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Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo;

And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me,

this believe;
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:

If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?



Tell me not of joy! there's none,
Now my little sparrow's gone:

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;

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
Sporting let it go again;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip,
He would from my trencher feed;

Then would hop, and then would run,

And cry Philip when he'd done;
Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed?

Oh! how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt though he did bite,

No morn did pass,

But on my glass
He would sit, and mark, and do

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
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts?

A wound he may,

Not love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone.

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 lover's songs shall turn to holy psalms ;
A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers that are old age's alms;

And though from court to cottage I depart,
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.

And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach my swains this carrol for a song:
Bless'd be the hearts that think my sovereign well,
Cars'd be the souls that think to do her wrong.
Goddess, vouchsafe this aged man his right,
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.

Ascribed to the Earl of Essex.


THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Thay those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's

Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr’s wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers un-

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,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head;
Right so my life (contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen)
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore whom the night
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright,
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day:


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,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare,
Find out his power, which wildest powers doth
His providence, extending every where, [tame,
His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same :
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleas’d with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wroaglit.


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 :



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