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May, then young, his pied weeds showing
Astrophel," said she, "my love, Cease in these effects to prove. Now be still: yet still believe me Thy grief more than death would grieve me. If that any thought in me Can taste comfort but of thee; Let me,
fed with hellish anguish, Joyless, hopeless, endless, languish! If those eyes you praised, be Half so dear as you to me,
Sir Walter Raleigh possessed a great variety of talent: he wrote several poems which have much merit. His poems, however, have not been collected, and the authenticity of some ascribed to him, is doubtful; the same pieces are variously ascribed to him and to Sylvester.
THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.
Sweet violets, Love's Paradise, that spread
Within your paly faces, Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind
That plays amidst the plain!
If, by the favor of propitious stars you gain Such grace, as in my lady's bosom place you find,
Be proud to touch those places : And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, You, honors of the flowery meads, I pray,
You, pretty daughters of the Earth and Sun, With mild and seemly breathing straight display My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone!
THE SILENT LOVER.
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur but the deep are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow, whence they come. They that are rich in words, must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
Despair disdains the healing.
A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
VERSES FOUND IN HIS BIBLE.
E’en such is time; which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have !
Which, in the dark and silent grave,
The works of Sylvester are chiefly translations. His claim to the poem of the Soul's Errand is denied ; there seems to be, however, a resemblance between this and the fragment, A Contented Mind, both of which Mr. Ellis has placed in the collection of his poems.
A CONTENTED MIND.
I weigh not Fortune's frown or smile,
I rest so pleas'd with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.
I fear not loss, I hope not gain;
I none disdain.
Enough's a feast; content is crown'd.
This, this all my choice, my cheer,