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النشر الإلكتروني

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
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see;
Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast,
Why should sadness longer laft?
Grief is but a wound to woe,
Gentleft fair! mourn, mourn, no moe,

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
Gapes to have

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
Planted there,

Is ftill to live and ftill live new.
Where to gain a favour is
More than light's perpetual blifs;

O make me live by ferving you!

SONG

IN A WIFE FOR A MONTH.

LET thofe complain that feel love's cruelty,
And in fad legends write their woes;
With rofes gently he corrected me;
My war is without rage or blows;

My mistress' eyes fhine fair on my defires,
And hope fprings up inflam'd with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms and fighs all day,
Reck'ning the torments of my hell,
And flinging my fweet joys away.

I am call'd home again to quiet peace,
My mistress fmiles, and all my forrows cease.

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,
Prince, whofe approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent hoft to fhepherds and to kings;
Sole comforter to minds with grief oppreft.
Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie flumbering with forgetfulness poffeft;
And yet o'er me to fpread thy drowsy wings

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
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,

And birds on thee their ramage did beftow.
Sith that dear voice which did thy founds approve,
Which used in fuch harmonious ftrains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleafing notes be pleafing flotes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stop a figh, each found draws forth a tear;
Be therefore filent as in woods before.

Or that if any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her lofs complain.

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.

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