Short Poems

Princes and Fav'rites are most deere, while they
By giving and receiving hold the play:
But the Relation then of both growes poor,
When These can aske, and Kings can give no more.

Aske me, why I do not sing
To the tension of the string,
As I did, not long ago,
When my numbers full did flow?
Griefe (ay me!) hath struck my Lute,
And my tongue at one time mute.

As my little Pot doth boyle,
We will keep this Levell-Coyle;
That a Wave, and I will bring
To my God, a Heave-offering.

As oft as Night is banish'd by the Morne,
So oft, we'll think, we see a King new born.

Ce pot de cidre tu le bois
A la santé d'Ernest Dubois.

Je tiens secret ce que pense
L'homme qui vida ma panse.

Je fais le vœu que ma liqueur
Vous coule douce jusqu'au cœur.

Ami, bois ce jus de pomme
Tu te sentiras un homme.

Que de bonté dans son calice abrite
Notre lointaine et tendre Marguerite.

Chaque autre fleur ne saurait méconnaître
Que Missia fit gentiment de naître.