Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	side_n	young_a	youth_n	19	3	7.3613	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A31143	The Harmony of the muses, or, The gentlemans and ladies choisest recreation full of various, pure and transcendent wit : containing severall excellent poems, some fancies of love, some of disdain, and all the subjects incident to the passionate affections either of men or women / heretofore written by those unimitable masters of learning and invention, Dr. Joh. Donn, Dr. Hen. King, Dr. W. Stroad [et al].	R. C.; Donne, John, 1572-1631.; King, Henry, 1592-1669.; Strode, William, 1600 or 1601-1645.	1654 (1654)	Wing C105; ESTC R9732	41,392	112

pardon thy impurity For do with one with a thousand thou'lt turn Whore Break Ice in one place and it cracks in more Do but with King to Subject thou wilt fall From Lord to Lackey and at last to all An Embleme of Youth Age and Death expressed in a Cherry-stone on the one side is cut a young Damsel on the other an old Beldam The stone Hyeroglifically expresseth Death FAir Mistris be not over-coy In entertaining of this toy The Morall of its pretty Art D●serves a lodging next your heart ●or 't is an Emblem fairest trust me Of what you are now and what you must be Except that envious Death prevent Rich Natures first benigne intent Then doth the gospel of the Stone Prove life and death to dwell in one For this poor Moddel which you view Did sometimes wear as rich a hew As nature gives to any fair Whilst it grew blushing in the Air Whose tempting colour and whose taste Brought it to what you see at last Nay had it hung still on the Tree It would have prov'd the same you see Save that the Artists hand alone For your sake hath his cunning shown Then rarest object of my sight Unfold this three-fold Riddle right And learn from it your April years Bloomes not more fruit of joy then fears And that your beauty is a treasure By Nature lent you at whose pleasure You must restore it when she 'l call And give account for use and all And that your winter fro●ty dayes Brings Almond-buds instead of Bayes To crown your temples and with glory To close the period of your story If those rich Jems which should have lasted Have not in your youth been wasted But Prodigal-like if thou have spent Natures bo●●ies being but lent A●d t●en your last of dayes is come To give you summons to your home You must with grief return to dust She will no longer lend on trust Your beauties Reliques as this Stone Will be a dry contemned bone Perhaps like it some friend vouchsafe To grave thereon your Epitaph Which may be read if not neglected This is the most can be expected Sir S. Steward To his Lady SO may my Verses pleasing be So may you laugh at them and not at me 'T is something to you I would gladly say But how to do it cannot find the way I would avoid the common trodden wayes To Ladies us'd which be of Love or praise As for the first that little wit I have Is not yet grown so neer unto the ●rave But that I can by that dim fading light Perceive of what and unto whom I write Let such as in a hopeless witless rage Can sigh a Quire and read it to a Page Such as can make ten Sonnets ere they rest When each is but a great blot at the best Such as can backs of books and windows fill With their too furious Diamond or Quill Such as are well resolved to end their dayes With a lowd laughter blown beyond the Seas Such as are mortified that they can live Laught at by all the world and yet forgive Wright love to you I would not willingly Be pointed at in every company As was the little Taylor who till death Was great in love with Queen Elizabeth And for the last in all my idle dayes ● never yet did living woman praise ●n Verse or Prose And when I do begin ●le pick some woman out as full of sin ●s you are full of Vertue with a soul ●s black as yours is white a face as foul ●s yours is beautifull for it shall be ●ut of the Rules of Phisiognomie ●o far that I do fear I must displace the Art a little to let in the face ● shall at least four faces be below the Devils and her parched corps shall show ●n her loose skin as if some spirit she were K●pt in a bag by some great Conjurer Her breath shall be so horrible and vild As every word you speak is meet and mild It shall be such a one as will not be Covered with any Art or Policie But let her take all waters fumes and drink She shall make nothing but a dearer stink She shall have such a foot and such a nose As will not stand in any thing but Prose If I bestow my praises upon such 'T is Charity and I shall merit much My praise will come to her like a full bowl Bestowed at most need on a thirsty soul Where if I sing your praises in my Rime I loose my Ink my paper and my ti●● Adde nothing to your overflowing store And tel you nought but what you knew before Nor do the vertuous minded which I swear Madam I think you are endure to hear Their own perfections into question brought But stop their ears at them for if I thought You took a pride to have your vertues known Pardon me Madam I should think them none But if you brave thoghts which I must respect Above your glorious Titles shall accept These harsh disordered Lines I shall ere long Dress up your vertues new in a new Song Yet farre from all base praise or flattery Although I know what ere my Verses be They will like the most servile flattery shew If I write truth and make my subject you A Description of a wisht Mistris NOt that I wish my Mistris Or more or less then what she is Write I ●●ese Lines for 't is too late ●ules to prescribe unto my Fate ●ut as those tender stomacks call ●or some choice meats that like not all ●o queafie Lovers do impart What Mistris 't is must take their heart First I would have her richly sped With Natures blossomes white and red For flaming hearts will quickly dye That have no fewell from the eye Yet this alone will never win Unless some treasure lye within For where the spoil 's not worthy stay Men raise the Siege and march away She should be wise enough to know When and to whom a grace to show For she that doth at randome chuse Will sure her choyse as well refuse And yet methinks I 'd have her mind To loving courtesie inclin'd And tender-hearted as a Maid And pitty only when I pray'd And I would wish her true to be Mistake me not I mean to me She that loves one and loves one more Will love the Kingdome ore and ore I could wish her full of wit So she knew how to huswife it But she whose insolence makes her dare To try her wit will sell her Ware Some other things delight will bring As if she dance or play or sing If hers be safe what though her parts Catch then a thousand forreign hearts But let me see should she be proud A little pride must be allow'd Each amourous boy will sport prate Too freely if she find no state I care not much though I set down Sometime a chiding or a frown Eut if she wholly quench desire 'T is hard to kindle a new fire To smile to toy

Legacies Here I bequeath Mine Eyes to Argus if mine eyes can see If they be blinde then Love I give them thee My tongue to Fame t' Ambassadores mine ears to Women or the Sea my tears Thou Love hast taught me heretofore By making me serve her wh'ad twenty more That I should give to none but such as had too much before My Constancy I to the Plannets give My truth to them who at the Court do live Mine Ingenuitie and openness To Iesuites to Buffocns my pensiveness My silence t' any who abroad have bin my Money to a Capuchin Thou Love taughts me b' appointing me To love there where no Love receiv'd could be Onely to give to such as have an incapa●●● I give my R●putation to those That were my Friends my 〈…〉 To School-men I be queath my 〈…〉 My Sickness to Physitions 〈◊〉 Excti●● To Nature all that I in Rime have writ and to my company my wit Thou Love by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before Taughts me to make as though I gave when I did but restore To him for whom the Passing Bell next towles I give my Physick Books my written rowles Of morall Counsails I to Bedlam give My brazen Meddalls unto them which live In want of bread to them which passe among all Forreiners mine English tongue Thou Love by making me Love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger Loves dost all my gifts thus disproportion Therefore I le give no more but I 'le undoe The world by dying because Love dyes too Then all your beauties will be no more worth Then gold in Mynes where none doth draw it forth And all your graces no more use shall have than a Sundyall in a Grave Thou Love taughtst me by making me Love her who doth neglect both me and thee T'intent and Practise this one way t' annihilate all three J. D. Elegies by Mr. W. M. An Elegie on a Sexton I Many Grave have made but enjoy'd none This which I made not I possest alone Each Corps without embalming it did serve My life like precious Mummy to preserve Death which then kind now cruel found I have Rob'd me of life which me my living gave No Death is still more kind for in the Grave Where once I labour had now rest I have I made good use of time and night and day Had eare and heed how the hour did rass away I still was ready for a Grave nor shall Grive at what most I joy'd a Funerall As I was wont though not so soon as then Out of the Grave I shall come forth agen On a Scrivener HEre to a period is the Scrivener come This is his last sheet his ful point his Tomb Of all Aspersions I excuse him not 'T is plain he liv'd not without many a blot Yet he no ill example shew'd to any But rather gave good Copies unto many He in good Letters had been alwayes bred And hath writ more then many men have read He Rulers had at his command by Law Although he could not hang yet he could draw His force more bondmen had made then any A dash alone of his Pen ruin'd many That not without great reason we may call His Letter great or little Capitall Yet 't is the Scriveners fault as sure as just When he hath all done then he turns to dust An Elegie on a Barber HEre 's a mad ' Shaver laid a cutting Lad That many trim feats and som bald ones had His actions were but barbarous and he More poling was then Pettifoggers be And if his fingers lookt unto were not Twenty to one but he would cut your throat But he that is not hair-brain'd needs not fear Maugre bald luck by him to lose an hair I wonder then he dy'd that liv'd alone By excrements hair which can nourish none Such an hard workman we might hardly spar This accident fell out against the hair Since in deaths Empire of a barbar's trade For dead mens hair doth grow might use be made Death takes and soundly payes him how soere Here yet is left his equalls to an hair An Elegie on a Mason SO long the Mason wrought on others walls That his own house of clay to ruine falls Which shall be new built and repair'd alone When heaven and earth have dissolution He alwayes kept his actions within square None of his doings but were regular He had a Trull and that was vitious And climing high he seem'd ambitious Though much of him yet truly said might be No Lay-man did more edifie then he By laying Lime he caught much foul and none Took with a hook more pain then he had done No marvel spightful death wrought his annoy He sought to build and death seeks to destroy On a Trumpeter IF that Fames Trumpet shall not speak thy worth Yet thou a Trumpet hadst to set it forth I thoght at last thou wuldst fal dead to ground Having been long accustomed to sound Thou wer 't too much puft up long time to last Needs must he dye whose life is but a blast Thee a sound fellow we did alwayes find Or thou like him that 's with the Collick pin'd Preservd'st thy life by letting forth of wind Camelian-like of ayre thou hadst thy food And 't was a bad wind did blow thee no good Rob'd of thy windpipes once by cruel Death For want of breath thou dyd'st that liv'st by breath Pack up thy Pipes here silent rest till when A Trumpets sound make thee to live agen An Elegie on a Sailour NOw on dry land the Sailor he doth rest Aborad here seeming cabin'd in a Chest The frail bark of 's life which strange did sound For want of wind not water here 's aground 'T is known some time a Landed man he was But had of late gone down the winde apace His life was fleeting and unstaid but Death Made him a Grave-man and him setled hath He could not but remember he must die That had his Shrowd each day before his eye Needs must his Corps long incorrupt abide Which seem'd inbalm'd with Pitch before he dide An Elegie on a Hunter HEre lies a dogged fellow who hath run Out all his time now his course is don A running head he had and did not scorne Though it did sound abroad to wear the horn His course so open was that whosoere Observ'd it soon might have him at a Hare He could not hunt thrift yet his trace shal stand He kept his Leases though he sold his Land He cannot leave his lying though he die For he being dead yet in his grave doth lye Lament his losse that like a Hunter he Brought to his Grave with a great cry might be An Elegie on a Tinker SIx foot at last the wandring Tinker bound He silent rests whose acts once loud did sound At handy-stroakes he did no Valour lack Stout fellow that was metled at the back It seems a perfect Alchymist he was For into Silver he did turn his Brass 'T is like he spake to purpose what he said For he still strook the Nail upon the head He made two holes while he did mend one hole And did his work by piece and not the whole Often in Latine he would men beguile And yet speak nought but English all the while His Nose and Forehead each a brazen one Carried the badge of his Occupation Yet had he not so soon come to an end T' had better been for he each day did mend An Elegie on a Smith FArewell stowt iron-Iron-side not all thy Art Could make a shield against Deaths envious dart Without a fault no man his life doth pass And to his Vice the Smith addicted was He oft as Choller is en creast by fire Was in his fumes and much inclin'd to ire He had been long so us'd to forge that he Was with a black Cole markt for Forgery But he for whiteness needed not to care H' ad but a Black-smith bin though ne'r so fair Pragmaticall he seem'd by his desire Still to have many Irons in the fire And opportunities he lacked not That knew to strike then when the Irons hot As the door nails ho made he 's now as dead He them him hath Death knockt in the head An Elegie on Squire Bug a Shooemaker HE that hath made so many souls of late Now wants a soul himself to animate That he so wrung them many did compalin But at the last he gave them ease again He sometimes did work booty for his frieads And whom soe'r he serv'd wrought his own ends But if to take the length of others foot Shew cunning none knew better how to do 't He kept the old worlds custome by his trade Reviv'd for he of Leather Money made The Leather lessen'd him to drink which nere Approved was till it well Liquor'd were He well observ'd how he his life did spend Who saw each day that he was neer his end His death might welcome be to those that use Being bare themselvs to gape for dead mens shooes An Elegie on a Tapster HEre lyes a man of reckning often seen t' have born much drink not distemperd been He seem'd a lusty Sword-man for he would Draw upon small occasion and none should Scot-free esape that through his fingers past But they were sure to pay for it at last Of his hard measure many have complain'd He car'd not while he out of measure gain'd Such was his pot-luck that to high place when He had been call'd soone he came down agen Now this draw-drink being dead by fatall hap Soon you shall have a fresh one at the Tap FINIS