But this Ungrateful, for my good defert,
Intic'd my thoughts against ine to conspire,
Who gave confent 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.
WHAT doth it ferve to fee Sunnes burning face?
And skies enamell'd with both Indies gold?
Or moone at night in jettie chariot roll'd?
And all the glorie of that starrie place?
What doth it ferve 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 ferve to heare the Sylvans fongs,
The wanton Mearle, the Nightingalle's fad ftraines,
Which in darke fhades feeme to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth ferve all that this world containes,
Sith Shee for whom thofe once to mee were deare,
of them can have now with mee heare.
WHY fhould I fing in verfe, why should I frame
These fad neglected notes for her dear fake?
Why should I offer up unto her name,
The sweetest facrifice my youth can make ?
Why should I strive to make her live for ever,
That never deigns to give me joy to live?
Why fhould
afflicted mufe 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 fhould her best inflame?
What paffions would her milder favours move?
Favours, I think, would fenfe quite overcome,
And that makes happy Lovers ever dumb.
IF croft with all mishaps be my poor Life,
If one fhort day I never spent in mirth,
If my spirit with itself holds lasting strife,
If Sorrowes death is but new Sorrowes birth?
If this vaine World bee but a sable stage`
Where flave-born Man playes to the fcoffing starres,
If Youth be tofs'd with Love, with Weakneffe Age,
If Knowledge ferve to hold our thoughts in warres?
If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame,
And make what's long fince past, like that to bee,
If Vertue only bee an idle name,
If I when I was borne was borne to die?
Why feeke I to prolong these loathfome dayes,
The fairest rofe in shortest time decayes.
WEET Spring, thou turn'ft 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 flow'rs.
Thou turn'ft (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 fweets in fow'rs.
Thou art the fame 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 come
While thine forgot lie closed in a Tombe,
LOOKE how the flowre, which lingringlie doth fade,
The Morning's Darling late, the Summer's Queene,
Spoyl❜d of that juice, which kept it fresh and greene,
As high as it did raise, bowes low the head;
Right fo my Life (Contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but onelie feene)
With swifter speede declines than earft it spred,
And (blasted) scarce now fhowes what it hath beene.
As doth the Pilgrime therefore whom the night
By darkneffe would imprison on his way,
Thinke on thy Home, (my Soule) and thinke aright,
Of what yet restes thee of Life's wafting day:
Thy Sunne poftes weftward, paffed is thy morne,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
Drummond, Flowres of Siong
Ed. 1630, 4to.
SWEET Bird, that fing'ft away the early howres,
Of winters paft, or comming void of care,
Well pleafed with delights which present are,
Faire Seafones, budding sprayes, sweet-fmelling flowres:
To rocks, to springs, to rils, from leavie bowres
Thou thy Creator's goodneffe dost declare,
And what deare gifts on thee hee did not spare,
A ftaine to humane fence in fin that lowres.
What Soule can be fo ficke, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetneffe) fweetly is not driven
Quite to forget Earth's turmoiles, fpights and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven?
Sweet artleffe Songstarre, thou my minde doft raise
To ayres of Spheares, yes, and to Angels layes.
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