Short Poems

You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on't you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse.
My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue,
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more:
When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
I'll change you to a blackamoor.

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

Too far afield thy search. Nay, turn. Nay, turn
At thine own elbow potent Memory stands,
Thy double, and eternity is cupped
In the pale hollow of those ghostly hands.

To-morrow's the fair,
And I shall be there,
Stuffing my guts
With gingerbread nuts.

To morrow you will Live, you always cry;
In what far Country does this morrow lye,
That 'tis so mighty long 'ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this Morrow live?
'Tis so far fetcht this Morrow, that I fear
'Twill be both very Old and very Dear.
To morrow I will live, the Fool does say;
To Day it self's too Late, the wise liv'd Yesterday.

Tom Child had often painted Death,
But never to the Life, before:
Doing it now, he's out of Breath;
He paints it once; and paints no more.

To the quick brow Fame grudges her best wreath
While the quick heart to enjoy it throbs beneath:
On the dead forehead's sculptured marble shown,
Lo, her choice crown — its flowers are also stone.

XXVII
To stand up straight and tread the turning mill,
To lie flat and know nothing and be still,
Are the two trades of man; and which is worse
I know not, but I know that both are ill.

about you
it knows nothing —

Let amicitia in her ample reign
Extend her notes to a Celestial strain
Benevolent far more divinely Bright
Amor like me doth triumph at the sight
When my thoughts in gratitude imploy
Mental Imaginations give me Joy
Now let my thoughts in Contemplation steer
The Footsteps of the Superlative fair