#English
Dull to myself, and almost dead to… My many fresh and fragrant mistres… Lost to all music now, since every… Puts on the semblance here of sorr… Sick is the land to th’ heart, and…
A funeral stone Or verse, I covet none; But only crave Of you that I may have A sacred laurel springing from my…
When I thy parts run o’er, I can’… In any one, the least indecency; But every line and limb diffused t… A fair and unfamiliar excellence; So that the more I look, the more…
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles t… To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the s…
How rich and pleasing thou, my Ju… In each thy dainty and peculiar pa… First, for thy Queen-ship on thy… Of flowers a sweet commingled coro… About thy neck a carkanet is bound…
Every time seems short to be That’s measured by felicity; But one half-hour that’s made up h… With grief, seems longer than a ye…
Let us, though late, at last, my… And loving lie in one devoted bed. Thy watch may stand, my minutes fl… No sound calls back the year that… Then, sweetest Silvia, let’s no l…
Chorus. What sweeter music can we bring, Than a Carol, for to sing The Birth of this our heavenly Ki… Awake the Voice! Awake the Strin…
Fled are the frosts, and now the f… Reclothed in fresh and verdant dia… Thaw’d are the snows; and now the… Gives to each mead a neat enamelli… The palms put forth their gems, an…
What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth,
Her eyes the glow—worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend…
Not all thy flushing suns are set, Herrick, as yet ; Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere Frown and look sullen ev’rywhere. Days may conclude in nights, and s…
From the dull confines of the droo… To see the day spring from the pre… Ravish’d in spirit, I come, nay m… To thee, blest place of my nativit… Thus, thus with hallow’d foot I t…
What will ye, my poor orphans, do, When I must leave the world and y… Who’ll give ye then a sheltering s… Or credit ye, when I am dead? Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,
Dew sate on Julia’s hair, And spangled too, Like leaves that laden are With trembling dew; Or glitter’d to my sight,
