Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were |
Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right. |
Rebel and Atheist too, why murmur I, / As though I felt the worst that love could do? |
Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee. |
Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which too long have dwelt on thee |
She is all States, and all Princes, I, / Nothing else is. / Princes do but play us. |
She, and comparisons are odious. |
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere,/ This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. |
Show me, dear Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear. |
Since I am coming to that holy room, / Where, with thy quire of Saints for evermore, / I shall be made thy Music; As I come / I tune the instrument here at the door, / And what I must do then, think here before. |
Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you. |
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak |
Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfill all the offices of death, except to kill |
So, if I dream I have you, I have you, / For all our joys are but fantastical. |
So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, / Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away,/ Turn thou ghost that way, and let me turn this, / And let our selves benight our happiest day. |