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Her mouth, from whence wit still obligingly flows,
The desperate lover can hope no redress,
AKE, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
Lights that do mislead the morn:
* This delicious little sonnet has been generally ascribed to Shakspeare, but it is far from certain that he was the author of it. The first ftanza is sung in Measure for Measure, and both verses are to be found in one of Beaumont and Fletchers plays.
SON G XXVIII.
BY EDMUND WALLER ES
Go lovely rose!
o rose! Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows,
Tell her that's
young, And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadft thou sprung
Small is the worth
Bid her come forth,
Then die! that the
May read in thee:
With never-fading love ;
Know hapless flower, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there;
With envy and despair.
TO A LADY READING SHERLOCK UPON DEATH.
BY THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.
ISTAKEN fair, lay Sherlock by,
His doctrine is deceiving,
He cheats us of our living.
* In the Fable of The Poet and the Rose.
To die's a lesson we shall know
Too soon, without a master; Then let us only study now
How we may live the faster.
To live's to love, to bless be bleft,
With mutual inclination;
And kindly meet my passion.
But if thus blest, I may not live,
And pity you deny,
"Tis I must learn to die.
WHEN firt I fair Celinda knew,
HEN first I fair Celinda knew,
Her kindness then was great : Her eyes I could with pleasure view,
And friendly rays did meet :
In all delights we pass'd the time,
That could diversion move;
Upon some others love.
But, ah! at last I grew too bold,
Press’d by my growing flame; For when my passion I had told,
She hated ev'n my name :
Thus I that could her friendship boast,
And did her love pursue ;
Of love and friendship too.
SON G XXXII.
HEN fair Serrena first I knew
By friendfhips happy union charm'd, Incessant joys around her flew,
And gentle smiles my bosom warm’d.
But when, with fond officious care,
I press’d to breathe my amorous pain; Her lips spoke nought but cold despair, Her
eyes Mot ice through every vein.
Thus, in Italias lovely vales,
The sun his genial vigour yields; Reviving heat each sense regales,
And plenty crowns the smiling fields.
When nearer we approach his ray;
High on the Alps tremendous brow, Surpris'd we see pale fun-beams play
On everlasting hills of snow.