Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roa… Far safer ’twere to stay at home; Where thou mayst sit, and piping,… The poor and private cottages. Since cotes and hamlets best agree

I dreamt the Roses one time went To meet and sit in Parliament; The place for these, and for the r… Of flowers, was thy spotless breas… Over the which a state was drawn

My Muse in meads has spent her ma… Sitting, and sorting several sorts… To make for others garlands; and t… On many a head here, many a corone… But amongst all encircled here, no…

If thou dislik’st the piece thou l… Think that of all that I have wri… But if thou read’st my book unto t… And still dost this and that verse… O perverse man! If all disgustful…

I ask’d thee oft what poets thou h… And lik’st the best? Still thou… —I shall, ere long, with green tur… Then sure thou’lt like, or thou wi…

Thou bidst me come away, And I’ll no longer stay, Than for to shed some tears For faults of former years; And to repent some crimes

Dew sate on Julia’s hair, And spangled too, Like leaves that laden are With trembling dew; Or glitter’d to my sight,

Open thy gates To him who weeping waits, And might come in, But that held back by sin. Let mercy be

When I consider, dearest, thou do… But here awhile, to languish and d… Like to these garden glories, whic… The flowery-sweet resemblances of… With grief of heart, methinks, I…

Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morning, sir, to you; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. Good morning to this primrose too;

The Hag is astride, This night for to ride, The devil and she together; Through thick and through thin, Now out, and then in,

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl’d wit… I will whisper to your ears,—

Holy-Rood, come forth and shield Us i’ th’ city and the field; Safely guard us, now and aye, From the blast that burns by day; And those sounds that us affright

These springs were maidens once th… But lost to that they most approve… My story tells, by Love they were Turn’d to these springs which we s… The pretty whimpering that they ma…

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…