#Renaissance
Wouldst thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give
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
Follow a shadow, it still flies yo… Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies yo… Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly then
'Tis growne almost a danger to spe… Of any good minde, now: There are… The bad, by number, are so fortifi… As what th’have lost t’expect, the… So both the prais’d, and praisers…
Would you believe, when you this m… That his whole body should speak… That so much scarf of France, and… And shoe, and tie, and garter shou… And land on one whose face durst n…
The Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great yea… When the prodigious Hannibal did… His rage, with razing your immorta…
This morning, timely rapt with hol… I thought to form unto my zealous… What kind of creature I could mos… To honour, serve, and love; as poe… I meant to make her fair, and free…
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…
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…
Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mothe… Death! ere thou hast slain another… Learned, and fair, and good as she…
GENIUS. Time, Fate, and Fortune have at l… To give our Age the day so much d… What all the minutes, houres, week… That hang in file upon these silve…
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
O, that joy so soon should waste! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss Might not for ever last! So sugared, so melting, so soft, s…
From 'Cynthia’s Revels’ Queen and huntress, chaste and fai… Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair,
Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers. Poets, though divine, are men;