ON HIS MISTRESS,

THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you when the sun shall rise?

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
In form and beauty of her mind
By virtue first, then choice, a queen!
Tell me if she were not design'd
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

SIR H. WOTTON.

THE LOVER.

ON a day (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn,

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn to thee;

Thou for whom Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

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;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

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,

Hey, ho!

8. DANIEL, 1582.

TO MY LOVE.

CALM winds, blow you fair;

Rock her, thou sweet gentle air:
Oh! the morn is noon,

The evening comes too soon
To part my love and me!

The roses and thy lips do meet,
Oh! that life were half so sweet!
Who would respect his breath
That might die such a death?
All the bushes that be near
With sweet nightingales beset,
Hush, sweet, and be still,
Let them sing their fill,

There's none our joys to let.

DRAYTON.

TO CELIA.

No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers,
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor April violets paint the grove:
If I forsake my Celia's love!

The fish shall in the ocean burn;
And fountains sweet shall bitter turn;
The humble oak no flood shall know,
When floods shall highest hills o'erflow:
Black Lethe shall oblivion leave;
If e'er my Celia I deceive!

Love shall his bow and shafts lay by,
And Venus' Doves want wings to fly;
The sun refuse to shew his light;
And day shall then be turned to night,
And in that night no star appear;
If once I leave my Celia dear.

Love shall no more inhabit earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth;
Nor joy above in heaven dwell,
Nor pain torment poor souls in hell;
Grim death no more shall horrid prove,
If e'er I leave bright Celia's love.

CAREW.