Works

This is my comfort when she's most unkind:
She can but spoil me of my means, not mind.

What was't that fell but now
From that warm kiss of ours?
Look, look! by love I vow
They were two gilly-flowers.

Let's kiss and kiss again,
For if so be our closes
Make gilly-flowers, then...

Permit mine eyes to see
Part, or the whole of Thee,
O happy place!
Where all have grace,
And garlands shar'd,
For their reward;
Where each chaste soul
In long white stole,...

I'll write no more of love, but now repent
Of all those times that I in it have spent.
I'll write no more of life, but wish 'twas ended,
And that my dust was to the earth commended.

Young I was, but now am old,
But I am not yet grown cold;
I can play, and I can twine
'Bout a virgin like a vine:
In her lap too I can lie
Melting, and in fancy die;
And return to life if she...

Live by thy Muse thou shalt, when others die,
Leaving no fame to long posterity;
When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,
Here shall endure thy vast dominion.

The bound, almost, now of my book I see,
But yet no end of these therein, or me:
Here we begin new life, while thousands quite
Are lost, and theirs, in everlasting night.

Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it!

Glory and worship be
To you, sweet Maids, thrice three,
Who still inspire me;

And teach me how to sing...

Joan would go tell her hairs; and well she might,
Having but seven in all: three black, four white.

Breathe, Julia, breathe, and I'll protest,
Nay more, I'll deeply swear,
That all the spices of the east
Are circumfused there.

Sweet are my Julia's lips and clean,
As if o'erwashed in Hippocrene.

How am I ravish'd! when I do but see
The painter's art in thy sciography?
If so, how much more shall I dote thereon
When once he gives it incarnation?

So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the Damned would make no noise,
But listen to thee (walking in thy chamber)
melting melodious words to Lutes of Amber.

Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all
Is, when love's honey has a dash of gall.

Love bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes my love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to pass...

Prat he writes satires, but herein's the fault,
In no one satire there's a mite of salt.

Grow up in beauty, as thou dost begin,
And be of all admired, Tomasin.

Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
To fetch Eurydice from hell;
And had her, but it was upon
This short, but strict condition;
Backward he should not look, while he
Led her through hell's obscurity....

Other men's sins we ever bear in mind;
None sees the fardell of his faults behind.

We blame, nay, we despise her pains
That wets her garden when it rains:
But when the drought has dried the knot,
Then let her use the wat'ring-pot.
We pray for showers, at our need,...