John Fletcher

God Lyaeus, ever young, Ever honour’d, ever sung, Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer’s brim, In the crimson liquor swim;

We must all die! All leave ourselves, it matters not where, when, Nor how, so we die well; and can that man that does so Need lamentation for him?

All love’s emblems, and all cry, "Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die."

Go far—too far you cannot, still the farther The more experience finds you: And go sparing;— One meal a week will serve you, and one suit, Through all your travels; for you'll find it certain, The poorer and the baser you appear, The more …

Though I say't that should not say't.

Come, sing now, sing; for I know you sing well; I see you have a singing face.

O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood The earth when it is sick, and curest the world O' the pleurisy of people.

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone; Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again.

Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet But only melancholy; O sweetest melancholy!

Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves.

I'll put a spoke among your wheels.

Something given that way.

'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, Which being restrained, a heart is broken.

Of all the paths lead to a woman's love Pity's the straightest.

Let's meet and either do or die.

Death hath so many doors to let out life.

Oh, woman, perfect woman! what distraction Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil! What an inviting hell invented.

Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will; 'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.