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Página 535 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And 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.
Página 588 - IF I freely may discover What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city ; A little proud, but full of pity ; Light and humorous in her toying ; Oft...
Página 531 - The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further to make thee a room; Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
Página 33 - When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain (For graves have learned that womanhead To be to more than one a bed), And he that digs it spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone...
Página 541 - No, Both wills were in one stature ; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made Flesh indeed, And took on him our nature. What comfort by Him do we win, Who made Himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of Glory ! To see this babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence : Can man forget this...
Página 588 - Though I am young and cannot tell Either what Death or Love is well, Yet, I have heard they both bear darts, And both do aim at human hearts : And then again, I have been told, Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold ; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up or fall ; Or to our end, like way may have By...
Página 30 - To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
Página 23 - Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys and sour prentices; Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Página 516 - Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father, now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage, And, if no other misery, yet age! Rest in soft peace; and, asked, say: Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry...