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aequis aetas art thou atque beautie Bemerton Ben Jonson blessed bloud brave breast breath Cathari Christ church crie dayes dead deare death decus delight dimme doore doth drest dust earth ev'n ev'ry eyes farre fear flesh flie flower fruit giv'n give glorie gold grace grief grone grow Hast thou hath head heart heav'n Herbert holy honour joyes King leave let thy light live look Lord mend mihi minde mirth musick night once peace pleasure poore posie quam Quas rest runne Saviour shine show thyself sigh sing sinne skie Sonne sorrow soul starres sunne sure sweet Sweet Day sweetly sweetnesse tears thine things thou art thou canst thou didst thou dost thou hast thou shalt thoughts thy love thy praise tibi truth no beautie unto verse vertue wayes weep Wherefore winde window songs words
Page 104 - ... whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My Music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.
Page 208 - And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.
Page 4 - Lie not : but let thy heart be true to God, Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both : Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ; The stormy working soul spits lies and froth.
Page 191 - All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures : leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage. Thy rope of sands, Which petty...
Page 20 - Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge : If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good. If all want sense, God takes a text and preacheth patience.
Page 154 - There was a Prince of old At Salem dwelt, Who liv'd with good increase Of flock and fold. 'He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death out of His grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat; Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set.
Page 60 - O, rack me not to such a vast extent, Those distances belong to thee ; The world's too little for thy tent, A grave too big for me.
Page 238 - I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I \ Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them : let my shame Go where it doth deserve.