PART THE SECOND. LXV THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught, Whose passions not his masters are, Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed, 5 ΙΟ 15 Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; 20 -This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; And having nothing, yet hath all. Sir Henry Wotton. LXVI WINIFREDA. Away, let nought to love displeasing, What though no grants of royal donors Our name, while virtue thus we tender, What though from fortune's lavish bounty Still shall each kind returning season 5 10 15 For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. 20 Through youth and age in love excelling, Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, How should I love the pretty creatures, 25 And when with envy time transported, LXVII Anon. A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW. Stand still, and I will read to thee 30 Along with us, which we ourselves produced : 5 But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduced. From us and from our cares; but now it is not so. That love hath not attained the high'st degree, Except our loves at this noon stay, We shall new shadows make the other way. 15 Others, these which come behind Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, To me thou falsely thine, And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. The morning shadows wear away, But these grow longer all the day; But, oh! love's day is short, if love decay. Love is a growing or full constant light, John Donne. 20 25 LXVIII SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more, whither do stray Ask me no more, whither doth haste Ask me no more, where those stars light, Ask me no more, if east or west, And in your fragrant bosom dies. 5 10 15 20 Thomas Carew. LXIX THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearled with dew? 5 The sweets of love are mixed with tears. Ask me why this flower does show What fainting hopes are in a lover. LXX Robert Herrick. TRUE LOVELINESS. It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, ΙΟ 5 ΙΟ These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 15 And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; There's many a white hand holds an urn 20 |