#English #XVICentury #XVIICentury
Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I co… My kiss out-went the bounds of sha… None is discreet at all times; no,… Himself, at one time, can be wise…
Orpheus he went, as poets tell, To fetch Eurydice from hell; And had her, but it was upon This short, but strict condition; Backward he should not look, while…
If little labour, little are our g… Man’s fortunes are according to hi…
SWEET western wind, whose luck i… Made rival with the air, To give Perenna’s lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair: Bring me but one, I’ll promise th…
Let’s now take our time, While we’re in our prime, And old, old age is afar off; For the evil, evil days Will come on apace,
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…
Here lies Jonson with the rest Of the poets; but the best. Reader, would’st thou more have kn… Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can’t te…
No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would ch… —No fault: in women, to confess How tedious they are in their dres… —No fault in women, to lay on
Here we securely live, and eat The cream of meat; And keep eternal fires, By which we sit, and do divine, As wine
Come, Anthea, let us two Go to feast, as others do: Tarts and custards, creams and cak… Are the junkets still at wakes; Unto which the tribes resort,
Command the roof, great Genius, a… Into this house pour down thy infl… That through each room a golden pi… Of living water by thy benizon; Fulfil the larders, and with stren…
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
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,—
A Gyges ring they bear about them… To be, and not seen when and where… They tread on clouds, and though t… They fall like dew, and make no no… So silently they one to th’ other…
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better ’twere my book were dead,