Yearly my vows, O heavens, have I not paid,
Of the best fruits, and firstlings of my flock? 20
And oftentimes have bitterly inveigh'd

'Gainst them that you prophanely dar'd to mock?

O, who shall ever give what is your due,
If mortal man be uprighter than you?

If the deep fighs of an afflicted breast,

O'erwhelm'd with forrow, or th' erected eyes

Of a poor wretch with miseries oppreft,

25

For whose complaints tears never could suffice, Have not the power your deities to move, Who fhall e'er look for fuccour from above? 30

O night, how still obfequious have I been,

To thy flow filence whispering in thine ear, That thy pale fovereign often hath been seen

Stay to behold me fadly from her sphere, Whilst the flow minutes duly I have told, With watchful eyes attending on my fold!

How oft by thee the folitary fwain,

35

Breathing his paffion to the early spring, Hath left to hear the nightingale complain, Pleafing his thoughts alone to hear me fing! 40 The nymphs forfook their places of abode, To hear the founds that from my mufick flow'd.

Poor cur, quoth he, and him therewith did stroke g
Go to your cote, and there thyself repose,
Thou with thine age, my heart with forrow broke.
Be gone, ere death my restless eyes do close ;
The time is come thou must thy master leave, 95
Whom the vile world shall never more deceive.

With folded arms thus hanging down his head,
He gave a groan, his heart in funder cleft,
And, as a ftone, already feemed dead

Before his breath was fully him bereft : 100 The faithful fwain here laftly made an end,

Whom all good shepherds ever shall defend.

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.*

WHEN fortie winters fhall befeige thy brow, And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field, Thy youthes proud liuery, fo gaz'd on now,

5

Will be a totter'd weed of fmal worth held: Then, being afkt, where all thy beautie lies, Where all the treasure of thy lufty daies; To fay within thine owne deepe-funken eyes, 'Were' an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise. How much more praise deseru'd thy beauties vse,

If thou couldst answere, this faire child of mine Shall fum my count, and make my old excuse! Proouing his beautie by fucceffion thine.

This were to be new made when thou art ould, And fee thy blood warme when thou feel'st it could.

* Born 1564; dyed 1616.

V. 8. where.

2

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

BY SIR HENRY WOTTON, KT.*

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly fatisfie our eyes,
More by your number, than your light,
You common people of the skies,

What are you when the Sun fhall rife?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Natures lays,
Thinking your voices understood,

By your

weak accents, what's your praise

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets, that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

II

As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the Rofe is blown ?

*Born 1568; dyed 1639.

So, when my Miftrifs fhall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By vertue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not defign'd

Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 20

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT MORTON'S WIFE.

BY THE SAME,

He first deceas'd; fhe for a little tri'd

To live without him: lik'd it not, and di'd.