ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, More by your number than your light! You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood By your weak accents! what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own! What are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen SIR H. WOTTON. THE LOVER. ON a day (alack the day!) Through the velvet leaves the wind, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn to thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear, And deny himself for Jove, SHAKSPEARE. SONG. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows : Most barren with best using: Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting; Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Hey, ho! 8. DANIEL, 1582. TO MY LOVE. CALM winds, blow you fair; Rock her, thou sweet gentle air: The evening comes too soon The roses and thy lips do meet, There's none our joys to let. DRAYTON. TO CELIA. No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers, The fish shall in the ocean burn; Love shall his bow and shafts lay by, Love shall no more inhabit earth, CAREW. |