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…

That neither fame nor love might w… To greatness, Cary, I sing that a… Whose house, if it no other honor… In only thee might be both great a… Who, to upbraid the sloth of this…

Have you seen but a bright lily gr… Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of sn… Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver,

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…

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…

Fortune, that favours fools, these… We wish away, both for your sakes… Judging spectators; and desire, in… To the author justice, to ourselve… Our scene is London, 'cause we wo…

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say?

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

ROOM! room! make room for the bo… First father of sauce and deviser… Prime master of arts and the giver… That found out the excellent engin… The plough and the flail, the mill…

How blest art thou, canst love the… Whether by choyce, or fate, or bot… And, though so neere the Citie, a… Art tane with neithers vice, nor s… That at great times, art no ambiti…

See the chariot at hand here of L… Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dov… And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty

Still to be neat, still to be dres… As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfum… Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not fo…

Good and great God, can I not thi… But it must straight my melancholy… Is it interpreted in me disease That, laden with my sins, I seek… Oh be thou witness, that the reins…

Playwright, convict of public wron… Takes private beatings and begins… Two kinds of valor he doth show at… Active in ’s brain, and passive in…

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