Works

You say you'll kiss me, and I thank you for it;
But stinking breath, I do as hell abhor it.

So long you did not sing or touch your lute,
We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.
But when your playing and your voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear,
'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

How should the world be luckier if this house,
Where passion and precision have been one
Time out of mind, became too ruinous
To breed the lidless eye that loves the sun?...

Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led
By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed.
Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years;
Yet not a lily from the bed appears:...

As gilliflowers do but stay
To blow, and seed, and so away;
So you, sweet lady, sweet as May,
The garden's glory, lived a while
To lend the world your scent and smile....

Here she lies, in bed of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty, it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins come, and in a ring
Her supremest requiem sing;...

Hence a blessed soul is fled,
Leaving here the body dead;
Which since here they can't combine,
For the saint we'll keep the shrine.

That morn which saw me made a bride,
The evening witness'd that I died.
Those holy lights, wherewith they guide
Unto the bed the bashful bride,
Serv'd but as tapers for to burn...

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.
Twice forty, bating but one year
And thrice three weeks, he lived here.
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence....

Old Widow Prouse, to do her neighbours evil,
Would give, some say, her soul unto the devil.
Well, when she's kill'd that pig, goose, cock, or hen,
What would she give to get that soul again?

Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold,
And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold:
Prithee go home; and for thy credit be
First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face
That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.

Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these...

'Twas but a single rose,
Till you on it did breathe;
But since, methinks, it shows
Not so much rose as wreath.

In this little vault she lies,
Here, with all her jealousies:
Quiet yet; but if ye make
Any noise they both will wake,
And such spirits raise 'twill then
Trouble death to lay again.

Let all chaste matrons, when they chance to see
My num'rous issue, praise and pity me:
Praise me for having such a fruitful womb,
Pity me, too, who found so soon a tomb.

Batt he gets children, not for love to rear 'em;
But out of hope his wife might die to bear 'em.