That we may raise a large posterity; Which from the earth, which they may long possess
Up to your haughty palaces may mount, And for the guerdon of their glorious merit May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed Saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet Love! in hope of this, And cease till then our timely joys to sing : The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring! E. SPENSER
YE silent shades, whose each tree here Some relic of a saint doth wear,
Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of love :— Here is the legend of those saints
That died for love; and their complaints, Their wounded hearts, and names, we find Encarved upon the leaves and rind :— Give way, give way to me, who come Scorched with the self-same martyrdom, And have deserved as much, Love knows, As to be canonised 'mongst those
Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your greeny calendar.
By all those virgins' fillets hung
Upon your boughs, and requiems sung
For saints and souls departed hence, Here honoured still with frankincense; By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering, to the dead; By all those true-love knots, that be With mottos carved on every tree; By sweet St. Phillis,1 pity me; By dear St. Iphis,1 and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ :
That my poor name may have the glory To live remembered in your story.
TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
1 A hero and heroine of classical romance, who killed themselves for love.
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill : Tired with all these, from these would I begone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
No 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 The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe, O if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare, ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest, In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. W. SHAKSPEARE
VORGI❜E me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangen head an' teary eyes An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong;
But I wer twold,-an' thought 'twer true,- That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feäir, a-walken drough
The pleäce the whole day long.
An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnen drough my blood: a-peärt Ov your love I should scorn :
An' zoo I vowed, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.
But still thy neäme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maïdens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore;
Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flowery hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-looked avore.
Look up, and let the evenen light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light
O' zunzet in the west;
An' let's stroll here vor half an hour
Where hangen boughs do meäke a bower Above theäse bank, wi' eltrot1 flower
An' robinhoods 2 a-drest.
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