Fone says, those mighty whiskers he does wear Are twigs of birch, and willow, growing there: If so, we'll think too, when he does condemn Boys to the lash, that he does whip with them.
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!
Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see, For shape and service, spaniel like to thee. This shall my love do, give thy sad death one Tear, that deserves of me a million.
Display thy breasts, my Julia - there let me Behold that circummortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair via lactea.
Julia was careless, and withal She rather took than got a fall, The wanton ambler chanc'd to see Part of her legs' sincerity: And ravish'd thus, it came to pass, The nag (like to the prophet's ass)...
Tell me, what needs those rich deceits, These golden toils, and trammel nets, To take thine hairs when they are known Already tame, and all thine own? 'Tis I am wild, and more than hairs...
Dew sate on Julia's hair, And spangled too, Like leaves that laden are With trembling dew; Or glitter'd to my sight, As when the beams Have their reflected light Danced by the streams.
Droop, droop no more, or hang the head, Ye roses almost withered; Now strength, and newer purple get, Each here declining violet. O primroses! let this day be A resurrection unto ye;...
As shows the air when with a rainbow grac'd, So smiles that riband 'bout my Julia's waist: Or like - nay 'tis that zonulet of love, Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced, So smiles that ribbon 'bout my Julia's waist; Or like Nay, 'tis that Zonulet of love, Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
Would ye oil of blossoms get? Take it from my Julia's sweat: Oil of lilies and of spike? From her moisture take the like. Let her breathe, or let her blow, All rich spices thence will flow.
Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum, These musks, these ambers, and those other smells Sweet as the Vestry of the Oracles....
Tell if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum; These musks, these ambers, and those other smells, Sweet as the vestry of the oracles....
When I thy singing next shall hear, I'll wish I might turn all to ear, To drink-in notes and numbers, such As blessed souls can't hear too much Then melted down, there let me lie...
So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice, As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise, But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber, Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
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....