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ily shroud of white, stuck all with stew,
O prepare it!
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
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
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 eai ;
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 hasi 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 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.'
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,
cradle where it lies :
Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting
Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
Love in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his feet.
Ah ! wanton, will ye?
With pretty flight,
The livelong night.
Whist, wanton, will ye?
Will whip you hence,