#EnglishWriters
Ah! cruel Amarillis, since thou t… To hear the accents of a doleful d… To triumph still without remorse o… I loathe this life, death must my… And lest vain hope my miseries ren…
Fly not so swift, my dear, behold… If not a smiling glance for all my… Yet kill me with thy frowns. The Satyrs o’er the lawns full ni… Frisk it apace to view thy beauty’…
O God, the rock of my whole stren… Let thy sweet mercy soothe mine an… And grant me help, O Lord, at len… Lest that I faint, despair, and l…
As matchless beauty thee a Phoeni… Fair Leonilla, so thy sour-sweet… For when young Acon’s eye thy pro… Thou diest in him, and livest in m…
Weep, O mine eyes and cease not, Out alas, these your spring tides… O when begin you to swell so high that I may drown…
Down in a valley as Alexis trips, Daphne sat sweetly sleeping. Soon as the wanton touch’d her r… She nicely falls aweeping. The wag full softly lifts her,
And though my love abounding, Did make me fall a sounding, Yet am I well contented, Still so to be tormented, And death can never fear me,
I always beg, yet never am relieve… I grieve, because my griefs are no… I cry aloud in vain, my voice outs… And get but this, mine echo calls…
I live, and yet methinks I do not… I thirst, and drink, and drink, an… I sleep, and yet I dream I am awa… I hope for that I have; I have an… I sing and sigh; I love and hate…
Away, thou shalt not love me. So shall my love seem greater And I shall love the better. Shall it be so? what say you? Why speak you not I pray you?
Dear pity, how, ah! how, wouldst t… That best becometh beauty’s best a… Shall my desert deserve no favour… But still to waste myself in deep… Like him who calls to echo to reli…
Draw on, Sweet Night, friend unto… That do arise from painful melanch… My life so ill through want of com… that unto thee I consecrate it who… Sweet Night, draw on
O, what shall I do, or whither sh… Shall I make unto her eyes? O, no… Shall I seal up my eyes and speak… Then in a flood of tears I drown… For tears being stopped will swell…
Stay, Corydon, thou swain, Talk not so soon of dying: What though thy heart be slain, What though thy love be flying? She threatens thee, but dares not…
Adieu, adieu sweet amaryllis. For since to part your will is. O heavy tiding Here is for me no biding.