Next is your lot, fair, to be number'd one, Here, in my book's canonisation: Late you come in; but you a saint shall be, In chief, in this poetic liturgy.
When first I find those numbers thou dost write, To be most soft, terse, sweet, and perpolite: Next, when I see thee tow'ring in the sky, In an expansion no less large than high;...
One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come, And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb; When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise, And there to lick th' effused sacrifice,...
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow....
These summer-birds did with thy master stay The times of warmth, but then they flew away, Leaving their poet, being now grown old, Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold....
There comes an end to summer, To spring showers and hoar rime; His mumming to each mummer Has somewhere end in time, And since life ends and laughter, And leaves fall and tears dry,...
Help me! help me! now I call To my pretty witchcrafts all; Old I am, and cannot do That I was accustomed to. Bring your magics, spells, and charms, To enflesh my thighs and arms....
You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. You blame me, too, because I can't devise Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes; -...
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam? Far safer 'twere to stay at home; Where thou mayst sit, and piping, please The poor and private cottages. Since cotes and hamlets best agree...
Were I to give thee baptism, I would choose To christen thee, the bride, the bashful Muse, Or Muse of roses: since that name does fit Best with those virgin-verses thou hast writ:...
Tell that brave man, fain thou would'st have access To kiss his hands, but that for fearfulness; Or else because th'art like a modest bride, Ready to blush to death, should he but chide.
On, as thou hast begun, brave youth, and get The palm from Urbin, Titian, Tintoret, Brugel and Coxu, and the works outdo Of Holbein and that mighty Rubens too. So draw and paint as none may do the like,...
O earth! earth! earth! hear thou my voice, and be Loving and gentle for to cover me! Banish'd from thee I live; ne'er to return, Unless thou giv'st my small remains an urn.