George Chapman

As night the life-inclining stars best shows, So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose.

The blest gods do not love Ungodly actions; but respect the right, And in the works of pious men delight.

The seas retain Not only their outrageous esture there, But supernatural mischief they expire.

You shall die Twice now, where others, that mortality In her fair arms holds, shall but once decease.

Soon as the white and red mix’d finger’d dame Had gilt the mountains with her saffron flame.

The isle Ææa, where the palace stands Of the early riser, with the rosy hands, Active Aurora; where she loves to dance.

The morning, on her throne of gold, Survey’d the vast world, by whose orient light The nymph adorn’d me with attires as bright.

Nor could the foole abstaine, But drunke as often.

A race Of proud-lined loiterers, that never sow, Nor put a plant in earth, nor use a plough.

Nothing so sweete is as our countrie’s earth, And joy of those from whom we claime our birth.

Within a thicket I reposed; when round I ruffled up fall’n leaves in heaps, and found, Let fall from heaven, a sleep interminate.

Then forth he came, his both knees falt'ring, both His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth His cheeks and nostrils flowing, voice and breath Spent to all use, and down he sunk to death. The sea had soaked his heart through; all …

Two eagles, ... That mounted on the winds, together still Their strokes extended.

Mourne not inevitable things; thy teares can spring no deeds To helpe thee, nor recall thy sonne: impacience ever breeds Ill upon ill, makes worst things worse.

All fell upon the high-hair’d oaks, and down their curled brows Fell bustling to the earth; and up went all the boles and boughs.

As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind, And stars shine clear; to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and the brows Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves for shows; And even the lowly valleys joy, to …

As far as white Aurora's dews are sprinkled through the air.

What man can blame The Greekes and Trojans to endure, for so admired a Dame, So many miseries, and so long? In her sweet countenance shine Lookes like the Godesses.

Swift men of foot, whose broad-set backs their trailing hair did hide.

The lady of the light, the rosy-fingered Morn, Rose from the hills.

Achilles' baneful wrath resound, O Goddess, that imposed Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loosed From breasts heroic, sent them far to that invisible cave That no light comforts, and their limbs to dogs and vultures …

Promise is most given when the least is said.

Friendship is the cement of two minds, As of one man the soul and body is; Of which one cannot sever but the other Suffers a needful separation.

Not to have want, what riches doth exceed? Not to be subject, what superior thing? He that to nought aspires, doth nothing need; Who breaks no law is subject to no king.