Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. W. Drummond XLIV DIRGE OF LOVE 'OME away, come away, Death, Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : Lay me, O where Sad true lover never find my grave, W. Shakespeare XLV FIDELE EAR no more the heat o' the sun For the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Golden ads and pris i must Four to sander, ensure as; Thy by Mist i ov ani nean: Covers woung, a lovers must 11 àhem ve av her les: But both sufer a ser-change Ding, dong, Bel W. Shakespeare CA XLVII A LAND DIRGE "ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole And (when F. Webster XLVIII POST MORTEM IF Thou survive my well-contented day cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These Poor rude lines of thy deceased lover; Compare them with the bettering of the time, O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought — 'Had my A dearer birth than this his love had brought, friend's muse grown with this growing age, Το march in ranks of better equipage : But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I 'll read, his for his love.' W. Shakespeare N XLIX THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH O longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not O if, I say, you look upon this verse Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. W. Shakespeare L MADRIGAL ELL me where is Fancy bred, TELL Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, Let us all ring fancy's knell ; I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. — Ding, dong, bell. W. Shakespeare LI CUPID AND CAMPASPE UPID and my Campaspe play'd Cat cards for kisses; Cupid paid : He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, Growing on 's.cheek (but none knows how); O Love! has she done this to thee? LII ACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, РАСКА With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; |