Herbert J.C. Grierson, ed. (1886–1960). Metaphysical Lyrics & Poems of the 17th C. 1921.

Index of First Lines

Absence heare my protestation
Accept thou Shrine of my dead Saint
After those reverend papers, whose soule is
All Kings, and all their favorites
And do they so? have they a Sense
And here the precious dust is laid
Ask me no more where Jove bestowes
As time one day by me did pass
As virtuous men passe mildly away
At the round earths imagin’d corners, blow
A ward, and still in bonds, one day
Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you
Before we shall again behold
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares
Brave flowers, that I could gallant it like you
Busie old foole, unruly Sunne
By our first strange and fatall interview
Can we not force from widdowed Poetry
Clora come view my Soul, and tell
Cloris, it is not thy disdaine
Come we shepheards whose blest Sight
Courage my Soul, now learn to wield
Dear, back my wounded heart restore
Dear hope! earth’s dowry, & heavn’s debt!
Dear urge no more that killing cause
Deare love, for nothing lesse then thee
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Do not conceale thy radiant eyes
Draw neer
Ev’n like two little bank-dividing brookes
Faire as unshaded Light; or as the Day
False life! a foil and no more, when
Fancy, and I, last Evening walkt
Farewel ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles
First born of Chaos, who so fair didst come
Give me more Love, or more Disdain
Goe, and catche a falling starre
Goe! hunt the whiter Ermine! and present
Good in Graves as Heavenly Seed are sown
Had we but World enough, and Time
Hail, sister springs!
Happy those early dayes! when I
Happy Choristers of Aire
Having interr’d her Infant-birth
Having been tenant long to a rich Lord
Here take my Picture; though I bid farewell
He was in Logick a great Critick
Holinesse on the head
Honour is so sublime perfection
Hope, whose weak Being ruin’d is
How ill doth he deserve a Lovers name
How vainly men themselves amaze
I did not live until this time
If to be absent were to be
If yet I have not all thy love
I made a posie, while the day ran by
In what torne ship soever I embarke
I struck the board, and cry’d, No more
I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
I was foretold, your rebell sex
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Jesu is in my heart, his sacred name
Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave scorn forbids
Know Celia, since thou art so proud
Lark now leaves his watry Nest
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this
Let me powre forth
Little think’st thou, poore flower
Lord, how can man preach thy eternall word?
Lord when the wise men came from farr
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back
Love, brave Vertues younger Brother
Love in her Sunny Eyes does basking play
Love, thou art Absolute sole lord
Mark you the floore? that square & speckled stone
Must I then see, alas! eternal night
My dearest Rival, least our Love
My Love is of a birth as rare
My Life is measur’d by this glasse, this glasse
Noe more unto my thoughts appeare
Not that by this disdain
Now you have freely given me leave to love
Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white
Oh! for some honest Lovers ghost
Oh thou great Power, in whom I move
Oh thou that swing’st upon the waving haire
O my Lucasia, let us speak our Love
Out upon it, I have lov’d
O who shall, from this Dungeon, raise
Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given
Proud Ægyptian Queen, her Roman Guest
Romira, stay
See how the Orient Dew
See! with what constant Motion
See with what simplicity
Send home my long strayd eyes to mee
Show me deare Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear
Since I am comming to that Holy roome
Since that this thing we call the world
Sluggish morne as yet undrest
So, so, breake off this last lamenting kisse
Strange and unnatural! lets stay and see
Sweetest love, I do not goe
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright
Take heed of loving mee
Tell me no more how fair she is
Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkinde
Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit
They are all gone into the world of light!
This is my playes last scene, here heavens appoint
This is the Month, and this the happy morn
Though you be absent here, I needs must say
Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?
Through that pure Virgin-shrine
Throw away thy rod
Tis not how witty, nor how free
Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes
To make a final conquest of all me
Twice or thrice had I loved thee
Victorious beauty, though your eyes
Weighing the stedfastness and state
What heav’n-intreated Heart is This
What happy, secret fountain
What if this present were the worlds last night?
What needs my Shakespear for his honour’d Bones
When first thou didst entice to thee my heart
When for the Thorns with which I long, too long
When I survay the bright
When Love with unconfined wings
When my grave is broke up againe
When thou, poore excommunicate
Where, like a pillow on a bed
Whilst my Souls eye beheld no light
Who ere she be
Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harme
Who first reform’d our Stage with justest Lawes
Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Why should you sweare I am forsworn
Wilt thou forgive that sinn, where I begunn
With all the powres my poor Heart hath
With what deep murmurs through times silent stealth
Yee blushing Virgins happy are
You earthly Souls that court a wanton flame
You meaner Beauties of the Night