Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What’s said or done
In earth:
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears;
Nor does she mind,
Or think on’t now,
That ever thou
Wast kind:–
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
–Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.
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That hour-glass which there you see
The humour was, as I have read,But lovers’ tears incrystalled.Which, as they drop by drop do passFrom th’ upper to the under-glass,Do in a trickling manner tell,By many a watery syllable,That lovers’ tears in lifetime shedDo restless run when they are dead.
Go, happy Rose, and interwove
Tell her, too, she must not beLonger flowing, longer free,That so oft has fetter’d me.Say, if she’s fretful, I have bandsOf pearl and gold, to bind her hands;Tell her, if she struggle still,I have myrtle rods at will,For to tame, though not to kill.Take thou my blessing thus, and goAnd tell her this,–but do not…
What will ye, my poor orphans, do,
Who’ll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye, when I am dead?Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of wit,Already coin’d to pay for it?–I cannot tell: unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland;Or gallant Newark; which brave twoMay fost’ring…
Thou bidst me come away,
Than for to shed some tearsFor faults of former years;And to repent some crimesDone in the present times;And next, to take a bitOf bread, and wine with it;To don my robes of love,Fit for the place above;To gird my loins aboutWith charity throughout;And so to travel henceWith feet of innocence;These done, I’ll only cry,‘God, mercy!’…
Bell-man of night, if I about shall go
Thou stop’st Saint Peter in the midst of sin;Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin;Better it is, premonish’d, for to shunA sin, than fall to weeping when ’tis done.
Only a little more
Then I’ll give o’er,And bid the world good-night.‘Tis but a flying minute,That I must stay,Or linger in it:And then I must away.O Time, that cut’st down all,And scarce leav’st hereMemorialOf any men that were;–How many lie forgotIn vaults beneath,And piece-meal rotWithout a fame in death?Behold this living stoneI rear for me,Ne’er to be thrownDown, envious…