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Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape, Might not compare with his pure ivorie white, On whose faire front a poet’s pen may write, Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape, His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, Are rarely fram’d t’intrap poore gazine eies: His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies, With lovely tincture which Apollo’s dims. His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet, His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe, Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion. His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set. Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Not that I always struck the proper mean Of what mankind must give for what they gain, But, when I think of those whom dull routine And the pursuit of cheerless toil enchain, Who from their desk-chairs seeing a summer cloud Race through blue heaven on its joyful course Sigh sometimes for a life less cramped and bowed, I think I might have done a great deal worse; For I have ever gone untied and free, The stars and my high thoughts for company; Wet with the salt-spray and the mountain showers, I have had the sense of space and amplitude, And love in many places, silver-shoed, Has come and scattered all my path with flowers.

Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause, Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench, Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth that after no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intend, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun or moon or star throughout the year, Or man or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe talks from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind; Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear as in no face with more delight. But Oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

«My face in thine eye, and thine in mine» is true speech, and is I read naturally, is male, and if, I did not look but basketfuls of presumptive eggs all wet do nothing for us playing at it. If and is don't lack for harmless napkins like freed, unending time bleats through the washed away. In mine, suns dulcet polishing of a tlooth, «as much falsity as I can use, I carry.» On the level, a prop- osition to disrobe contra shit on the streets steams near a hot- spot a relationship a sign a man pinned to your back moves a name I'd armament but you know in a flageolet sitch I'd do any- thing for you so. On the level? She ran her car aground as his ships firing agony in sand mag- netized black screens of mites, her car OK tho, it hurts, hood- winked and The Image in Form is a book of art writing by Adrian Stokes and also in Malina, the fact is «l've never been happy, but I have seen beauty.» What a fine replacement. Blubbery and dying in my same as breastbone for you is some fixed charge waiting for Papermate ® to stir a con- ditional tense apparition, or is that a coffee, tedious wall clouds are rather of soap, see and hath sense since torment and hydromancy bothered to tune. More, more if must be, more if I'd be into it, I said I'd do whatever. What would she of the unmistake- ably Gothic appearance write me, «l'm losing my mind with probity presumably forever,» sure, I like most care more than fuck- ing Tiffany's rattle, inlaid with let's book it to Alpine, if a diviner knew you then too as I do. I wish she would tell me what to do with you, or if I did look, How marvelous to see you, post-screening, makes «true hearts in plain faces rest» more larding and accurate? Or whether revolution be the same. In 1938, hotspot was employed in the firefighting sense and whitish smoke employment gives other women illustrates finitude onscreen, a labor of demand. If other women wanted finitude over touchable repetition or if I beat and beat salad or roast new potatoes deeply in salt and oil and exclaim their spits as an otter might shriek the slightest un- attitude vocable across your hunks in Pisces comportment, or with happens in trying and apts. to go mad in, surely it's been nothing near this terrific face I never in real head'd defenestrate

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arriv'd so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n: All is, if I have grace to use it so As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn yields, Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray, November, dragging on this sunless day, Lours, cold and sullen, on the watery fields; And Nature to the waste dominion yields, Stripped her last robes, with gold and purple gay — So droops my life, of your soft beams despoiled, Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smiled; And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain, More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse Than Winter’s grey, and desolate domain Faded like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.