As is your name, so is your comely face Touch'd every where with such diffused grace, As that in all that admirable round, There is not one least solecism found; And as that part, so every portion else...
Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book. Here stand it still to dignify our Muse,...
When to thy porch I come and ravish'd see The state of poets there attending thee, Those bards and I, all in a chorus sing: We are thy prophets, Porter, thou our king.
When I of Villars do but hear the name, It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham, Who was your brave exalted uncle here, Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere,...
Handsome you are, and proper you will be Despite of all your infortunity: Live long and lovely, but yet grow no less In that your own prefixed comeliness: Spend on that stock: and when your life must fall,...
Well may my book come forth like public day When such a light as you are leads the way, Who are my work's creator, and alone The flame of it, and the expansion. And look how all those heavenly lamps acquire...
When I through all my many poems look, And see yourself to beautify my book, Methinks that only lustre doth appear A light fulfilling all the region here. Gild still with flames this firmament, and be...
Come, skilful Lupo, now, and take Thy bice, thy umber, pink, and lake; And let it be thy pencil's strife, To paint a Bridgeman to the life: Draw him as like too, as you can,...
If I lie unburied, sir, These my relics pray inter: 'Tis religion's part to see Stones or turfs to cover me. One word more I had to say: But it skills not; go your way; He that wants a burial room...
Let there be patrons, patrons like to thee, Brave Porter! poets ne'er will wanting be: Fabius and Cotta, Lentulus, all live In thee, thou man of men! who here do'st give Not only subject-matter for our wit,...
Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war (Not without glory), noble sir, you are, Despite of all concussions, left the stem To shoot forth generations like to them....
How dull and dead are books that cannot show A prince of Pembroke, and that Pembroke you! You who are high born, and a lord no less Free by your fate than fortune's mightiness,...
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.
Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold, And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold: Prithee go home; and for thy credit be First cured thyself, then come and cure me.
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....
Pagget, a schoolboy, got a sword, and then He vow'd destruction both to birch and men: Who would not think this younker fierce to fight? Yet coming home, but somewhat late (last night),...
Parrat protests 'tis he, and only he Can teach a man the art of memory: Believe him not; for he forgot it quite, Being drunk, who 'twas that can'd his ribs last night.
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.