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Think what with them they would do,
And, unless that mind I see,
Great or good, or kind or fair,
If she be not fit for me,
LESBIA ON HER SPARROW.
Tell me not of joy! there's none,
He, just as you,
Would sigh and woo,
He would hang the wing awhile,
Till at length be saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be!
He would catch a crumb, and then
He from my lip
Would moisture sip,
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Philip when he'd done;
Oh! how eager would he fight,
No morn did pass,
But on my glass
What I did; now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his darts
A wound he may,
Not love, convey,
Oh! let mournful turtles join
With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o’er his stone. Cartwright.
SONNET, SUNG BEFORE QUEEN ELIZABETH. My golden locks time hath to silver turn’d, (O time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing) My youth'gainst age, and age at youth bath spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing; Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers that fading
been, Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.
My helmet now shall make an bive for bees,
And though from court to cottage I depart,
And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
Ascribed to the Earl of Essex.
THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove,
fold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! The world is full of horrours, troubles, slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.
SONNET. Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold, With gentle tides which on your temples flow; Nor temples, spread with flakes of virgin snow; Nor snow of cheeks, with Tyrian grain enroll'd: Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my
woe, When first I did their burning rays behold; Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do
show, Than of the Thracian harper have been told. Look to this dying lily, fading rosé, Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beains Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes. The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers Shall once (ah me!) not spare that spring of yours.
Look how the flower, which ling'ringly doth fade,
sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born.
On this fair volume which we world do name,
SONNET TO TWILIGHT. Meek twilight! haste to shroud the solar ray, And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves; When o'er the hill is shed a paler day, That gives to stillness, and to night, the groves. Ah! let the gay the roseate morning hail, When, in the various blooms of light array'd, She bids fresh beauty live along the vale, And rapture tremble in the vocal shade :