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But ah! what serves't t'have been made happy so,
Since passed pleasures double but new woe.



ly lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
Vith thy green mother in some shady grove,
Vhen immelodious winds but made thee move,
and birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
ince that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Vhich wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Breft from earth to tune those spheres above,
Vhat art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
Fut orphans' wailings to the fainting ear,
-ach stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear,
Cor which be silent as in woods before :

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

Shall I like an hermit dwell, On a rock, or in a cellCalling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalues me, What care I how fair she be?

weel bird, that sing'st away the early hours, of winters past or coming void of care, Vell pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays,sweet-smelling flow'rs: Po rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs hou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, and what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,

stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. Vhat soul can be so sick, which by thy songs Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven uite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs, und lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yea, and to angels lays.

Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too :
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize,
As her hairs, or precious eyes ;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manner's sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip :
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?

she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too :
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !




Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountaius yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks; By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning : If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn, and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair love, and fairer virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen :
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended, in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce :
When Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curst the access of that celestial thief.


DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ;


There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
Sceptre and crown

That from the nunnerie
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,

To warre and armes I flee. With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

True ; a new mistresse now I chase,
Some men with swords may reap the field,

The first foe in the field;
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;

And with a stronger faith imbrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

Yet this inconstancy is such,
They stoop to fate,

As you too shall adore ;
And must give up their murmuring breath,

I could not love thee, deare, so much, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Lov'd I not hononr more.
The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Why dost thou say I am forsworn,
Upon death's purple altar now,

Since thine I vow'd to be?
See where the victor victim bleeds.

Lady, it is already morn;
All heads must come

It was last night I swore to thee
To the cold tomb;

That fond impossibility.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long;

A tedious twelve hours space!
I should all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,

Did I still doat upon that face.


When Love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates; And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames ;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free; Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty. When linnet-like confined, I

With shriller note shall sing,
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,

And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,
Th’enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah! braid no more that shining bair;
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it Ay.
Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress, must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best ;
Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then bind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud in night;
But, like the sun in 's early ray,
Shake your head, and scatter day!



[Prefixed to " the Anatomy of Melancholy.)
When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, and void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie waking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,

My thoughts on me then tyrannise,

No gem, no treasure, like to this,
Fear and sorrow me surprise ;

'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. Whether I tarry still, or go,

All my joys to this are folly,
Methinks the time moves very slow.

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
All my griefs to this are jolly,

'Tis my sole plague to be alone;
Nought so sad as Melancholy.

I am a beast, a monster grown;
When to myself I act, and smile,

I will no light por company,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,

I find it now my misery.
By a brook-side, or wood so green,

The scene is turn’d, my joys are gone,
Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,

Fear, discontent, and sorrows come.
A thousand pleasures do me bless,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
And crown my soul with happiness.

Nought so fierce as Melancholy.
All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

I'll not change life with any king :

I ravish'd am! can the world bring
When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

More joy, than still to laugh and smile,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,

In pleasant toys time to beguile ?
In a dark grove, or irksome den,

Do not, O do not trouble me,
With discontents and furies, then

So sweet content I feel and see.
A thousand miseries at once

All my joys to this are folly,
Mine heavy leart and soul ensconce.

None so divine as Melancholy.
All my griefs to this are jolly,

I'll change my state with


wretch None so sour as Melancholy.

Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch.
Methinks I hear, methinks I see,

My pain past cure ; another hell;
Sweet music, wondrous melody,

I may not in this torment dwell;
Towns, palaces, and cities fine,

Now, desperate, I hate my life:
Here now, then there, the world is mine;

Lend me a halter or a knife.
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.

Nought so damn'd as Melancholy.
All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.





Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends :—my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headless bears, black men, and

Doleful outeries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly,

None so damn'd as Melancholy.
Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Methinks I now embrace my miss :
O blessed days, ( sweet content !
In Paradise my time is spent!
Such thoughts may still my fancy move,
So may I ever be in love!

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits! O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late.
No torment is so bad as love,
So bitter to my soul can prove,

All my griefs to this are jolly,

Nought so harsh as Melancholy.
Friends and companions, get you gone!
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.

[In“ Britannia's Pastorals.” Book II. Song 3.] Shall I tell you whom I love?

Hearken thien awhile to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart ;
So much good, so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath ;
And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath :
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth ;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth ;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.



Such she is; and if you know

For in your sweet dividing throat Such a one as I have sung,

She winters, and keeps warm her note. Be she brown, or fair, or-so, That she be but somewhile young ;

Ask me no more where those stars light Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,

That downwards fall in dead of night; That I love, and love alone.

For in your eyes they sit, and there

Fixed become as in their sphere. THE SYREN's song,

Ask me no more if east or west [In “ The Inner Temple Masque.")

The Phænix builds her spicy nest: Steer, hither steer your winged pines,

For unto you at last she flies,
All beaten mariners !

And in your fragrant bosom dies Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers : Perfumes far sweeter than the best

HERRICK. Which make the Phænix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips; But come on shore,

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

But you may stay yet here awhile, Exchange, and be a while our guests ;

To blush and gently smile, For stars gaze on our eyes ;

And go at last. The compass Love shall hourly sing,

What, were ye born to be And, as he goes about the ring,

An hour or half's delight, We will not miss

And so to bid good-night? To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Then come on shore,

Merely to show your worth, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shewn their pride,

Like you, awhile, they glide He that loves a rosy cheek,

Into the grave.
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,-

As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Like to the falling of a star,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Or as the flights of eagles are; Hearts with equal love combin’d,

Or like the fresh springs gaudy bue, Kindle never-dying fires.

Or silver drops of morning dew; Where these are not, I despise

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

Or bubbles which on water stood:

Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light SONG.

Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

The winds blow out, the bubble dies; When June is past, the fading roses

The spring entamb'd in autumn lies; For, in your beauty's orient deep

The dew dries up, the star is shot ; These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

The flight is past—and man forgot. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair, Ask me no more whither doth haste

I in these flowery me The nightingale when May is past ;

These crystal streams should solace me,





would be:

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To whose harmonious bubbling noise

Here give my weary spirits rest,
I with my angle would rejoice ;

And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above
Sit here and see the turtle dove

Earth, or what poor mortals love ;
Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

Or, with my Bryan and my book,
Or on that bank feel the west wind

Loiter long days near Shawford brook:
Breathe health and plenty: please my mind There sit by him and eat my meat,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,

There see the sun both rise and set,
And then wash'd off by April showers;

There bid good morning to next day,
Here hear my Kenna sing a song,

There meditate my time away,
There see a blackbird feed her young,

And angle on, and beg to have
Or a leverock build her nest :

A quiet passage to my grave.



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Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight, but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald a stronger arm

Thou met'st and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.


(HAMILTON). A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow? Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow?
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Why does she weep thy bony bony bride?

Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, magn she

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, [weep, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ?
And why yon melancholious weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow ?
What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?

What's yonder floats ? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.
Wash, 0 wash his wounds his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, (grass, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. FlowsYarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Fair was thy lure, fair fair indeed thy luve,

In floury bands thou him didst fetter,
Though he was fair and weil belov'd again,

Than me he never lued thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bony bony bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow. O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing,

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