Francis Quarles

(8 May 1592 – 8 September 1644 / Romford, Essex, England)

Quotations

  • ''Like to the Artick needle, that doth guide
    The wand'ring shade by his magnetick pow'r,
    And leaves his silken Gnomon to decide
    The question of the controverted houre;''
    Francis Quarles (1592-1644), British poet. I Am My Beloved's. . . Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse, The. H. J. C. Grierson and G. Bullough, eds. (1934) Oxford University Press.
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  • ''Even like two little bank-dividing brooks,
    That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
    And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks,
    Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames
    Where in a greater current they conjoin:
    So I my Best-Beloved's am, so he is mine.''
    Francis Quarles (1592-1644), British poet. My Beloved Is Mine. . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Eternall God, O thou that onely art
    The sacred Fountain of eternall light,
    And blessed Loadstone of my better part;
    O thou my heart's desire, my soul's delight,
    Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart,
    And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;
    And then my soul shall know thee; knowing, love thee;
    And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
    From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
    Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.''
    Francis Quarles (1592-1644), British poet. Now first be lov'd. . . Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse, The. H. J. C. Grierson and G. Bullough, eds. (1934) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Disclose thy Sun beames; close thy wings, and stay;
    See, see, how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
    O thou, that art my Light, my Life, my Way.''
    Francis Quarles (1592-1644), British poet. Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? . . Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse, The. H. J. C. Grierson and G. Bullough, eds. (1934) Oxford University Press.

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Hos ego versiculos

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LIKE to the damaske rose you see,
Or like the blossome on the tree,
Or like the daintie flower of May,
Or like the Morning to the day,
Or like the Sunne, or like the shade,
Or like the Gourd which Jonas had;

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