Center is known weak-sighted, and he sells To others store of helpful spectacles. Why wears he none? Because we may suppose, Where leaven wants, there level lies the nose.
Flood, if he has for him and his a bit, He says his fore and after grace for it: If meat he wants, then grace he says to see His hungry belly borne on legs jail-free....
Sweet Bridget blush'd, and therewithal Fresh blossoms from her cheeks did fall. I thought at first 'twas but a dream, Till after I had handled them And smelt them, then they smelt to me...
Sweet virgin, that I do not set The pillars up of weeping jet Or mournful marble, let thy shade Not wrathful seem, or fright the maid Who hither at her wonted hours...
Here lies a virgin, and as sweet As e'er was wrapt in winding sheet. Her name if next you would have known, The marble speaks it, Mary Stone: Who dying in her blooming years,...
First, for effusions due unto the dead, My solemn vows have here accomplished; Next, how I love thee, that my grief must tell, Wherein thou liv'st for ever. Dear, farewell!
For ropes of pearl, first Madam Ursly shows A chain of corns picked from her ears and toes; Then, next, to match Tradescant's curious shells, Nails from her fingers mew'd she shows: what else?...
Maggot frequents those houses of good-cheer, Talks most, eats most, of all the feeders there. He raves through lean, he rages through the fat, (What gets the master of the meal by that?)...
Man is composed here of a twofold part; The first of nature, and the next of art; Art presupposes nature; nature, she Prepares the way for man's docility.
Apollo sings, his harp resounds: give room, For now behold the golden pomp is come, Thy pomp of plays which thousands come to see With admiration both of them and thee....
After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died, The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride, Together with the stage's glory, stood Each like a poor and pitied widowhood....
Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's Soft and soul-melting murmurings, Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew A Robin-red-breast; who at view, Not seeing her at all to stir,...
Much-more provides and hoards up like an ant, Yet Much-more still complains he is in want. Let Much-more justly pay his tithes; then try How both his meal and oil will multiply.
Should I not put on blacks, when each one here Comes with his cypress and devotes a tear? Should I not grieve, my Lawes, when every lute, Viol, and voice is by thy loss struck mute?...
What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows, Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose! What next is look'd for? but we all should see To spring from thee a sweet posterity.