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dy shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
Not a friend, not a friend greet
Lay me, O where
TO HIS LUTE
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home ar gone and ta'en thy wages Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe and eat ;
To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust, Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash ;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
A SEA DIRGE
Full fathom five thy father lies :
Of his bones are coral made ;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
A LAND DIRGE
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren
If Thou survive my well-contented day
men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought* Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To 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.'
THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH No 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.
Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his feet.
Ah ! wanton, will ye?
With pretty fight,
The livelong night.
Whist, wanton, will ye?
Will whip you hence,