Those ends in war the best content… Whose peace is made up with a pard…

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…

Men say you’re fair; and fair ye a… But, hark! we praise the painter…

In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid, From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.

Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers; That being ravish’d, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head,

Let’s live in haste; use pleasures… Could life return, 'twould never l…

Rare is the voice itself: but whe… To th’ lute or viol, then ’tis rav…

That hour-glass which there you se… With water fill’d, sirs, credit me… The humour was, as I have read, But lovers’ tears incrystalled. Which, as they drop by drop do pas…

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…

For all our works a recompence is… ’Tis sweet to think on what was ha…

Things are uncertain; and the more… The more on icy pavements we are s…

Wrinkles no more are, or no less, Than beauty turn’d to sourness.

Display thy breasts, my Julia, th… Behold that circummortal purity; Between whose glories, there my li… Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.

What can I do in poetry, Now the good spirit’s gone from me… Why, nothing now but lonely sit And over-read what I have writ.

Welcome, maids of honour, You do bring In the Spring; And wait upon her. She has virgins many,