#Renaissance #RhymedStanza
My awkward grossness grows: I go… I maintain my self in the convicti… that I have as much to say as othe… and more apposite ways of saying i… Certainly I feel it has all been…
And must I sing? What subject sha… Or whose great name in poets’ heav… For the more countenance to my act… Hercules? alas, his bones are yet… With his old earthly labours t’ ex…
Queen and huntress, chaste and fai… Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light,
I that have been a lover, and coul… Though not in these, in rhymes n… Since I exscribe your sonnets,… A better lover, and much better po… Nor is my Muse, or I ashamed to o…
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…
Who says that Giles and Joan at d… Â Th’ observing neighbors no such… Indeed, poor Giles repents he mar… Â But that his Joan doth too. An… By his free will be in Joan’s com…
I have no children: But tonight a poem came in which a small child, my daughter, appeared at the door of a half-lit room
Thy praise or dispraise is to me a… One doth not stroke me, nor the ot…
Descended to the shore, odd how we… the young girl with us to herself,… straight to examine the stratified… forgot her entirely in our interes… You marvelled at the shapes the cl…
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…
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,
From 'Cynthia’s Revels’ Queen and huntress, chaste and fai… Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair,
This morning, timely rapt with hol… I thought to form unto my zealous… What kind of creature I could mos… To honour, serve, and love; as poe… I meant to make her fair, and free…
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
