Sir Walter Raleigh

Go, soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:

NG not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,…

Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At love's request to try them,

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Attend my words, my gentle knave,
And you shall learn from me
How boys at dinner may behave
With due propriety.

Now Serena be not coy,
Since we freely may enjoy Sweet embraces, such delights,
As will shorten tedious nights.
Think that beauty will not stay With you always, but away

To Griggs, that learned man, in many a bygone session,
His kids were his delight, and physics his profession;
Now Griggs, grown old and glum, and less intent on knowledge,
Physics himself at home, and sends his kids to college.

Now what is Love,
I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;

Prais'd be Diana's fair and harmless light;
Prais'd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;
Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night;
Prais'd be her power by which all powers abound.

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,

The Artist and his Luckless Wife
They lead a horrid haunted life,
Surrounded by the things he's made
That are not wanted by the trade.

When I am safely laid away,
Out of work and out of play,
Sheltered by the kindly ground
From the world of sight and sound

NS are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover That…

What is our life?
A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be

Your dog is not a dog of grace;
He does not wag the tail or beg;
He bit Miss Dickson in the face;
He bit a Bailie in the leg.

Rise,
O my soul! with thy desires to heaven,
And with divinest contemplation
Thy time, when time's eternity is given

Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation

Our great work, the Otia Merseiana,
Edited by learned Mister Sampson,
And supported by Professor Woodward,
Is financed by numerous Bogus Meetings

Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us nought but age and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave

Three things there be that prosper up
And flourish, whilst they grow asunder far,
But on a day, they meet all in one place,
And when they meet, they one another mar;

Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expir'd,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retir'd— Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays.
My lost delights, now clean from sight of land

The sun may set and rise,
But we, contrariwise,
Sleep, after our short light,
One everlasting night.