Short Poems

He that will live of all cares dispossest,
Must shun the bad, I, and suspect the best.

In's Tusc'lanes, Tullie doth confesse,
No plague ther's like to foolishnesse.

Ilately fri'd, but now behold
I freeze as fast, and shake for cold.
And in good faith I'd thought it strange
T'ave found in me this sudden change;
But that I understood by dreames,
These only were but Loves extreames;
Who fires with hope the Lovers heart,
And starves with cold the self-same part.

Of Flanks and Chines of Beefe doth Gorrell boast
He has at home; but who tasts boil'd or rost?
Look in his Brine-tub, and you shall find there
Two stiffe-blew-Pigs-feet, and a sow's cleft eare.

Grow up in Beauty, as thou do'st begin,
And be of all admired, Tomasin.

Love is a circle that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of love.

When brightly blazed the evening's crimson ray
and finest gold the cypress seemed, so fair,
a mother to her little child did say:
A whole great garden is like this up there.
The infant sleeps and dreams of boughs of gold,
trees he dreams golden and the forest gold;
meanwhile the cypress, in the black of night,
sways with the wind, and weeps at its fierce might.

Praise the Lord, ye heav'nly choirs!
Praise, and sweep your golden lyres:
Praise him, mortals! in your songs,
Praise him from ten thousand tongues.

Music has charms the savage breast to move,
And songs are Syrens that invite to love.

A drift of fragrance down a lane of spring;
Peach trees and pear trees spill their pink and white;
The lavender mountains loom, and mutely fling
Bold arms to clasp and quell the sunset light,—
An April spirit haunts the evening air,
Wistful and delicate and debonair.