O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.
Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on; Back-turning slackens resolution.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
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.
Give house-room to the best; 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
He loves his bonds who, when the first are broke, Submits his neck into a second yoke.
Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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.
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the springtime, fresh and green
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.
Our present tears here, not our present laughter Are but the handsells of our joys hereafter.
In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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.
The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup; I'll drink to the garlands around it; But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown'd it.
T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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