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...
I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Like, and dislike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?...
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....
Broomsted a lameness got by cold and beer: And to the bath went, to be cured there: His feet were helped, and left his crutch behind; But home returned, as he went forth, half blind.
Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week, And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek. Six days he hollows so much breath away That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.
Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week, And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek. Six days he hollows so much breath away, That on the seventh, he can nor preach or pray.
Prue, my dearest maid, is sick, Almost to be lunatic: 'sculapius! come and bring Means for her recovering; And a gallant cock shall be Offer'd up by her to thee.
Never was day so over-sick with showers But that it had some intermitting hours; Never was night so tedious but it knew The last watch out, and saw the dawning too; Never was dungeon so obscurely deep...
Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam...
Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have Within the bosom of my love your grave. Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known, Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone.