#EnglishWriters
Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this my silken twist? For what other reason is’t, But to shew thee how in part Thou my pretty captive art?
Dread not the shackles; on with th… Good wits get more fame by their p…
Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing, While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free,
Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason ’tis But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art?
When that day comes, whose evening… Unto that watery desolation; Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then… That my wing’d ship may meet no R… Those deities which circum-walk th…
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…
Get up, get up for shame, the bloo… Upon her wings presents the god un… See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the… Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
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!
Happily I had a sight Of my dearest dear last night; Make her this day smile on me, And I’ll roses give to thee!
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,
Among the myrtles as I walk’d Love and my sighs thus intertalk’d… Tell me, said I, in deep distress… Where I may find my Shepherdess? —Thou fool, said Love, know’st th…
Anthea laugh’d, and, fearing lest… Might stretch the cords of civil c… She with a dainty blush rebuked he… And call’d each line back to his r…
Ye silent shades, whose each tree… Some relique of a saint doth wear; Who for some sweet-heart’s sake, d… The fire and martyrdom of Love:— Here is the legend of those saints
Great cities seldom rest; if there… T’ invade from far, they’ll find w…
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can… Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem’d her refreshing dew?
