COURTLING, I rather thou shou… Dispraise my work, than praise it… When I am read, thou feign’st a w… As if thou wert my friend, but lac… This but thy judgment fools: the o…

Pray thee, take care, that tak’st… To read it well: that is, to under…

A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Cha… Epitaphs: ii WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed

The fairy beam upon you, The stars to glister on you; A moon of light In the noon of night, Till the fire-drake hath o’ergone…

That poets are far rarer births th… Your noblest father proved; like w… Or then, or since, about our Muse… Came not that soul exhausted so th… Hence was it that the destinies de…

GENIUS. Time, Fate, and Fortune have at l… To give our Age the day so much d… What all the minutes, houres, week… That hang in file upon these silve…

Why Gentlemen, doe you know what… Would you ha’kept me out? Christm… Christmas of London, and Captaine… Pray you let me be brought before… 'Tis merrie in hall when beards wa…

Though I am young, and cannot tel… Either what Death or Love is well… Yet I have heard they both bear d… And both do aim at human hearts. And then again, I have been told

On the happy entrace of Iames, ou… Licet toto nunc Helicone frui. Mart. Heav’n now not strives, alone, our… With joyes: but urgeth his full fa…

'Tis growne almost a danger to spe… Of any good minde, now: There are… The bad, by number, are so fortifi… As what th’have lost t’expect, the… So both the prais’d, and praisers…

Don Surly, to aspire the glorious… Of a great man, and to be thought… Makes serious use of all great tra… He speaks to men with a Rhinocero… Which he thinks great; and so read…

Weep with me, all you that read    This little story; And know for whom a tear you shed,    Death’s self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive

Kim, composite of all my loves, less real than most, more real tha… of my making, all the good and some of the bad, yet of yourself; sole, unique, strong, alone,

Lucy, you brightness of our sphere… Life of the Muses’ day, their mor… If works, not th’ author’s, their… Whose poems would not wish to be y… But these, desir’d by you, the mak…

The ports of death are sins; of li… Through which our merit leads us t… How wilful blind is he, then, that… And hath it in his powers to make… This world death’s region is, the…