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appear bear beauty better bird born called cause court dear death delight desire died doth earth edition English eyes face fair faith fear flowers give Gloss gone grace green grief hand happy hath head hear heart heaven honour hope John kind king kiss lady late learning leave light live look lord lover mind Nature never night nought once pain pass perhaps play poems poetry poets praise printed probably Queen reign rest seek serve sighs sight sing sometimes song SONNET soon soul specimens spring stone sweet tears tell thee thing thou thought translated tree true unto Vide Warton wind wine Wood write wrought yield youth
Strona 349 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it. My part of death, no one so true Did share it.
Strona 389 - I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!
Strona 352 - Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require.
Strona 351 - Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Strona 334 - Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply Then give them all the lie.
Strona 346 - Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night ' That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide...
Strona 220 - Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When Rivers rage, and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Strona 388 - Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns, that set, may rise again ; . But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
Strona 243 - CUPID and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses — Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?* THE SONGS...
Strona 348 - Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head ? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell ALL.