Lines on his promised Pension. I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, Hymn in Honor of Beauty. Line 132. For of the soul the body form doth take, Elegiac on a Friend's Passion for his Astrophell. The lineaments of gospel-books. Mother Hubberd's Tale. Full little knowest thou that hast not tride, To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares; SIR HENRY WOTTON. 1568-1639. The Character of a Happy Life. How happy is he born and taught, Lord of himself, though not of lands; To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light! DR. JOHN DONNE. 1573-1631. FUNERAL ELEGIES ON THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL The Second Anniversary. Line 245. Her by her sight; We understood her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say her body thought. Elegy 8. The Comparison. She and comparisons are odious. Give me a look, give me a face, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Good Life, Long Life. In small proportion we just beauties see, * Ἐμοὶ δὲ μόνοις πρόπινε τοῖς ὄμμασιν. . . . . Εἰ δὲ βούλει, τοῖς χείλεσι προσφέρουσα, πλήρου φιλημάτων τὸ ἔκπωμα, καὶ οὕτως δίδου. Philostratus, Letter xxiv. Epitaph on Elizabeth. Underneath this stone doth lie Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke. Lies the subject of all verse, To the Memory of Shakespeare. The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage! Small Latin, and less Greek. He was not of an age, but for all time. Sweet swan of Avon! Get Every Man in his Humor. Act ii. Sc. 3. money; still get money, boy; No matter by what means. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 1585-1616. Letter to Ben Jonson. What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble and so full of subtile flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life. GEORGE WITHER. 1588-1667. The Shepherd's Resolution. Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman 's fair? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?* * Shall I like a hermit dwell If she undervalue me What care I how fair she be. Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh. |