Poems. Come, My Celia by Ben Jonson
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by Ben Jonson
Come, my Celia, let us proveWhile we may, the sports of love;Time will not be ours forever;He at length our good will sever.Spend not then his gifts in vain.Suns that set may rise again;But if once we lose this light,'Tis with us perpetual night.Why should we defer our joys?Fame and rumor are but toys.Cannot we delude the eyesOf a few poor household spies,Or his easier ears beguile,So removed by our wile?'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal;But the sweet theft to reveal.To be taken, to be seen,These have crimes accounted been.
By John Clare
Dear brother robin this comes from us allWith our kind love and could Gip write and allThough but a dog he'd have his love to spareFor still he knows and by your corner chairThe moment he comes in he lays him downAnd seems to fancy you are in the town.This leaves us well in health thank God for thatFor old acquaintance Sue has kept your hatWhich mother brushes ere she lays it byeAnd every Sunday goes upstairs to cryJane still is yours till you come back agenAnd ne’er so much as dances with the menAnd Ned the woodman every week comes inAnd asks about you kindly as our kinAnd he with this and goody Thompson sendsRemembrances with those of all our friends
Father with us sends love until he hearsAnd mother she has nothing but her tearsYet wishes you like us in health the sameAnd longs to see a letter with your nameSo loving brother don't forget to writeOld Gip lies on the hearth stone every nightMother can't bear to turn him out of doorsAnd never noises now of dirty floorsFather will laugh but lets her have her wayAnd Gip for kindness get a double paySo Robin write and let us quickly seeYou don't forget old friends no more than weNor let my mother have so much to blameTo go three journeys ere your letter came.
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
And still with sicknesses and shame.
Thou didst so punish sin,
That I became
Let me combine,
And feel thy victory:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
17th century poetry which is characterized by the following features:
The Shakespearean Sonnet: It is a poem of 14 lines that is formed of three quatrains and a couplet rhyming abab cdcd efef gg written in iambic pentameter . In the first quatrain, the poet presents the problem, develops it in the second quatrain and offers a resolution in the third. The couplet gives the main them of the poem. The division is, therefore, thematic and not only formal
The Petrarchan sonnet is a poem of 14 lines that is divided into an octet (8 lines rhyming abbaabba) and a sestet (6 lines rhyming cdecde with some variations).
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide,"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies: "God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts: who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and wait."