#EnglishWriters
True mirth resides not in the smil… The sweetest solace is to act no s…
Old Parson Beanes hunts six days… And on the seventh, he has his not… Six days he hollows so much breath… That on the seventh he can nor pre…
Dread not the shackles; on with th… Good wits get more fame by their p…
Bacchus, let me drink no more! Wild are seas that want a shore! When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in’t. I have drank up for to please
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…
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
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
Down with the rosemary and bays, Down with the misletoe; Instead of holly, now up-raise The greener box, for show. The holly hitherto did sway;
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…
Immortal clothing I put on So soon as, Julia, I am gone To mine eternal mansion. Thou, thou art here, to human sigh… Clothed all with incorrupted light…
You have beheld a smiling rose When virgins’ hands have drawn O’er it a cobweb-lawn: And here, you see, this lily shows… Tomb’d in a crystal stone,
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…
Come, bring your sampler, and with… Draw in’t a wounded heart, And dropping here and there; Not that I think that any dart Can make your’s bleed a tear,
From noise of scare-fires rest ye… From murders Benedicite. From all mischances that may frigh… Your pleasing slumbers in the nigh… Mercy secure ye all, and keep
Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood, Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir