The ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
...
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
Life of the Muses' day, their morning star!
If works, not th' author's, their own grace should look,
...
Ere cherries ripe, and strawberries be gone;
Unto the cries of London I'll add one;
Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in ev'ry street;
...
Men, if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,
...
In all faith, we did our part:
generated punctually, prepared adequately,
ejected promptly,
and swam in the approved manner
...
On the happy entrace of Iames, our Soveraigne, to His first high Session of Parliament in this his Kingdome, the 19 of March, 1603.
...
Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know
(How nothing's that!), to whom my country owes
...
He smashed his hand
in opening a door for her,
and less pain than
embarrassment shrieked through him.
...
Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
...
My awkward grossness grows: I go down, through
I maintain my self in the conviction
that I have as much to say as others
...