Others

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild, And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honor’d bones, The labor of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallow’d relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

The magic of a face.

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or, from starlike eyes, doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty’s orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Here lies a King that rul’d, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo’s first, at last the true God’s priest.

Here lies a King that rul’d, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo’s first, at last the true God’s priest.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie.

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? 3

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? 3

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? 3

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.

Dare to be true: nothing can need a lie: A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. 2

A verse may find him who a sermon flies. 1

Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser; to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold fourfold tomb.

Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser; to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold fourfold tomb.

What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that everyone from whence they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And resolv’d to live a fool, the rest Of his dull life.

What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that everyone from whence they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And resolv’d to live a fool, the rest Of his dull life.

In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.