An Epitaph

What beauty would have lovely styled,
What manner pretty, nature mild,
What wonder perfect, all were filed
Upon recórd in this blest child;
    And, till the coming of the soul
    To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll.

Song: To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
    And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
    Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
    I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
    Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
    It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
    And send'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
    Not of itself, but thee!

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(A parody entitled Drink To Me Only was written by Anonymous.)

Oh, Do Not Wanton

Oh, do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.
Oh be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.
Oh do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears,
Mine own enough betray me.