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Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

W. Drummond




OMTE aw sya cypres

OME away, come away, Death,

let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath ;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O prepare it !
My part of death no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

W. Shakespeare



'EAR no more the heat o' the sun

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Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages :

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The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he 'll dig them up again.

'Thou survive my well-contented day

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought -
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

Since o'er shady groves they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm ;

7. Webster
poor rude lines of thy deceased lover ;

's muse grown with this growing age,






march in ranks of better equipage :

But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I 'll read, his for his love.'

W. Shakespeare

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O longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world, that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ;

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay ;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. Shakespeare




'ELL me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head ?
How begot, how nourished ?

Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies :
Let us all ring fancy's knell ;
I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell.
– Ding, dong, bell.

W. Shakespeare




"UPID and my Campaspe play'd

At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid :
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's.cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin ;
All these did my Campaspe win :
At last he set her both his eyes
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love ! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas ! become of me?

7. Lylye


PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

To give my Love good-morrow !
Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I 'll borrow ;

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