Short Poems

Fie, (quoth my Lady) what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the Carrionere.

Horne sells to others teeth; but has not one
To grace his own Gums, or of Box, or bone.

In desp'rate cases, all, or most are known
Commanders, few for execution.

If hap it must, that I must see thee lye
Absyrtus-like all torne confusedly:
With solemne tears, and with much grief of heart,
Ile recollect thee (weeping) part by part;
And having washt thee, close thee in a chest
With spice; that done, Ile leave thee to thy rest.

If Kings and kingdomes, once distracted be,
The sword of war must trie the Soveraignty.

God's said to dwell there, wheresoever He
Puts down some prints of His high Majestie:
As when to man He comes, and there doth place
His holy Spirit, or doth plant His Grace.

Born I was to meet with age,
And to walk life's pilgrimage,
Much, I know, of time is spent,
Tell I can't what's resident.
Howsoever, cares, adieu;
I'll have nought to say to you:
But I'll spend my coming hours
Drinking wine, and crown'd with flowers.

God suffers not His Saints, and Servants deere,
To have continuall paine, or pleasure here:
But look how night succeeds the day, so He
Gives them by turnes their grief and jollitie.

We merit all we suffer, and by far
More stripes, then God layes on the sufferer.

Abundant plagues I late have had,
Yet none of these have made me sad:
For why, my Saviour, with the sense
Of suffring gives me patience.