Ask me no more where Jove bestows, …
Thomas Carew
Can we not force from widow'd poetry, …
He that loves a rosy cheek, …
This little vault, this narrow room, …
Know Celia, since thou art so proud, …
Give me more love or more disdain; …
Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost …
Now you have freely given me leave to love, …
'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand …
When thou, poor excommunicate …