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

Bell-man of night, if I about sha… For to deny my Master, do thou cr… Thou stop’st Saint Peter in the m… Stay me, by crowing, ere I do beg… Better it is, premonish’d, for to…

Play, Phoebus, on thy lute, And we will sit all mute; By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire. Hark, hark! the God does play!

Three lovely sisters working were, As they were closely set, Of soft and dainty maiden-hair, A curious Armilet. I, smiling, ask’d them what they d…

For brave comportment, wit without… Words fully flowing, yet of influe… Thou art that man of men, the man… Worthy the public admiration: Who with thine own eyes read’st wh…

Scobble for whoredom whips his wif… He’ll slit her nose; but blubberin… “Good sir, make no more cuts i’ th… One slit’s enough to let adultery…

What conscience, say, is it in the… When I a heart had one, [won] To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own? For shame or pity, now incline

Wanton wenches do not bring For my hairs black colouring: For my locks, girls, let 'em be Grey or white, all’s one to me.

BE those few hours, which I have… Blest with the meditation of my en… Though they be few in number, I’m… If otherwise, I stand indifferent… Nor makes it matter, Nestor’s yea…

I would to God, that mine old age… Before my last, but here a living… Some one poor almshouse, there to… Ghost—like, as in my meaner sepulc… A little piggin, and a pipkin by,

Come, Sons of Summer, by whose to… We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours, and rough… We rip up first, then reap our lan… Crown’d with the ears of corn, now…

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cr… Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There Where my Julia’s lips do smile;

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, bir… Of April, May, of June, and July… I sing of May—poles, hock—carts,… Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the… I write of youth, of love, and hav…

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be My private protonotary? Can I not woo thee to pass by A short and sweet iniquity? I’ll cast a mist and cloud upon

Ah Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun,