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Sweet spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers ;
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers,
Thou turn’st, sweet youth ; but ah ! my pleasant hours 5
And happy days with thee.come not again ;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ;
But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come,
When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part-
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover !
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone:
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see:
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.
Beaumont and Fletcher,
Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence,
All my powers of care bereaving !
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought:
Oh, let my joys have some abiding !
Beaumont and Flctcher.
Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew ;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
Beaumont and Fletcher.
THE SHEPHERD'S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA. Praised be Diana's fair and harmless light,
Praised be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground: Praised be her beams, the glory of the night,
Praised be her power, by which all powers abound. Praised be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods,
Praised be her knights, in whom true honour lives : 6 Praised be that force by which she moves the floods,
Let that Diana shine which all these gives. In heaven Queen she is among the spheres,
She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears,
She beauty is, by her the fair endure.
Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide,
Mortality below her orb is placed ;
By her the virtue of the stars down slide,
In her is Virtue's perfect image cast.
A knowledge pure it is her worth to know :
With Circe let them dwell that think not so.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night ;
It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending ;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
• And for myself,' quoth he,
*This my full rest shall be ;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
“Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell :
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat
By many a warlike feat,
Lopped the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led ;