#EnglishWriters
What though the sea be calm? Tru… Ships have been drown’d, where lat…
Whither dost thou hurry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this… Here and there a fresh Love is; That doth like me, this doth pleas…
Is this a life, to break thy sleep… To rise as soon as day doth peep? To tire thy patient ox or ass By noon, and let thy good days pas… Not knowing this, that Jove decre…
Great cities seldom rest; if there… T’ invade from far, they’ll find w…
A Gyges ring they bear about them… To be, and not seen when and where… They tread on clouds, and though t… They fall like dew, and make no no… So silently they one to th’ other…
Though hourly comforts from the go… No life is yet life-proof from mis…
Dull to myself, and almost dead to… My many fresh and fragrant mistres… Lost to all music now, since every… Puts on the semblance here of sorr… Sick is the land to th’ heart, and…
Ye silent shades, whose each tree… Some relique of a saint doth wear; Who for some sweet-heart’s sake, d… The fire and martyrdom of Love:— Here is the legend of those saints
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof… Like noiseless snow, or as the dew… Not all at once, but gently,- as t… Are by the sun-beams, tickled by d…
You say I love not, 'cause I do n… Still with your curls, and kiss th… You blame me, too, because I can’… Some sport, to please those babies… By Love’s religion, I must here c…
Julia, I bring To thee this ring, Made for thy finger fit; To show by this That our love is
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come, and buy: If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there Where my Julia’s lips do smile;—
Thou art to all lost love the best… The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids dist… And left of love, are crown’d. When once the lover’s rose is dead
I call, I call: who do ye call? The maids to catch this cowslip ba… But since these cowslips fading be… Troth, leave the flowers, and maid… Yet, if that neither you will do,
Laid out for dead, let thy last ki… With leaves and moss-work for to c… And while the wood-nymphs my cold… Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling… For epitaph, in foliage, next writ…