Before man's fall the rose was born,St. Ambrose says, without the thorn;But for man's fault then was the thornWithout the fragrant rose-bud born; But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
Who after his transgression doth repent, Is halfe, or altogether, innocent.
Give house-room to the best; 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
It is an active flame that fliesFirst to the babies in the eyes.
Let wealth come in by comely thrift, And not by any sordid shift; 'T is haste Makes waste; Extremes have still their fault. Who gripes too hard the dry and slipp'ry sand, Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the springtime, fresh and green
A winning wave, (deserving note.) In the tempestuous petticote, A careless shoe-string, in whose tye I see a wilde civility,-- Doe more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
When the tempter me pursueth With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
Let my muse Fail of thy former helps, and only use Her inadulterate strength. What's done by me Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
Our present tears here, not our present laughter Are but the handsells of our joys hereafter.
T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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