Which, though sweet unto your smell,
Yet the fretful briar will tell,
He who plucks the sweets, shall prove
Many thorns to be in love.
Similar Posts
Whenas inn silks my Julia goes,
That liquefaction of her clothes.Next, when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free ;O how that glittering taketh me !
Stay while ye will, or go,
Yet trust me, I shall knowThe place where I may find ye.Within my Lucia’s cheek,(Whose livery ye wear)Play ye at hide or seek,I’m sure to find ye there.
SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
To give Perenna’s lip a kiss,And fan her wanton hair:Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee,Instead of common showers,Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me,And all beset with flowers.
Life is the body’s light; which, once declining,
Those counter-changed tabbies in the air,The sun once set, all of one colour are:So, when death comes, fresh tinctures lose their place,And dismal darkness then doth smutch the face.
No wrath of men, or rage of seas,
No threats of tyrants, or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.
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.