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ESTORE thy tresses to the Golden ore; To Cytherea's son those arks of love; Bequeath the Heavens the stars that I adore; And to the Orient do thy pearls remove: Yield thy hands pride unto the Ivory white; To' Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet; Restore thy blush unto Autora bright; To Thetis give the honour of thy feet: Let Venus have thy graces her resign'd;
And thy sweet voice give back unto the Spheres; But then restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tigers, and to ruthless bears: Yield to the marble thy hard heart again; So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to plain.
whither, poor Forsaken wilt thou go,
To go from sorrow, and thine own distress ; When ev'ry place presents like face of woe, And no remove can make thy sorrows less? Yet go, Forsaken ! leave these woods, these plains; Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves Thee and thy love forførn, and both disdains; And of both wrongful deems, and illeconceives. Seek out some place; and see if any place
Can give the least release unto thy grief; Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace, Steal from thyself, and be thy care's own thief. But yet what comfort shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain!
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
the merry month of May,
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot,
She said, never man was true;
THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.
GOOD muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony: This weary eyes is not to keep Thy wary company.
Sweet love, begone a while,
Thou seest my heaviness : Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness. See how my little flock,
That lov'd to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die. The bushes and the trees,
That were so fresh and green,
And not a leaf is seen.
That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush,
And not a note they sing. Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Recording of a note.
The herbs have lost their savour; And Phillida the fair hath lost
For me her wonted favour.
So kill me in conceit,
It is but mere deceit.
That know'st what help is best, Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart åt rest. And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrows end.
From Percy's Collection: 4
By raging seas is rent in twain;
With little drops of drizzling rain;
By yelping hounds at bay is set;
At length is caught in fowler's het:
All things are bounden' to obey,
Doth fade at length, and fall away. There is nothing but time doth waste, The heav'ns, the earth, consume at last. But virtue sits triumphing still
Upon the throne of glorious fame;
Yet hurts he nat his virtuous name.
THE PRAISE OF AMARGANA. THE
HE sún, the season, in each thing
Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring
The paths where Amargana treads