English

Of this high grace with blisse conioyn'd,
No further debt on me is laid;
Since that is selfe-same metall coin'd,
Sweet ladie, you remaine well paid;
For if my place giue me great pleasure,
Hauing before me Nature's treasure,
In face and eyes vnmatched being,
You haue the same in my hands, seeing
What in your face mine eyes do measure
Nor thinke the match vneu'nly made,
That of those beames in you do tarie

The glasse to you but giues a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carie;

There was an old person whose mirth,
Induced him to leap from the earth;
But in leaping too quick, he exclaimed, " I'm too sick
To leap any more from the earth."

The agèd hens of Oripò,
They tempt the stormy sea;
Black, white and brown, they spread their wings,
And o'er the waters flee;
And when a little fish they clutch
Athwart the wave so blue,
They utter forth a joyful note,—
A cock-a-doodle-doo!
O! Oo! Oripò—Oo! the hens of Oripò!

The crafty hens of Oripò,
They wander on the shore,
Where shrimps and winkles pick they up,
And carry home a store;
For barley, oats, or golden corn,
To eat they never wish,
All vegetably food they scorn,

And why to me this, thou lame Lord of fire,
What had I done that might call on thine ire?
Or urge thy Greedie flame, thus to devoure
So many my Yeares-labours in an houre?
I ne're attempted, Vulcan , 'gainst thy life;
Nor made least line of love to thy loose Wife;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne
With Clownes, and Tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in horne.
'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe,

An old maid early eer I knew
Ought but the love that on me grew
And now Im coverd oer & oer
And wish that I had been a Whore

O I cannot cannot find
The undaunted courage of a Virgin Mind
For Early I in love was crost
Before my flower of love was lost

The angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.

God's laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with his mood.

I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.

The angels are bending
Above your white bed,
They weary of tending
The souls of the dead.

God smiles in high heaven
To see you so good,
The old planets seven
Grow gay with his mood.

I kiss you and kiss you,
With arms round my own,
Ah, how shall I miss you,
When, dear, you have grown.

Apricot about to fade, raindrops quiet now;
filling the paths, patches of moss,
the green has stained my clothes.
The wind is strong—I cannot get the little window shut:
flower petals and my poems
go flying through the air.

Amidst bamboo, gate pulled shut,
living like a monk;
white bean-flowers thinning out
after gusts of rain.
My couch engulfed by steam from tea,
I happen to nod off
and wake to find the book I was reading
still clutched tightly in my hand.

Already, no more dreams of going to the capital;
only noble feelings of learning the hermit's life.
Quite poor, still I'll pawn my clothes
when I want to buy a painting;
invalid, I want to throw away my inkstone,
tired of requests for writing.
The stableboy burns piles of firewood
to scare off tigers at night;
a young girl knocks at the gate each morning,
come to sell us fish.
Tired, I rest my head on my books,
hungry, I just eat;
I laugh at myself for having such a simple plan for life.