Short Poems

On peaks before, peaks behind, snow glinting white;
my grass gate shut tight, west of the rocky stream.
Through the long night in the firepit I burn sticks of wood,
pulling on my beard, remembering times when I was young.

My brother, my brother,
I am now turning into a Wolf!—
I am turning into a Wolf.

Mix a pancake,
Stir a pancake,
Pop it in the pan.

Fry the pancake,
Toss the pancake,
Catch it if you can.

Winter's not gone yet if the wild geese fly that way.
Fathers that wear rags
Do make their children blind,
But fathers that bear bags
Shall see their children kind.
Fortune, that arrant whore,
Ne'er turns the key to the poor. II, iv
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolors for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thine enemies' nor fear to lose it,
Thy safety being motive. I, i

I crawle, I creep; my Christ, I come
To Thee, for curing Balsamum:
Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the Tree,
Affording salve of Soveraigntie.
My mouth I'le lay unto Thy wound
Bleeding, that no Blood touch the ground:
For, rather then one drop shall fall
To wast, my Jesu, I'le take all.

Say, wretched Ravidus, what evil hour
Urg'd thee to dare my fierce Iambics' pow'r?
What god, with ill advice, could tempt thy rage
Such foolish, such unequal strife to wage?
Was it, at any hazard, to be known;
To be the talk, and wonder of the town?
Thou shalt——and, wanting to supplant my flame,
Each future age shall hold thee up to shame.

Old Vibennius, of all the bath thieves thou first thief!
Of all monsters in lust, young Vibennius, thou chief!
This is gifted with hands that are ever rapacious,
That is gifted with parts that are full as voracious;
Then, o why don't ye both into banishment go,
And deservedly wander in deserts of woe?
Not a soul but the father's mean rapines must tell;
And thou, son, canst no longer thy infamy sell.

Let poets praise the blossom of wild Spring,
These cleaner skies, this magic-laden air;
I mark the season by a greater thing—
Viscountess Trasche is back in Berkeley Square.

As Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more,
Did show she footing found, for all the flood;
So when good soules, departed through Death's doore,
Come not againe, it shewes their dwelling good.