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ESTORE 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...
AND 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!
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
the merry month of May,
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot,
She said, never man was true;
THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.
GOOD muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony: This weary eyes is not to keep Thy wary company.
Sweet love, begone a while,
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,
The black-bird and the thrush,
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
The flowers have had a frost,"
Thus all these careful sights
That now to hope upon delights
And therefore, my sweet muse,
And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrows end.
THE TIT Blue 01 0
From Percy's Collection.
THE sturdy rock, for all his strength,
At length is caught in fowler's net:
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.
Upon the throne of glorious fame;
THE PRAISE OF AMARGANA.
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.
The paths where Amargana treads
The groves put on their rich array,
And every swain his chance doth prove,
All happiness let Heav'n her lend,