#English #XVICentury #XVIICentury
When I love, as some have told Love I shall, when I am old, O ye Graces! make me fit For the welcoming of it! Clean my rooms, as temples be,
One night i’th’ year, my dearest… And bring those dew-drink-offering… When thence ye see my reverend gho… And there to lick th’ effused sacr… Though paleness be the livery that…
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…
Virgins promised when I died, That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb. —Having promised, pay your debts
MONTANO, SILVIO, AND… MON. Bad are the times. SIL.… MON. Troth, bad are both; worse… The feast of shepherds fail. SI… Of wassail now, or sets the quinte…
Please your Grace, from out your… Give an alms to one that’s poor, That your mickle may have more. Black I’m grown for want of meat, Give me then an ant to eat,
Farewell thou thing, time past so… To me as blood to life and spirit;… Nay, thou more near than kindred,… Male to the female, soul to body;… To quick action, or the warm soft…
Kindle the Christmas brand, and t… Till sunset let it burn; Which quench’d, then lay it up aga… Till Christmas next return. Part must be kept, wherewith to te…
Go, happy Rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my Love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter’d me.
Ah Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun,
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles t… To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the s…
I will confess With cheerfulness, Love is a thing so likes me, That, let her lay On me all day,
Here a little child I stand Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall
One silent night of late, When every creature rested, Came one unto my gate, And knocking, me molested. Who’s that, said I, beats there,
You have beheld a smiling rose When virgins’ hands have drawn O’er it a cobweb-lawn: And here, you see, this lily shows… Tomb’d in a crystal stone,
