Short Poems

Twixt truth and error, there's this difference known
Error is fruitful, truth is only one.

Those ends in war the best contentment bring,
Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.

Great cities seldom rest; if there be none
T' invade from far, they'll find worse foes at home.

Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all
Is, when love's honey has a dash of gall.

Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,
Above, they are the Angels' spiced wine.

Knew'st thou one month would take thy life away,
Thou'dst weep; but laugh, should it not last a day.

When all birds else do of their music fail,
Money's the still-sweet-singing nightingale!

Though frankincense the deities require,
We must not give all to the hallow'd fire.
Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,
As for ourselves to leave some frankince

Beauty no other thing is, than a beam
Flash'd out between the middle and extreme.

When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;
And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.