What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore;Ships have been drown’d, where late they danced before.

Man is composed here of a twofold part;The first of nature, and the next of art;Art presupposes nature; nature, shePrepares the way for man’s docility.

Who with a little cannot be content,Endures an everlasting punishment.

Health is the first good lent to men;A gentle disposition then:Next, to be rich by no by-ways;Lastly, with friends t’ enjoy our days.

No wrath of men, or rage of seas,Can shake a just man’s purposes;No threats of tyrants, or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.

Live by thy Muse thou shalt, when others die,Leaving no fame to long posterity;When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,Here shall endure thy vast dominion.

I ask’d thee oft what poets thou hast read,And lik’st the best? Still thou repli’st, The dead.–I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover’d be;Then sure thou’lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.

Man is a watch, wound up at first, but neverWound up again; Once down, he’s down for ever.The watch once down, all motions then do cease;The man’s pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here a-while,To blush and gently smile;And go at last. What, were ye born to beAn hour or half’s delight;And so to bid good-night?‘Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite. […]

First, April, she with mellow showersOpens the way for early flowers;Then after her comes smiling May,In a more rich and sweet array;Next enters June, and brings us moreGems than those two that went before;Then, lastly, July comes, and sheMore wealth brings in than all those three.

I call, I call: who do ye call?The maids to catch this cowslip ball!But since these cowslips fading be,Troth, leave the flowers, and maids, take me!Yet, if that neither you will do,Speak but the word, and I’ll take you,

The Rose was sick, and smiling died;And, being to be sanctified,About the bed, there sighing stoodThe sweet and flowery sisterhood.Some hung the head, while some did bring,To wash her, water from the spring;Some laid her forth, while others wept,But all a solemn fast there kept.The holy sisters some among,The sacred dirge and trental sung;But ah! […]

Go, happy Rose, and interwoveWith other flowers, bind my Love.Tell her, too, she must not beLonger flowing, longer free,That so oft has fetter’d me. Say, if she’s fretful, I have bandsOf pearl and gold, to bind her hands;Tell her, if she struggle still,I have myrtle rods at will,For to tame, though not to kill. Take […]

Love in a shower of blossoms cameDown, and half drown’d me with the same;The blooms that fell were white and red;But with such sweets commingled,As whether (this) I cannot tell,My sight was pleased more, or my smell;But true it was, as I roll’d there,Without a thought of hurt or fear,Love turn’d himself into a bee,And […]

Ask me why I send you hereThis sweet Infanta of the year?Ask me why I send to youThis Primrose, thus bepearl’d with dew?I will whisper to your ears,–The sweets of love are mixt with tears. Ask me why this flower does showSo yellow-green, and sickly too?Ask me why the stalk is weakAnd bending, yet it […]

These fresh beauties, we can prove,Once were virgins, sick of love,Turn’d to flowers: still in some,Colours go and colours come.

Frolic virgins once these were,Overloving, living here;Being here their ends deniedRan for sweet-hearts mad, and died.Love, in pity of their tears,And their loss in blooming years,For their restless here-spent hours,Gave them hearts-ease turn’d to flowers.

Ah, Cruel Love! must I endureThy many scorns, and find no cure?Say, are thy medicines made to beHelps to all others but to me?I’ll leave thee, and to Pansies come:Comforts you’ll afford me some:You can ease my heart, and doWhat Love could ne’er be brought unto.

Stay while ye will, or go,And leave no scent behind ye:Yet trust me, I shall knowThe place where I may find ye. Within my Lucia’s cheek,(Whose livery ye wear)Play ye at hide or seek,I’m sure to find ye there.

From this bleeding hand of mine,Take this sprig of Eglantine:Which, though sweet unto your smell,Yet the fretful briar will tell,He who plucks the sweets, shall proveMany thorns to be in love.