Short Poems

For all our works a recompence is sure;
'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.

Want is a softer wax, that takes thereon,
This, that, and every base impression,

Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!

No man such rare parts hath, that he can swim,
If favour or occasion help not him.

Things are uncertain; and the more we get,
The more on icy pavements we are set.

All has been plunder'd from me but my wit:
Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.

Anthea, I am going hence
With some small stock of innocence;
But yet those blessed gates I see
Withstanding entrance unto me;
To pray for me do thou begin;--
The porter then will let me in.

Sapho, I will chuse to go
Where the northern winds do blow
Endless ice, and endless snow;
Rather than I once would see
But a winter's face in thee,--
To benumb my hopes and me.

You say you're sweet: how should we know
Whether that you be sweet or no?
--From powders and perfumes keep free;
Then we shall smell how sweet you be!

We two are last in hell; what may we fear
To be tormented or kept pris'ners here I
Alas! if kissing be of plagues the worst,
We'll wish in hell we had been last and first.