Still to be neat, still to be dressed, …
Ben Jonson
Though I am young, and cannot tell …
Let it not your wonder move, …
See the chariot at hand here of Love, …
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, …
Hear me, O God! …
I that have been a lover, and could show it, …
Though beauty be the mark of praise, …
Weep with me, all you that read …
Where dost thou careless lie, …
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, …
Wouldst thou hear what man can say …
Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I …
I now think Love is rather deaf than blind, …
Come leave the loathéd stage, …
Would you believe, when you this monsieur see, …
Gut eats all day and lechers all the night; …
Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth, …
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; …
Playwright, convict of public wrongs to men, …
Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuff, …
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; …
Drink to me only with thine eyes, …
Come, my Celia, let us prove, …
That poets are far rarer births than kings …
Thy praise or dispraise is to me alike: …
Good and great God, can I not think of thee …
Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse …
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are …
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, …
That neither fame nor love might wanting be …
The Turn …
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, …
Pray thee, take care, that tak’st my book in hand, …