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Mee here the first perceiv’d, and here a morne
Of bright carnations did orespreade her face,
Here did shee figh, there first my hopes were borne,
And I first got a piedge of promis'd grace:
But ah! what serv'd it to be happie to?
Sith paffed pleasures double but new woe.
UNTO the boundless Ocean of thy Beauty,
Runs this poor River, charg'd with streams of zea,
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my Love, my Youth, my Plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the Book of ny charg'd soul,
Where I have cast th’ Accounts of all my care :
Here have I fumm’d my fighs ; here I enroll
How they were spent for thee ; look what they are,
Look on the dear expences of my Youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes :
Examine well thy beauty with my truth ;
And cross my cares,
ere greater sums arise.
Read it, sweet Maid, tho' it be done but slightly;
Who can shew all his Love, doth love but lightly.
TRUST not, fweet Soule, those curled waves of gold
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flackes of virgine snow,
Nor snow of cheekes with Tyrian graine enroll'd.
Trust not those thining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rayes beholde,
Nor voyce, whose sounds more strange effects doe show
Than of the Thracian Harper have beene tolde :
Looke to this dying Lille, fading Rose,
Darke Hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbes and grasse rejoyce,
And thinke how little is twixt Life's extreames :
The cruell Tyrant that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once (aye mee!) not spare that Spring of yourg.
Drummond, Edinb. 1616.
OVE banish'd Heaven, in Earth was held in fcorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, tho' of a Goddess born,
Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by:
1, like a man devout and charitable,
Cloathed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,
With fighs and teares still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blert :
But this Ungrateful, for my good desert,
Intic'a my thoughts against ine to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging on a fire,
Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel then tho' charity grow cold.
Drayton, XXIII. Son,
HAT doth it ferve to see Sunnes burning face?
And dies enameli'd with both Indies gold?
Or moone at night in jettie chariot rollid?
And all the glorie of that starrie place ?
What doth it terve Earth's beautie to behold?
The mountaines pride, the meadowes flowrie grace;
The statelie comelineffe of forrests old,
The sport of flowds which would themselves embrace ?
What doth it serve to heare the Sylvans songs,
The wanton Mearle, the Nightingalle's fad itraines,
Which in darke shades seeme to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world containes,
Sith Shee for whom those once to mee were deare,
No part of them can have now with mee heare.
WHY Mould I fing in verse, why should I frame
These sad neglected notes for her dear fake?
Why should I offer up unto her name,
The fweetest sacrifice my youth can make ?
Why should I strive to make her live for ever,
That never deigns to give me joy to live ?
Why should my afflicted muse so much endeavour
Such honour unto cruelty to give ?
If her defects have purchas'd her this fame,
What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love?
If this her worst, how should her best inflame?
What passions would her milder favours move?
Favours, I think, would sense quite overcome,
And that makes happy Lovers ever dumb.
I croft with all mishaps be my poor Life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
If my spirit with itself holds lafting strife,
If Sorrowes death is but new Sorrowes birth?
If this vaine World bee but a sable stage
Where slave-born Man playes to the scoffing starres,
If Youth be tofs'd with Love, with Weaknesse Age,
If Knowledge serve to hold our thoughts in warres ?
If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame,
And make what's long since part, like that to bee,
If Vertue only bee an idle name,
If I when I was borne was borne to die?
Why seeke I to prolong these loathsome dayes,
The faireit rose in shortest time decayes.
SWEET Spring, thou turn'it with all thy goodlie traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The Zephyres curle the greene lockes of the plaine,
The cloudes for joy in pearles weepe down their fr.ow'rs.
Thou turn'st (fweet Youth) but ah my pleasant howres,
And happie dayes with thee come not againe,
The fad memorialls only of my paine
Doe with thee turne, which turne my sweets in sow'rs.
Thou art the same which still thou was before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, faire,
But shee, whose breath embaulmed thy wholesome aire,
Is gone : nor gold nor gemmes her can restore.
Neglected Vertue, Seafons goe and coine
While thine forgot lie closed in a Tombe,