We read of kings and gods that kindly took A pitcher fill'd with water from the brook ; But I have daily tender'd without thanks Rivers of tears that overflow their banks....
I was foretold, your rebell sex, Nor love, nor pitty knew; And with what scorn you use to vex Poor hearts that humbly sue; Yet I believ'd, to crown our pain, Could we the fortress win,...
In Nature's pieces still I see Some error, that might mended be; Something my wish could still remove, Alter or add; but my fair love Was fram'd by hands far more divine...
Can we not force from widow'd poetry, Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust, Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,...
This little vault, this narrow room, Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here, For ever set to us: by Death...
This little vault, this narrow room, Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here, For ever set to us: by Death...
Go thou gentle whispering wind, Bear this sigh; and if thou find Where my cruel fair doth rest, Cast it in her snowy breast, So, enflam'd by my desire, It may set her heart a-fire....
If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face; Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys....
He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires: As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. ...
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown Had not my verse extolled thy name,...
In Celia's face a question did arise, Which were more beautiful, her lips or eyes ? We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts....
If when the sun at noon displays His brighter rays, Thou but appear, He then, all pale with shame and fear, Quencheth his light, Hides his dark brow, flies from thy sight, And grows more dim,...
Now you have freely given me leave to love, What will you do? Shall I your mirth, or passion move, When I begin to woo; Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too? ...