On The Tombs In Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
The Author To The Reader
I sing the fortune of a luckless pair,
Whose spotless souls now in one body be;
For beauty still is Prodromus to care,
Crost by the sad stars of nativity:
Never more will I protest,
To love a woman but in jest:
For as they cannot be true,
So, to give each man his due,
Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter To Ben Jonson
The sun, which doth the greatest comfort bring
To absent friends (because the self-same thing
They know they see, however absent), is
Here our best hay-maker (forgive me this,
May I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air,
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if't were none.