|
Lars Porsena of Clusium
Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son
Lay a garland on my herse
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
Let me not know how sins and sorrows glide
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let the bird of loudest lay
Like the Idalian queen
Like to Diana in her summer weed
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Lo, quhat it is to love
London, thou art of townes A per se
Look not thou on beauty's charming
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back
Love guards the roses of thy lips
Love in my bosom like a bee
Love is a sickness full of woes
Love is the blossom where there blows
Love, thou are absolute, sole Lord
|
