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In the Nice Valour.

HENCE all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly;
There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies;
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound.
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon.

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


In the Queen of Corinth.

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow recalls not time that's gone;

Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain

Makes not fresh nor grow again;

Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see;
Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe,

Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn, no moe.



In a Wife for a Month.

ET those complain that feel love's cruelty,
And in sad legends write their woes;

With roses gently he corrected me;

My war is without rage or blows;

My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires,
And hope springs up inflam'd with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms and sighs all day, Reck'ning the torments of my hell,

And flinging my sweet joys away.

I am call'd home again to quiet peace,
My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet what is living in her eye,

Or being blest with her sweet tongue,

If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong.

To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.



To Sleep.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings;
Sole comforter to minds with grief opprest.
Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumbering with forgetfulness possest;
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, oh! come, but with that face,
To inward light, which thou art wont to shew,
With feigned solace ease a true felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou will, and what thou wilt bequeathe,
I long to kiss the image of my death.

To his Lute.

MY lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which used in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
Be therefore silent as in woods before.

Or that if any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.



To the Nightingale.

EAR quirister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn däre shew her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends. (Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight; If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune, who like case pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight; Tell me, (so may thou fortuné milder try,

And long, long sing!) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky Enamoured smiles on woods and flow'ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, Hove, I love.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove

Far from the clamorous world doth live, his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,

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But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, T
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweeter streams than poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.


SWEET spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly


Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.

Dost turn, sweet youth! but (ah !) my pleasant hours
And happy days, with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to sours!
Thou art the same which still thou wert before;

Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair,

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone, nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue! seasons go and come,
While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.


To the Nightingale.

WEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights that present are; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow'rs: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bow'rs Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare; A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driv'n Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heav'n? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

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