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Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute ?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :
The D-1 take her !

Sir J. Suckling

CXXX

A SUPPLICATION
Awake, awake, my Lyre !
And tell thy silent master's humble tale

In sounds that may prevail ;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire :

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony

Hark, how the strings awake!
And, though the moving hand approach not near,

Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try ;

Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure use

e thou art only found
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Is.

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Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid tby strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

A. Cowley

CXXXI

THE MANLY HEART
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-

If she think not well of me
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best ;

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be i

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the foul and die ?
Sne that bears a noble mind
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo;

And unless that mind I see,

What care I how great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve ;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

C. Wither

CXXXII

MELANCHOLY
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

() sweetest Melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound !
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls !
A midnight bell, a parting groan !

These are the sounds we feed upon ;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

J. Fletcher

CXXXIII

FORSAKEN

O waly waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side

Where I and my Love wont to gae ! I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny

A little time while it is new ;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld

And fades awa’ like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true Love has me forsook,

And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I am wearíe.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see ;
My Love was clad in the black velvét,

And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd

And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, o ! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!

Anon,

CXXXIV

Upon my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;
So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy !

I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would,
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am,

and as

I

may,
I must and will be thine,
Though all too little for thy self
Vouchsafing to be mine.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy !

Anon.

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