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Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby ?
Or, that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no ; this sorrow, shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read, “That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

Here are two more of Herrick's sweet songs :

Fair daffodils ! we weep to see

You haste away so soon ;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon:

Stay, stay,
Until the hastening day

Has run
But to the even-song ;
And having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a Spring ;
As quick a growth to meet decay,

you, or any thing :

We die,
As your hours do ; and dry

Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

To Blossoms :

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

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Now let us rehearse that famous old song of Marlowe, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentleman, Izaac Walton :

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hill and valley, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of Aowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my



Here is the opening passage of a poem by Daniel, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day :

He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same ;
What fair seat hath he, from whence he may

The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey !
He also wrote the following sprightly song :

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;
A plant that most with cutting, grows;
Most barren, with best using :

Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting ;
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-


Among favorite love-lyrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal, by LODGE. Here it is :

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst


tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,

he robs me of my rest :
Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, there percheth he

With pretty light,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he turns the string ;
He music plays if so I sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting :

Whist, wanton, still ye, Else I, with roses, every day

Will whip you bence, And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence : I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ; I'll make you fast it for your sin ; I'll count your power not worth a pin ; Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me?

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