Short Poems

The teares of Saints more sweet by farre,
Then all the songs of sinners are.

I cannot suffer; And in this, my part
Of Patience wants. Grief breaks the stoutest Heart.

Whither dost thou whorry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,
Here, and there a fresh Love is.
That doth like me, this doth please;
Thus a thousand Mistresses,
I have now; yet I alone,
Having All, injoy not One.

I heard ye co'd coole heat; and came
With hope you would allay the same:
Thrice I have washt, but feel no cold,
Nor find that true, which was foretold.
Me thinks like mine, your pulses beat;
And labour with unequall heat:
Cure, cure your selves, for I discrie,
Ye boil with Love, as well as I.

Pievish doth boast, that he's the very first
Of English Poets, and 'tis thought the Worst.

Love he that will; it best likes me,
To have my neck from Loves yoke free.

I do not love, nor can it be
Love will in vain spend shafts on me:
I did this God-head once defie;
Since which I freeze, but cannot frie.
Yet out alas! the deaths the same,
Kil'd by a frost or by a flame.

Raspe playes at Nine-holes; and 'tis known he gets
Many a Teaster by his game, and bets:
But of his gettings there's but little sign;
When one hole wasts more then he gets by Nine.

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs;
Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.

Learn this of me, where e'r thy Lot doth fall;
Short lot, or not, to be content with all.