Feacie, some say, doth wash her clothes i' th' lie That sharply trickles from her either eye. The laundresses, they envy her good-luck, Who can with so small charges drive the buck....
But born, and like a short delight, I glided by my parents' sight. That done, the harder fates denied My longer stay, and so I died. If, pitying my sad parents' tears,...
Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood; Who as soon fell fast asleep, As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth, that lightly covers her.
If men can say that beauty dies, Marbles will swear that here it lies. If, reader, then thou canst forbear In public loss to shed a tear, The dew of grief upon this stone...
Peapes he does strut, and pick his teeth, as if His jaws had tir'd on some large chine of beef. But nothing so: the dinner Adam had, Was cheese full ripe with tears, with bread as sad.
With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face....
A golden fly one show'd to me, Clos'd in a box of ivory, Where both seem'd proud: the fly to have His burial in an ivory grave; The ivory took state to hold A corpse as bright as burnish'd gold....
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.
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;...
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...