My thoughts hold mortal strife; And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize : Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, W. Drummond LX DIRGE OF LOVE Come away, come away, Death, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death, no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet On my black coffin let there be strown; My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown Lay me, O where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there. W. Shakespeare TO HIS LUTE My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow LXI Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, W. Drummond 64. 65. FIDELE Fear no more the heat o' the sun Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: A SEA DIRGE LXI W. Shakespeare LX 56. 7. Sea-nympns hourly ring his knell : Ding, dong, bell. W. Shakespear A LAND DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; L J. Webste LX POST MORTEM If Thou survive my well-contented day When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover Compare them with the bettering of the time, O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought- But since he died, and poets better prove, Thoing for thein stulo Dll road his fân his love! 69. 70. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH No longer mourn for me when I am dead Nay, if you read this line, remember not O if, I say, you look upon this verse Lest the wise world should look into your moan, YOUNG LOVE W. Shakespeare Tell me where is Fancy bred, It is engender'd in the eyes; LXI A DILEMMA W. Shakespeare LX Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting : Love in my bosom, like a bee, Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He lends me every lovely thing, Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, I'll shut my eyes to keep you in; What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, |