SONG IN THE QUEEN OF CORINTH, WEEP no more, nor figh, nor groan, Sorrow recalls not time that's gone; Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain DUE T IN THE CAPTAIN. “TELL me, dearest, what is love ?” "Tis a lightning from above; "Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire; 'Tis a boy they call Defire ; Thofe 'Tis a grave poor fools that long to prove. "Tell me more, are women true?" Yes, fome are, and fome as you. Some are willing, fome are strange, Since you men first taught to change; And till troth Be in both, All fhall love, and love anew. "Tell me more yet, can they grieve?" Yes, and ficken fore, but live, And be wife, and delay When you men are wife as they : "Then I fee "Faith will be "Never till they both believe." SONG IN THE ELDER BROTHER, BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells, Where the violet and the rofe Their blue veins in blush difclofe, And come to honour nothing else. Where to live but near Is ftill to live and ftill live new. O make me live by ferving you! SONG IN A WIFE FOR A MONTH. LET thofe complain that feel love's cruelty, My mistress' eyes fhine fair on my defires, No more an exile will I dwell, With folded arms and fighs all day, I am call'd home again to quiet peace, Yet what is living in her eye, Or being bleft with her sweet tongue, If these no other joys imply? A golden gyve, a pleafing wrong. To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. SONNET TO SLEEP. SLEEP, filence' child, fweet father of foft reft, Thou fpares, alas! who cannot be thy gueft. Since I am thine, oh! come, but with that face, To inward light, which thou art wont to shew, With feigned folace ease a true felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou will, and what thou wilt bequeathe, I long to kifs the image of my death. TO HIS LUTE. grow My lute, be as thou waft, when thou didft And birds on thee their ramage did beftow. Thy pleafing notes be pleafing flotes no more, Or that if any hand to touch thee deign, SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. DEAR quirifter, who from thofe fhadows fends, Ere that the blushing morn dare shew her light, Such fad lamenting ftrains, that night attends (Become all ear), ftars ftay to hear thy plight; If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune, who like cafe pretends, And feems to joy in woe, in woe's defpight; Tell me, (fo may thou fortune milder try, And long, long fing!) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and fun in dappled sky Enamoured fmiles on woods and flow'ry plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings figh'd forth, I love, I love. |