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SONNET'S. TRUST not, sweetSoul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow; Nor temples spread with fakes of virgin snow; Nor snow of cheeks, with tyrian grain enroll'd: Trust not those shining lights, whieh wrought my woe When first I did their azure rays behold; Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show Than of the thracian harper have been told. Look to this dying lily, fading rose; Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice; And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes ! The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flow'rs, Shall once, Ah me! not spare that Spring of your's.
For to enrich the Heaven, mad'st poor this round;
And whilst kings'tombs with laurels flourish green,
# This lady was the daughter of a Mi. Cunningham, of Barnes. According to the information respecting, her to be gleaned from the praises of her lover, she was not only royally descended, but, with the most animating personal attractions, possessed a highly intelligent mind, a voice of melody, and was constitutionally cheerful. His addresses, fervently offered, being at last accepted, the day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials; when the expected bride was suddenly seized with a fever, which in a short time terminated her life, in the bloom and “ April of her Years !” This shock, that must have seriously affected even an ordinary mind, Drummond bever properly recovered.
And paint the sable skies
Than this we live in, praise our fate :
Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain ; As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be stain'd in scarlet dye. The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls ; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties store, One stomach feed at once, no more ; And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there."
IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,
That went to seek his straying sheep, Within the thicket, on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.
Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see, Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be. There come, he steals her shafts away, And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,
But ere she wakes hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by, Her bended bow, in haste she takes, And at the simple swain lets fly.
Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain; But up again forthwith he starts,
And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain.
Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, she blames her skill,
And try them on lierself she will.
Each little touch will pierce thy heart;
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.
Her hauds were glov'd, but next her hand
That made the shepherd senseless stand. That breast she pierc'd, and through the breast
Love found an entry to her heart; At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord ! how the gentle nymph did start. She runs not now, she shoots no more.
Away she throws both shaft and bow; She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
The God of Love sat on a tree,
SOME there are as fair to see to,
But by art and not by nature ;