131 quotes
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.
Hesperides (1648)
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
Her belly, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nerv'lets were embrac'd.
Hesperides (1648)
Welcome, maids-of-honour!
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her. ...
Yet, though thus respected,
By-and-by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.
Hesperides (1648)
Is there no way to beget
In my limbs their former heat?
Æson had, as poets feign,
Baths that made him young again:
Find that medicine, if you can,
For your dry decrepit man
Who would fain his strength renew,
Were it but to pleasure you.
Hesperides (1648)
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score;
Then to that twenty add a hundred more:
A thousand to that hundred: so kiss on,
To make that thousand up a million.
Treble that million, and when that is done
Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.
Hesperides (1648)
Let wealth come in by comely thrift
And not by any sordid shift;
'Tis haste
Makes waste:
Extremes have still their fault:
The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:
Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sand
Holds none at all, or little in his hand.
Hesperides (1648)
When a daffodil I see,
Hanging down his head towards me,
Guess I may what I must be:
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.
Hesperides (1648)
So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise,
But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
Hesperides (1648)
Let others drink thee freely, and desire
Thee and their lips espous'd, while I admire
And love thee, but not taste thee. Let my muse
Fail of thy former helps, and only use
Her inadult'rate strength: what's done by me
Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.
Hesperides (1648)
Roses at first were white,
Till they could not agree,
Whether my Sappho's breast
Or they more white should be.
But, being vanquish'd quite,
A blush their cheeks bespread;
Since which, believe the rest,
The roses first came red.
Hesperides (1648)
When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
Hesperides (1648)