You are a Tulip seen to-day,But, Dearest, of so short a stay,That where you grew, scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower;Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling Rose i’th’ bud,Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and bloodCan show where you or […]

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to seeMe, day by day, to steal away from thee?Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come,And haste away to mine eternal home;‘Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kiss:–Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bringPart of the […]

One night i’th’ year, my dearest Beauties, come,And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb;When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,And there to lick th’ effused sacrifice,Though paleness be the livery that I wear,Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once showThe least grim look, or […]

Want is a softer wax, that takes thereon,This, that, and every base impression,

Now is the time when all the lights wax dim;And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from himWho was thy servant: Dearest, bury meUnder that holy-oak, or gospel-tree;Where, though thou see’st not, thou may’st think uponMe, when thou yearly go’st procession;Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tombIn which thy sacred reliques shall have room;For my […]

Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to seeMyself now live; this age best pleaseth me!

No man such rare parts hath, that he can swim,If favour or occasion help not him.

Things are uncertain; and the more we get,The more on icy pavements we are set.

All has been plunder’d from me but my wit:Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.

Let others to the printing-press run fast;Since after death comes glory, I’ll not haste.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,The higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best, which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the […]

Love’s of itself too sweet; the best of allIs, when love’s honey has a dash of gall.

Tears, though they’re here below the sinner’s brine,Above, they are the Angels’ spiced wine.

Knew’st thou one month would take thy life away,Thou’dst weep; but laugh, should it not last a day.

When all birds else do of their music fail,Money’s the still-sweet-singing nightingale!

Though frankincense the deities require,We must not give all to the hallow’d fire.Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,As for ourselves to leave some frankincense.

Beauty no other thing is, than a beamFlash’d out between the middle and extreme.

For all our works a recompence is sure;‘Tis sweet to think on what was hard t’endure.

When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.

Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may;The morrow’s life too late is; Live to-day.