Lord Edward Herbert of Cherbury Poems

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To Her Hair

Black beamy hairs, which so seem to arise
From the extraction of those eyes,
That into you she destin-like doth spin

Tears, Flow No More

TEARS, flow no more, or if you needs must flow,
Fall yet more slow,
Do not the world invade,
From smaller springs than yours rivers have grown,

Elegy Over A Tomb

Must I then see, alas, eternal night
Sitting upon those fairest eyes,
And closing all those beams, which once did rise
So radiant and bright

Epitaph On King James

Here lies King James, who did so propagate
Unto the World that blest and quiet state
Wherein his Subjects liv'd, he seem'd to give


Come hither Womankind and all their worth,
Give me thy kisses as I call them forth.
Give me the billig-kiss, that of the dove,

Another Sonnet, To A Black Itself

Thou Black, wherein all colours are compos'd,
And unto which they all at last return,
Thou colour of the Sun where it doth burn,

Upon Combing Her Hair

Breaking from under that thy cloudy veil,
Open and shine yet more, shine out more clear,
Thou glorious golden-beam-darting hair,

The State-Progress Of Ill

I SAY, 'tis hard to write Satires. Though Ill
Great'ned in his long course, and swelling still.
Be now like to a Deluge, yet, as Nile,
'Tis doubtful in his original. This while

Love's End

Thus ends my Love, but this doth grieve me most,
That so it ends, but that ends too, this yet,
Besides the Wishes, hopes and time I lost,

Sonnet Of Black Beauty

Black beauty, which above that common light,
Whose Power can no colours here renew
But those which darkness can again subdue,

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