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INVEST my head with fragrant rose,
"Tis wine and love, and love in wine,
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine, Inspires our youth with flames divine.
THE MAD MAID's SONG.
GOOD-morrow to the day so fair;
Good-morrow, Sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Good-morrow to this primrose too ;
That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew
I'll seek him there! I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead
He's soft and tender-pray, take heed-
S Julia once a slumbering lay
It chanc'd a Bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir, So Julia took the Pilferer.
And thus surpris'd, as filchers use,
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
γου meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
Ye violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
That warble forth dame nature's lays,
By your weak accents, what's your praise
In sweetness of her looks, and mind
From the Reliquia Wottoniane, 1672. HEART-TEARING cares, and quivering fears,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still, And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be!
Fly from our country pastimes! fly,
Sad troop of human misery!
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure azured heav'n, that smiles to see
Peace and a secure mind,
Which all men seek, we only find.
Abused mortals! did you know
Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,
And seek them in these bowers.
Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may
But blust'ring care could never tempest make,
Saving of fountains that glide by us.
Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance,
Unless upon the green
Two harmless lambs are butting one another,
Which done, both bleating run each to his mother;
And wounds are never found
Save what the plough-share gives the ground.
Go! let the diving Negro seek
For gems, hid in some forlorn creek,
We all pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morn
Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;
And gold ne'er here appears
Save what the yellow Ceres bears.
Blest, silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery!
May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these
And peace still slumber by these purling fountains!
Which we may every year
Find, when we come a-fishing here.
Sir Walter Raleigh.