Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.
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WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee,
To take away that heart from me,And to retain thy own?For shame or pity now inclineTo play a loving part;Either to send me kindly thine,Or give me back my heart.Covet not both; but if thou dostResolve to part with neither,Why, yet to show that thou art just,Take me and mine together!
When a daffodil I see,
Guess I may what I must be:First, I shall decline my head;Secondly, I shall be dead;Lastly, safely buried.
Be the mistress of my choice,
Be she witty, more than wise,Pure enough, though not precise;Be she showing in her dress,Like a civil wilderness,That the curious may detectOrder in a sweet neglect;Be she rolling in her eye,Tempting all the passers by;And each ringlet of her hair,An enchantment, or a snare,For to catch the lookers on;But herself held fast by none.Let her…
Her pretty feet
A little out, and then,As if they played at Bo-peep,Did soon draw in again.
Every time seems short to be
But one half-hour that’s made up hereWith grief, seems longer than a year.
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all.
Amen.
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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.
Here she lies, in bed of spice,
For her beauty, it was such,Poets could not praise too much.Virgins come, and in a ringHer supremest REQUIEM sing;Then depart, but see ye treadLightly, lightly o’er the dead.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, thereWhere my Julia’s lips do smile;–There’s the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
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.
To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
We are the lords of wine and oil;By whose tough labours, and rough hands,We rip up first, then reap our lands.Crown’d with the ears of corn, now come,And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.Come forth, my lord, and see the cartDress’d up with all the country art.See, here a malkin, there a sheet,As spotless pure,…
Bid me to live, and I will live
Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I’ll give to thee.Bid that heart stay, and it will stayTo honour thy decree;Or bid it languish quite away,And’t shall do so for…
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Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on us all. Amen.
Similar Posts
Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
And had her, but it was uponThis short, but strict condition;Backward he should not look, while heLed her through hell’s obscurity.But ah! it happen’d, as he madeHis passage through that dreadful shade,Revolve he did his loving eye,For gentle fear or jealousy;And looking back, that look did severHim and Eurydice for ever.
HERE a pretty baby lies
Pray be silent and not stirTh’ easy earth that covers her.
My dearest Love, since thou wilt go,
For love or pity, let me knowThe place where I may find thee.AMARIL. In country meadows, pearl’d with dew,And set about with lilies;There, filling maunds with cowslips, youMay find your Amarillis.HER. What have the meads to do with thee,Or with thy youthful hours?Live thou at court, where thou mayst beThe queen of men, not flowers.Let…
Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly
Or prayers, or vowCan keep the wrinkle from the brow;But we must on,As fate does lead or draw us; none,None, Posthumus, could e’er declineThe doom of cruel Proserpine.The pleasing wife, the house, the groundMust all be left, no one plant foundTo follow thee,Save only the curst cypress-tree!–A merry mindLooks forward, scorns what’s left behind;Let’s live,…
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam?
Where thou mayst sit, and piping, pleaseThe poor and private cottages.Since cotes and hamlets best agreeWith this thy meaner minstrelsy.There with the reed thou mayst expressThe shepherd’s fleecy happiness;And with thy Eclogues intermix:Some smooth and harmless Bucolics.There, on a hillock, thou mayst singUnto a handsome shepherdling;Or to a girl, that keeps the neat,With breath more…
Love in a shower of blossoms came
The blooms that fell were white and red;But with such sweets commingled,As whether (this) I cannot tell,My sight was pleased more, or my smell;But true it was, as I roll’d there,Without a thought of hurt or fear,Love turn’d himself into a bee,And with his javelin wounded me;—From which mishap this use I make;Where most sweets…