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Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king,
SLEEPING! why now sleeping ?
The moon herself looks gay,
Wilt not her call obey ?
For thee its brightest ray;
Athwart the dewy spray.
Awake, the skies are weeping
Because thou art away,
Sleep, loved one, while you may ;
Fanning dark thoughts away, While, dearest, 'tis thy lover
Who'll bid each bright one stay.
HOFFMAN. TO HIS LUTE.
My Lute, awake! perform the last
As to be heard where care is none,
The rocks do not so cruelly
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got, Of simple hearts, through Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my Lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
May chanced thee lie withered, old,
And, then, may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as have done.
Now, cease my Lute! this is my last
LORD ROCHFORD. 1530.
“ TRUST IN THEE.”
“ Trust in thee ?" Ay, dearest ! there is no one
but must, Unless truth be a fable, in such as thee trust! For who can see heaven's own hue in those eyes, And doubt that truth with it came down from
the skies; While each thought of thy bosom, like morning's
young light, Almost ere 'tis born, flashes there on his sight?
“ Trust in thee?” Why, bright one, thou couldst
not betray, While thy heart and thine eyes are for ever at
play! And he who unloving can study the one, Is so certain to be by the other undone, That, if he cares ought for his quiet, he must Like me, sweetest MARY, in both of them trust.