SONNET XXXIII.. THE Vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, If heaven-born phantasy no more required, The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. SONNET XXXIV. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN. FAIR maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. A TASK AD LIBITUM. TO A LADY. You bid me write, and yet propose no theme. That every gale may prattle with its strings? To the gross sense of worldlings.-Aye, I grant |