Good poems/ page 10 of 545 /
Your love and pity doth th'impression fillWhich vulgar scandal stampt upon my brow,For what care I who calls me well or illSo you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?You are my all-the-world, and I must striveTo know my shames and praises from your tongue,None else to me, nor I to none alive,That my steel'd sense o'er-changes right or wrong
Some good people, daring & subtle voices
and their tense faces, as I think of it
I see sank underground.
I see. My radar digs. I do not dig.
Cool their flushing blood, them eyes is shutâ€”
Two loves I have of comfort and despairWhich like two spirits do suggest me still:The better angel is a man right fair;The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,As to behold desert a begger born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honour shamefully misplac't,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,And strength by limping sway disablèd,And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,And simple-truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive-good attending captain-ill
Fresh-shaven, past months & a picture in New York
of Beard Two, I did have Three took off. Well. .
Shadow & act, shadow & act,
Better get white or you' get whacked,
or keep so-called black
& raise new hell.
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel,For well thou know'st to my dear doting heartThou art the fairest and most precious jewel
His mother goes. The mother comes & goes.
Chen Lung's too came, came and crampt & then
that dragoner's mother was gone.
It seem we don't have no good bed to lie on,
forever. While he drawing his first breath,
while skinning his knees,
That thou are blam'd shall not be thy defect,For slander's mark was ever yet the fair,The ornament of beauty is suspect,A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport:Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less
O never say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify
O how I faint when I of you do write,Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,And in the praise thereof spends all his mightTo make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,And yet me thinks I have astronomy,But not to tell of good, or evil luck,Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality,Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,Or say with princes if it shall go wellBy oft predict that I in heaven find
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her stillWhile comments of your praise, richly compil'd,Reserve their character with golden quillAnd precious phrase by all the muses fil'd
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'dThy beauty's form in table of my heart,My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,And perspective it is best painter's art,For through the painter must you see his skill,To find where your true image pictur'd lies,Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes:Now see what good-turns eyes for eyes have done,Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for meAre windows to my breast, where-through the sunDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written ambassageTo witness duty, not to shew my wit
Like as to make our appetites more keen,With eager compounds we our palate urge,As to prevent our maladies unseenWe sicken to shun sickness when we purge
Let me confess that we two must be twainAlthough our undivided loves are one:So shall those blots that do with me remain,Without thy help, by me be borne alone
If my dear love were but the child of state,It might for fortune's bastard be unfather'dAs subject to time's love, or to time's hate,Weeds among weeds, or flow'rs with flow'rs gather'd
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,And each doth good turns now unto the other
The earth that's Nature's mother is her tomb;What is her burying grave, that is her womb;And from her womb children of divers kindWe sucking on her natural bosom find:Many for many virtues excellent,None but for some, and yet all different