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Tell faith it's Aed the city, Val

Tell how the country erreth, Tell manhood shakes off pitys o Tell virtue least preferrethi of

And if they do reply, 351188

Spare not to give the lice : 1792 i
So when thou hast;'as

Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Although, to give the
Deserves no less than stabbing;

Yet stab at thee who will! TATIM
No stab the soul can kill.



are liken'd best to floods and streams;
The shallow, murmur,

but the deep are dumb : So, when affections discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
They are but poor in that which makes a lover. i
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, .

The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart

Who sues for no compassion,
Since if my plaints were not t’approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,

But fear t exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve,

A saint of such perfection,"
As all desire, but none deserve

A place in her affection,
I rather choose to want relief,

Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair disdains the healing... ")*81** *

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Silence in love betrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,

My love for secret passion ;
He smarteth most who bides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

In plains and gentle breeds sweetest gales.

IMITATION OF MARLOW. COME live with me, and be my dear,

on hills and dales, Where fragrant There shalf you have the beauteous pine, The cedar and the spreading vine, And all the woods to be a skreen, Lest Phebus kiss my summer's green. The seat at your disport shall be, Over some river, in a tree, Where silver sands, and pebbles, sing, Eternal ditties with the spring. There shall you see the nymphs at play, And how the gatyrs spend the day; The fishes gliding on the Bands, Offering their bellies to your hands. The birds with heavenly-tuned throats, Possess wood's echo with sweet notes ; Which to your senses will impart A music to inflame the heart. Upon the bare and leafless oak, The ring-dove's wooings will provoke A colder blood than you possess, To play with me, and do no less,

In bowers of laurel, trimly dight,
We will outwear the silent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with more majesty.
Then in mine arms will I inclose
Lily's fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
Thus, as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.
If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to love's paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.

SHALL I like an hermit dwell,

On a rock, or in a cell?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?,
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

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Were her hands as rich a prize,
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too:
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!


GOE, little Booke! thy self present,

As child whose parent is unkent,
To him that is the President
Of Noblenesse and Chivalrie:
And if that Envy bark at thee,
As sure it will, for succour flee
Under the shadow of his wing.
And, asked who thee forth did bring ?
A shepeheard's swain say did thee sing,
All as his straying flocke he fedde:
And when his Honor hath thee redde,
Crave pardon for thy hardy-head.
But if that any ask thy name,
Say thou wert base begot with blame,
Forthy there of thou takest shame.
And when thou art past jeopardie,
Come tell me what was said of mee,
And I will send more after thee.



The Fate of the Butterfly.
I Sing of deadly dolorous debate,

Stirr'd up through wrathful Nemesis' despight,
Betwixt two mighty ones of great estate,
Drawn into arms and proof of mortal fight
Through proud ambition and heart swelling hate,
Whilst neither could the other's greater might
And 'sdainful scorn endure, that from small jar
Their wraths at length broke into open war.

• The Shepherd's Calendar, which is dedicated to Sir Philip Sydney

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