She wept upon her cheeks, and weeping so,
She seem'd to quench loves fires that there did glow.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay,
My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray,
My palmer's hat, my scallop's-shell,
My cross, my cord, and all, farewell.
For having now my journey done
(Just at the setting of the sun),
Here I have found a chamber fit
(God and good friends be thanked for it),
Where if I can a lodger be
A little while from tramplers free,
At my up-rising next, I shall,
If not requite, yet thank ye all.
Meanwhile, the Holy Rood hence fright
The fouler fiend and evil sprite
From scaring you or yours this night.

Of all our parts, the eyes expresse
The sweetest kind of bashfulnesse.

Love bade me aske a gift,
And I no more did move,
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes, my Love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to passe,
That long I love not any.

The strength of Baptisme, that's within;
It saves the soule, by drowning sin.

Give unto all, lest he, whom thou deni'st,
May chance to be no other man, but Christ.

Adverse and prosperous Fortunes both work on
Here, for the righteous mans salvation:
Be he oppos'd, or be he not withstood,
All serve to th'Augmentation of his good.

That shining moon—watched by that one faint star:
Sure now am I, beyond the fear of change,
The lovely in life is the familiar,
And only the lovelier for continuing strange.

Art thou some individual of a kind
Long-liv'd by nature as the rook or hind?
Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.
But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast
This lust of treasure—folly at the best!
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,
To fatten with thy spoils, thou know'st not whom?

The works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus! thou scorn'st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!