A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Cha… Epitaphs: ii WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth…

From 'Cynthia’s Revels’ Queen and huntress, chaste and fai… Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair,

At court I met it, in clothes bra… To be a courtier, and looks grave… To seem a statesman: as I near it… It made me a great face. I asked… ‘A lord,’ it cried, ‘buried in fle…

The owl is abroad, the bat, and th… And so is the cat-a-mountain, The ant and the mole sit both in a… And the frog peeps out o’ the foun… The dogs they do bay, and the timb…

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

Kisse mee, Sweet: The wary lover Can your favours keepe, and cover, When the common courting jay All your bounties will betray. Kisse againe: no creature comes.

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…

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…

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say?

If I freely can discover What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city; A little proud, but full of pity;

RIDWAY robb’d DUNCOTE of thr… Ridway was ta’en, arraign’d, conde… But, for this money, was a courtie… Begg’d Ridway’s pardon: Duncote n… Robb’d both of money, and the law’…

The trawl of unquiet mind drops as… Great lucid streamers bar the sky… (bifurcated banners at a tourney) light alchemizes the brass on the… into sallow gold

And must I sing? What subject sha… Or whose great name in poets’ heav… For the more countenance to my act… Hercules? alas, his bones are yet… With his old earthly labours t’ ex…

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;