Thou that tam’st tigers, and fierce storms, that rise,
With thy soul-melting lullabies;
Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres
To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.
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These springs were maidens once that loved,
My story tells, by Love they wereTurn’d to these springs which we see here:The pretty whimpering that they make,When of the banks their leave they take,Tells ye but this, they are the same,In nothing changed but in their name.
BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,
Though they be few in number, I’m content;If otherwise, I stand indifferent,Nor makes it matter, Nestor’s years to tell,If man lives long, and if he live not well.A multitude of days still heaped onSeldom brings order, but confusion.Might I make choice, long life should be with-stood;Nor would I care how short it were, if good;Which…
In numbers, and but these few,
Thou pretty Baby, born here,With sup’rabundant scorn here;Who for thy princely port here,Hadst for thy placeOf birth, a baseOut-stable for thy court here.Instead of neat enclosuresOf interwoven osiers;Instead of fragrant posiesOf daffadils and roses,Thy cradle, kingly stranger,As gospel tells,Was nothing else,But, here, a homely manger.But we with silks, not cruels,With sundry precious jewels,And lily-work will…
Health is the first good lent to men;
Next, to be rich by no by-ways;Lastly, with friends t’ enjoy our days.
Virgins promised when I died,
Duly, morn and evening, come,And with flowers dress my tomb.–Having promised, pay your debtsMaids, and here strew violets.
Come, bring your sampler, and with art
And dropping here and there;Not that I think that any dartCan make your’s bleed a tear,Or pierce it any where;Yet do it to this end,–that IMay byThis secret see,Though you can makeThat heart to bleed, your’s ne’er will acheFor me,
Thou that tam’st Tygers, and fierce storms (that rise)
With thy soul-melting Lullabies:
Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres,
To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.
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HERE a pretty baby lies
Pray be silent and not stirTh’ easy earth that covers her.
Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come,And haste away to mine eternal home;‘Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kiss:–Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bringPart of the cream from that religious spring,With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;That done, then wind…
Come, Anthea, let us two
Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,Are the junkets still at wakes;Unto which the tribes resort,Where the business is the sport:Morris-dancers thou shalt see,Marian, too, in pageantry;And a mimic to deviseMany grinning properties.Players there will be, and thoseBase in action as in clothes;Yet with strutting they will pleaseThe incurious villages.Near the dying of the dayThere will…
A funeral stone
But only craveOf you that I may haveA sacred laurel springing from my grave:Which being seenBlest with perpetual green,May grow to beNot so much call’d a tree,As the eternal monument of me.
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Who as soon fell fast asleep,As her little eyes did peep.–Give her strewings, but not stirThe earth, that lightly covers her.
Born I was to be old,
After that, in the mouldLong for to lie here.But before that day comes,Still I be bousing;For I know, in the tombsThere’s no carousing.