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O CRUDELIS AMOR When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iopé, blithe IIelen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move ; Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake : When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me !

Т. Сатріон

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ;
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy ;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe,
Fortune changéd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy

Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies ;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
l'ather's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt ;
More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide :
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

R. Greene



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My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize :

– But he, grim grinning King,
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




Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypres 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



My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear ;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear ;
For which be silent as in woods before :
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.

W. Drummond

Zertrud. The word



Fear no more the heat o' the sun

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art 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.

IV. Shakespeare



Full fathom five thy father lies :

Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Ilark ! now I hear them, -.
Ding, dong, bell.

IV. Shakespeare

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Call 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
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm ;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

J. IVebster



If Thou survive my well-contented day
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
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-
‘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.'

H'. Shakespeare


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