#EnglishWriters
Oh my black soul! now art thou sum… By sickness, death’s herald, and c… Thou art like a pilgrim, which abr… Treason, and durst not turn to whe… Or like a thief, which till death’…
I scarce believe my love to be so… As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the gr… Methinks I lied all winter, when…
Our storm is past, and that storm’… A stupid calm, but nothing it, dot… The fable is inverted, and far mor… A block afflicts, now, than a stor… Storms chafe, and soon wear out th…
Dear love, for nothing less than t… Would I have broke this happy dre… It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fa… Therefore thou wak’d’st me wisely;…
When that rich soul which to her h… Whom all do celebrate, who know th… (For who is sure he hath a soul, u… It see, and judge, and follow wort… And by deeds praise it? He who do…
Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curta… Must to thy motions lovers’ season… Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee… And in that sophistry, oh, thou do… Too subtle: Fool, thou didst not… The mystic language of the eye nor… Nor couldst thou judge the differe…
Wilt thou forgive that sin where… Which was my sin, though it were d… Wilt thou forgive that sin, throug… And do run still, though still I… When thou hast done, thou hast not…
Death, be not proud, though some h… Mighty and dreadful, for thou art… For those whom thou think’st thou… Die not, poor Death, nor yet cans… From rest and sleep, which but thy…
What if this present were the worl… Mark in my heart, O soul, where t… The picture of Christ crucified,… Whether that countenance can thee… Tears in his eyes quench the amazi…
SEND me some tokens, that my hop… Or that my easeless thoughts may s… Send me some honey, to make sweet… That in my passions I may hope th… I beg nor ribbon wrought with thin…
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not… Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which… The mystery, the sign, you must no… For 'tis my outward soul,
'Tis the year’s midnight, and it i… Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours her… The sun is spent, and now his flas… Send forth light squibs, no consta… The world’s whole sap is sunk;
I wonder, by my troth, what thou a… Did, till we loved? Were we not w… But sucked on country pleasures, c… Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepe… ’Twas so; but this, all pleasures…
As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends d… The breath goes now, and some say,… So let us melt, and make no noise,