RICHARD LOVELACE

о

THE GRASSHOPPER

To my noble friend - Mr. Charles Cotton

THOU that swing'st upon the waving ear

Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear

Dropp'd thee from heaven, where thou wast rear'd !

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcomest then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams;
And all these merry days makest merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But, ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd,
Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night,

Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topp'd,
And what scythes spared winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool, and now green ice! thy joys
(Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass)
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rains, and poise
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other's breast
And, spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally,
As Vestal flames; the North-Wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve, and fly
This Ætna in epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail the usurping of his reign;

But, when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry
he hath his crown again.

Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.

Thus richer than untempted kings are we
That, asking nothing, nothing need.

Though lord of all that seas embrace, yet he
indeed.

That wants himself is poor

SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE

THE HEART-MAGNET

SHALL I, hopeless, then pursue

A fair shadow that still flies me?
Shall I still adore and woo

A proud heart that does despise me?

I a constant love may so,

But, alas! a fruitless show.

Shall I by the erring light

Of two crossing stars still sail, That do shine, but shine in spite, Not to guide but make me fail? I a wandering course may steer, But the harbour ne'er come near.

Whilst these thoughts my soul possess

Reason passion would o'ersway,

Bidding me my flames suppress
Or divert some other way:
But what reason would pursue,
That

my heart runs counter to.

So a pilot, bent to make

Search for some unfound-out land,

Does with him the magnet take,
Sailing to the unknown strand:
But that, steer which way he will,
To the loved North points still..

FALSE LYCORIS

LATELY, by clear Thames, his side,

Fair Lycoris I espied,

With the pen of her white hand
These words printing on the sand:
None Lycoris doth approve

But Mirtillo for her love.

Ah, false Nymph! those words were fit In sand only to be writ:

For the quickly rising streams

Of Oblivion and the Thames

In a little moment's stay

From the shore wash'd clean away What thy hand had there impress'd,

And Mirtillo from thy breast.

ANDREW MARVELL

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C.

In a prospect of flowers.

EE! with what simplicity

SEE

This Nymph begins her golden days.

In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause

This Darling of the Gods was born?

Yet this is She whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke and ensigns torn.
Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound;

And parley with those conquering eyes
Ere they have tried their force to wound,
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive