For that fine madness still he did retain / Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.

I pray thee leave, love me no more, / Call home the heart you gave me, / I but in vain the saint adore, / That can, but will not, save me.

And Queens hereafter shall be glad to live / Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.

Must, bid the Morn awake! Sad Winter now declines, Each bird doth choose a mate; This day’s Saint alentine’s. For that good bishop’s sake Get up and let us see What beauty it shall be...

Thus when we fondly flatter our desires,Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.

Fair stood the wind for France, / When we our sails advance, / Nor now to prove our chance, / Longer will tarry.

Next these, learn’d Jonson, in this list I bring, / Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring.

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would’st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might’st him yet recover

It is too early to put a final loss figure on the event, but the combined insured losses from winds and flooding could reach 500 million pounds.

Had in him those brave translunary things/ That the first poets had.

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, / And when we meet at any time again, / Be it not seen in either of our brows, / That we one jot of former love...