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RESTORE thy tresses to the Golden ore;

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

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ND whither, poor Forsaken wilt thou go,

To go from sorrow, and thine own distress; When ev'ry place presents like face of woe, And no remove can make thy sorrows less? Yet go, Forsaken ! leave these woods, these plains; Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, 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 from thyself, and be thy care's own thief. But yet what comfort shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain!



N 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.


GOOD 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 at 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.

THE sturdy rock, 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.

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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 not his virtuous name.
By life or death whate'er betides,
The state of virtue never slides.


THE sun, the season, in each thing

Revives new pleasures; the sweet spring

Hath put to flight the winter keen,

To glad our lovely summer queen.


The paths where Amargana treads
With flow'ry tapestries Flora spreads,
And nature clothes the ground in green,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

The groves put on their rich array,
With hawthorn-blooms embroider'd gay,
And sweet-perfumed with eglantine,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
The silent river stays his course,
Whilst, playing in the chrystal source,
The silver-scaled fish are seen
To glad our lovely summer queen.
The woods at her fair sight rejoice,
The little birds, with their loud voice,
In concert on the branches been,
To glad our lovely summer queen.
Great Pan, our god, för her dear sake,
This feast and meeting bids us make,
Of shepherd lads, and lasses sheen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

And every swain his chance doth prove,
To win fair Amargana's love;
In sporting strifes, quite void of spleen,
To glad our lovely summer queen.

All happiness let Heav'n her lend,
And all the Graces her attend;
Thus bid me pray the Muses nine,
Long live our lovely summer queen.

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