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LOOK, Delia, how wel esteem the half-blown rose,

The image of thy blush, and summer's honour;
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty time bestows upon her!
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But strait her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair:

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy wither'd flow'rs, ..

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain;
But love now, whilst thou may'st be lov'd again.

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ET others sing of knights and palladines,

In aged accents and untimely words,
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,

Which well the reach of their high wits records ;
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes!

Authentic shall my verse in time to come;
When yet the' unborn shall say "Lo, where she lies,

Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!"
These are the arks, the trophies I crect,

That fortify thy name against old age ;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect

Against the dark, and time's consuming rage.
Though the error of my youth they shall discover;
Suffice they shew-I liv'd, and was thy lover!


; 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 noto the Spheres; But then restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tigers, and to rushless bears : : Yield to the marble thy hard heart again; . So shalt thou cease to plagues and I to plain...!

, To go from sortow, and thine own distress ; When ev'ry place presents like face of woe, And no remove can make thy sorrows less ? Yet go, Forsakeb ! 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 ill-conceives. 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 froth thyself and be thy clare's own thief. But yet what comfort shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain !




the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing,
Forth I yode forsooth a maying.
When anon by a wood side,
Where that May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot,
He would love and she would not;
She said, never man was true;
He says, none was false to you.
He said, he had lov'd her long;
She says, love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all ;
When she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never lov'd a truer youth;
Then with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as seely shepherds use
When they will not love abuse;
Love that had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.

LO0D 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,
Do all their dainty colours leese,

And not a leaf is seen.
The black-bird and the thrush,

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,
Doth now, alas! not once afford

Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,

The herbs have lost their savour; And Phillida the fair hath lost

For me her wonted favour.
Thus all these careful sights

So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights

It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet muse,

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.

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From Percy's Collection 4 THE sturdy rocks for all his strength,

By raging seas is rent in twain;
The marble stone is pierc'd, at length,

With little drops of drizzling rain,
The ox doth yield unto the yoke,
The steel obeyeth the hammer stroke.
The stately stag, that seems so stout,

By yelping hounds at bay is set; }
The swiftest bird that flies about,

At length is caught in fowler's net:
The greatest fish, in deepest brook,
Is soon deceived by subtle hook.
Yea, man himself, unto whose will

All things are bounden' to obey,
For all his wit and worthy skill,

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;
Though spiteful death man's body kill,

Yet hurts he nat his virtuous name.
By life or death whate'er betides,
The state of virtue never slides.

THE sún, the season, in each thing

Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring
Hath put to flight the winter keen,
To glad our lovely summer- queen.

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