From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night :
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o’clock, and almost two,
My masters all, good-day to you.
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I call, I call: who do ye call?
But since these cowslips fading be,Troth, leave the flowers, and maids, take me!Yet, if that neither you will do,Speak but the word, and I’ll take you,
One asked me where the roses grew:
But forwith bade my Julia showA bud in either cheek.
Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight,
Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy wayAs soon dispatch’d is by the night as day.Let us not then so rudely henceforth goTill we have wept, kiss’d, sigh’d, shook hands, or so.There’s pain in parting, and a kind of hellWhen once true lovers take their last farewell.What? shall we two our endless leaves…
Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
And basket, by our entering in.May both with manchet stand replete;Your larders, too, so hung with meat,That though a thousand, thousand eat,Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl aboutTheir silv’ry spheres, there’s none may doubtBut more’s sent in than was served out.Next, may your dairies prosper so,As that your pans no ebb may know;But if they…
Here a little child I stand
Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat, and on us all. Amen.
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
–Past one a clock, and almost two,–
My masters all, ‘Good day to you.’
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Bacchus, let me drink no more!
When our drinking has no stint,There is no one pleasure in’t.I have drank up for to pleaseThee, that great cup, Hercules.Urge no more; and there shall beDaffadils giv’n up to thee.
In this little Urne is laid
From whose happy spark here letSpring the purple violet.
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
That being ravish’d, hence I goAway in easy slumbers.Ease my sick head,And make my bed,Thou Power that canst severFrom me this ill;–And quickly still,Though thou not killMy fever.Thou sweetly canst convert the sameFrom a consuming fire,Into a gentle-licking flame,And make it thus expire.Then make me weepMy pains asleep,And give me such reposes,That I, poor I,May…
From this bleeding hand of mine,
Which, though sweet unto your smell,Yet the fretful briar will tell,He who plucks the sweets, shall proveMany thorns to be in love.