That Fortune did your will no injury: What though a

To His Sister

Loving Sister: every line Of your last letter was so fine With the best mettle, that the grayne Of Scrivener’s pindust were but vayne: The touch of Gold did sure instill Some vertue more

Sonnett

My love and I for kisses play’d, Shee would keepe stake, I was content, But when I wonne shee would be paid; This made mee aske her what she meant. Pray, since I see
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