Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain;

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor h… Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a… But that your worth will dignify o… With those that come, whose grace…

The decorously informative church Guide to Sex suggested that any u… could well be controlled by playin… and the game provided also ‘many harmless opportunities for healthy

He smashed his hand in opening a door for her, and less pain than embarrassment shrieked through him… Concealing both,

Epitaphs i WOULDST thou hear what Man can… In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much Beauty as could die:

The long laments I spent for ruin… Are dried; and now mine eyes run t… No more shall men suppose Electra… Though from the consort of her sis… Unto the Artick circle, here to g…

That poets are far rarer births th… Your noblest father proved; like w… Or then, or since, about our Muse… Came not that soul exhausted so th… Hence was it that the destinies de…

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits True conceit, Spoiling senses of their treasure, Cozening judgment with a measure,

It will be looked for, book, when…  Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me, Thou should’st be bold, licentious…  Wormwood and sulphur, sharp and…

On the happy entrace of Iames, ou… Licet toto nunc Helicone frui. Mart. Heav’n now not strives, alone, our… With joyes: but urgeth his full fa…

Why Gentlemen, doe you know what… Would you ha’kept me out? Christm… Christmas of London, and Captaine… Pray you let me be brought before… 'Tis merrie in hall when beards wa…

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

Lucy, you brightness of our sphere… Life of the Muses’ day, their mor… If works, not th’ author’s, their… Whose poems would not wish to be y… But these, desir’d by you, the mak…

Have you seen but a bright lily gr… Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of sn… Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver,

Here lies, to each her parents’ ru… Mary, the daughter of their youth; Yet all heaven’s gifts being heave… It makes the father less to rue. At six months’ end she parted henc…