Then with these marigolds I'll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These honeysuckles then I'll take.
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The lily and the fleur-de-lis,
For color much contending,

For that I them do only prize,

They are but poor in scenting;

The daffodil most dainty is,

To match with these in meetness;
The columbine compared to this,
All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border,
Therefore I'll take especial care

To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,
One by another neatly :

Thus have I made this wreath of mine,

And finished it featly.

MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563-1681.

HEART'S-EASE.

I saw,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd; a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal throned in the west.

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft

Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon.
And the imperial vot'ress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,

And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid,

Will make a man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.

THE GARLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, the lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odors lost, their colors past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

"My love, my life," said I, "explain This change of humor; pr'ythee tell :

That falling tear-what does it mean?"

She sigh'd; she smiled and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said-
"See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!"

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty, are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid the Muse display

The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.

TO PRIMROSES

MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664-1721.

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teem'd her refreshing dew!

Alas! ye have not known that shower

That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;

Or warp'd as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown,

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

TO THE NARCISSUS.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise;

Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,
Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,

Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

ECHO.

His name revives, and lifts me up from earth;
See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet
Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,
That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,
Who (now transform'd into this drooping flower)
Hangs the repentant head back from the stream;
As if it wish'd-would I had never look'd
In such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus!
Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus,
Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,
She would have dropped away herself in tears
Till she had all turn'd waste, that in her
(As in a true glass) thou might'st have gazed,
And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection.
But self-love never yet could look on truth
But with blear'd beams; slick flattery and she
Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes,
As if you sever one, the other dies.

Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,
And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?
Why do I ask? "Tis now the known disease
That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense
Of her own self-conceived excellence.

O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven's rich gift,
Thou wouldst have turn'd it to a truer use,
And not (with starved and covetous ignorance)
Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,
The glance whereof to others had been more
Than to thy famish'd mind the wide world's store.
BEN JONSON, 1574-1637.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid

That goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.

EDMUND WALLER, 1605-1687.

ANCIENT SERVIAN SONG.

O my fountain, so fresh and cool,
O my rose, so rosy red!

Why art thou blown out so early?
None have I to pluck thee for!
If I plucked thee for my mother-
Ah, poor girl, I have no mother.
If I plucked thee for my sister-
Gone is my sister with her husband.