Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss

Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,
Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,
And free access unto that sweet lip lies
From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.
Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal,
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss.
None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,
Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss.
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so.
Why then should I this robbery delay?
Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow.
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

George Wither

George Wither was an English poet, pamphleteer, and satirist. Born on June 11, 1588, in Bentworth, Hampshire, he studied at Magdalen College, Oxford. Wither was known for his political and satirical writing during the 17th century Civil War period. His notable works include 'Abuses Stript and Whipt,' 'A Collection of Emblems,' and 'Britain's Remembrancer.' He was imprisoned multiple times for his controversial writings and political activities. Wither died on May 2, 1667, in London.

George Wither

A Christmas Carol

George Wither, Simple Poetry

Prelude From The Shepherd's Hunting

George Wither, Simple Poetry

A Rocking Hymn

George Wither, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sonnet CLXVI.

O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core.

THE STOLEN GLOVE.


    O beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue,
And in a little space my life confine;
Hand where their skill and utmost efforts join
Nature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!
Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,
To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!
Love, who towards me kindness doth design,
For once permits ye naked to our view.
Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,
Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;
More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.
Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!
O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!
'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.

NOTT.


    O beauteous hand! which robb'st ...

Francesco Petrarca

The Sonnets XCIX - The forward violet thus did I chide

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my loves breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my loves veins thou hast too grossly dyd.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stoln thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stoln of both,
And to his robbery had annexd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stoln from thee.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XL - Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hates known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XLVIII - How careful was I when I took my way

How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lockd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stoln I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

William Shakespeare

Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXXI

O kisse, which dost those ruddie gemmes impart,
Or gemmes or fruits of new-found Paradise,
Breathing all blisse, and sweetning to the heart,
Teaching dumbe lips a nobler exercise;
O kisse, which soules, euen soules, together ties
By linkes of loue and only Natures art,
How faine would I paint thee to all mens eyes.
Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part!
But she forbids; with blushing words she sayes
She builds her fame on higher-seated praise.
But my heart burnes; I cannot silent be.
Then, since, dear life, you faine would haue me peace,
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease,
Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me.

Philip Sidney

Sonnet. To A.M.D.

Methinks I see thee, lying calm and low,
    Silent and dark within thy earthy bed;
    Thy mighty hands, in which I trusted, dead,
Resting, with thy long arms, from work or blow;
And the night-robe, around thy tall form, flow
    Down from the kingly face, and from the head,
    Save by its thick dark curls, uncovered--
My brother, dear from childhood, lying so!
Not often since thou went'st, I think of thee,
    (With inward cares and questionings oppressed);
    And yet, ere long, I seek thee in thy rest,
And bring thee home my heart, as full, as free,
As sure that thou wilt take me tenderly,
    As then when youth and nature made us blest.

George MacDonald