Though clock, To tell how night draws hence, I've none, A cock I have to sing how day draws on: I have A maid, my Prue, by good luck sent, To save That little, Fates me gave or lent....
Among these tempests great and manifold My ship has here one only anchor-hold; That is my hope, which if that slip, I'm one Wildered in this vast wat'ry region.
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear, To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear; Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin....
Be those few hours, which I have yet to spend, Blest with the meditation of my end; Though they be few in number, I'm content; If otherwise, I stand indifferent, Nor makes it matter, Nestor's years to tell,...
You may vow I'll not forget To pay the debt Which to thy memory stands as due As faith can seal it you. Take then tribute of my tears; So long as I have fears To prompt me, I shall ever...
To join with them who here confer Gifts to my Saviour's sepulchre, Devotion bids me hither bring Somewhat for my thank-offering. Lo! thus I bring a virgin flower, To dress my Maiden Saviour.
As wearied pilgrims, once possest Of long'd-for lodging, go to rest, So I, now having rid my way, Fix here my button'd staff and stay. Youth, I confess, hath me misled;...
When I did go from thee I felt that smart Which bodies do when souls from them depart. Thou did'st not mind it; though thou then might'st see Me turn'd to tears; yet did'st not weep for me....
If war or want shall make me grow so poor, As for to beg my bread from door to door; Lord! let me never act that beggar's part, Who hath Thee in his mouth, not in his heart:...
For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and word, That's not inlaid with Thee, my Lord, Forgive me, God, and blot each line...
Noonday and midnight shall at once be seen: Trees, at one time, shall be both sere and green: Fire and water shall together lie In one self-sweet-conspiring sympathy: Summer and winter shall at one time show...
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better 'twere my book were dead, Than to live not perfected.