Dread not the shackles; on with th… Good wits get more fame by their p…

IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess,    Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed,

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…

You say I love not, 'cause I do n… Still with your curls, and kiss th… You blame me, too, because I can’… Some sport, to please those babies… By Love’s religion, I must here c…

Farewell thou thing, time past so… To me as blood to life and spirit;… Nay, thou more near than kindred,… Male to the female, soul to body;… To quick action, or the warm soft…

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!

Why, Madam, will ye longer weep, Whenas your baby’s lull’d asleep? And, pretty child, feels now no mo… Those pains it lately felt before. All now is silent; groans are fled…

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…

To the Right Honourable Mildmay,… Come, sons of summer, by whose toi… We are the lords of wine and oil; By whose tough labours, and rough… We rip up first, then reap our lan…

LACON. For a kiss or two, conf… What doth cause this pensiveness, Thou most lovely neat-herdess? Why so lonely on the hill? Why thy pipe by thee so still,

This day, my Julia, thou must mak… For Mistress Bride the wedding-ca… Knead but the dough, and it will b… To paste of almonds turn’d by thee… Or kiss it thou but once or twice,

Sea-born goddess, let me be By thy son thus graced, and thee, That whene’er I woo, I find Virgins coy, but not unkind. Let me, when I kiss a maid,

In all thy need, be thou possest Still with a well prepared breast; Nor let the shackles make thee sad… Thou canst but have what others ha… And this for comfort thou must kno…

Drink wine, and live here blithefu… The morrow’s life too late is; Li…

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.