Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,Tomorrow will be dying.

A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonnessA lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction;

If little labour, little are our gains:Man’s fortunes are according to his pains.

Tumble me down, and I will sitUpon my ruines (smiling yet:)Teare me to tatters; yet I’le bePatient in my necessitie.Laugh at my scraps of cloathes, and shunMe, as a fear’d infection:Yet scarre-crow-like I’le walk as...

Have ye beheld (with much delight)A red rose peeping through a white?Or else a cherry (double graced)Within a lily? Centre placed?Or ever marked the pretty beamA strawberry shows half drowned in cream?Or seen rich rubies...

Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.

To the Virgins, To Make much of TimeGather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,Tomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he’s a-getting,The...