Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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If I freely can discover
I would have her fair and witty,Savouring more of court than city;A little proud, but full of pity;Light and humourous in her toying;Oft building hopes, and soon destroying;Long, but sweet in the enjoying,Neither too easy, nor too hard:All extremes I would have barred.She should be allowed her passions,So they were but used as fashions;Sometimes froward,…
Epitaphs i
In a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much Beauty as could die:Which in life did harbour giveTo more Virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died, to tellThan that it lived at all. Farewell.
Descended to the shore, odd how we left
straight to examine the stratified cliffs,forgot her entirely in our interest.You marvelled at the shapes the clockwork seahad worn the stone, talking keenly, untilthe pace of this random sculpture recalledyour age to you, and then its anodynes.And so you turned, pretending youth, courtingthe girl as if you were a boy again,leaving the wry cliffs to…
if only for ten minutes
after the careful inanity of the staffat low tidethis was the placefor calm, for order of a kindthe relief of walking thereand the smell was acceptableperhaps even preferablethe objects to beseenfoundprincipally (I have it still)a short fat halfpound brass bolt and nutvirgin, unscrewedother things less permanentsodden grey bonesscratched glass, rubbed brick, rusted gatebuttsonce a chaffinch…
Walking, snow falling, it is possible
in turn on separate flakes, sharply engagethe attention at several spatial points:the nearer cold and more uncomfortable,the farther distanced and almost pleasing.Living, time passing, it is preferableto focus the memory in turn uponthe more distant retrospects in orderthat the present mind may retain its peace.Yet knowing that seeing and rememberingare both of course personal illusions.
Why Gentlemen, doe you know what you doe? ha!
Christmas of London, and Captaine Christmas?Pray you let me be brought before my Lord Chamberlaine, i’le not be answer’d else:‘Tis merrie in hall when beards wag all:I ha’seene the time you ha’wish’d for me, for a merry Christmas,And now you ha’me; they would not let me in:I must come another time!A good jest, as if…
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house and I
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,But that your worth will dignify our feastWith those that come; whose grace may make that seemSomething, which else could hope for no esteem.It is the fair acceptance, Sir, createsThe entertainment perfect: not the cates.Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,An olive, capers, or some better…
The Turn
Thy coming forth in that great year,When the prodigious Hannibal did crownHis rage, with razing your immortal town.Thou looking then aboutEre thou wert half got out,Wise child, didst hastily return,And mad’st thy mother’s womb thine urn.How summed a circle didst thou leave mankindOf deepest lore, could we the centre find!The Counter-TurnDid wiser nature draw thee…
I now think love is rather deaf, than blind,
That she,Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,And cast my love behind:I’m sure my language was as sweet,And every close did meetIn sentence of as subtle feetAs hath the youngest he,That sits in shadow of Apollo’s tree.Oh, but my conscious fears,That fly my thoughts between,Tell me that she hath seenMy hundreds of gray…
Wouldst thou hear what man can say
Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbor giveTo more virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,Th’ other let it sleep with death;Fitter, where it died to tell,Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And, enamoured, do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll…
In all faith, we did our part:
ejected promptly,and swam in the approved mannerin the appropriate direction;did all instinctive things well,even eagerly—an exemplary start.But then the barrier: unexpectednessunexpectedly.(They did not tell us this).To go back impossible, unnatural:so round; many times;we tired ourselves.Where were the promised homes,embedded in the soft wall?Or the anticipated achievementso momentous, fulfilling?So we died:what else was there to do?But…