#RhymedStanza
Why do we lie 'Why do we lie,' she questione… on the grey Autumn wind and its co… 'all afternoon wasted in bed lik… 'Because we cannot lie all night…
Walking, snow falling, it is possi… to focus at various distances in turn on separate flakes, sharpl… the attention at several spatial p… the nearer cold and more uncomfort…
Come leave the loathéd stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in facti… Usurp the chair of wit, Indicting and arraigning, every da…
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
For love’s sake, kiss me once agai… I long, and should not beg in vain… Here’s none to spy or see; Why do you doubt or stay? I’ll taste as lightly as the bee
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
Not to know vice at all, and keepe… Is vertue, and not Fate: Next, to that vertue, is to know v… And her black spight expell. Which to effect (since no brest is…
Ere cherries ripe, and strawberrie… Unto the cries of London I’ll add… Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in… At six-and-twenty, ripe. You shal… And have him yield no favour, but…
The owl is abroad, the bat, and th… And so is the cat-a-mountain, The ant and the mole sit both in a… And the frog peeps out o’ the foun… The dogs they do bay, and the timb…
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on… Am I thus ample to thy book and f… While I confess thy writings to b… As neither man nor muse can praise… 'Tis true, and all men’s suffrage.…
Still to be neat, still to be dres… As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder’d, still perfum… Lady, it is to be presum’d, Though art’s hid causes are not fo…
My son finds occupation in almost nothing, in everything: my soapy penitential toothpaste, his mother’s loosened hair orts, containers, useless things;
The long laments I spent for ruin… Are dried; and now mine eyes run t… No more shall men suppose Electra… Though from the consort of her sis… Unto the Artick circle, here to g…
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to… Of touch or marble; nor canst boas… Of polished pillars, or a roof of… Thou hast no lantern, whereof tale… Or stair, or courts; but stand’st…
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