Cold December hope retains, That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving: But thy scythe Ends his strife, And to Lethe sends him driving. UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. [From Alison's" Hour's Recreation in Musick," 1606.] IN hope a king doth go to war; In hope just men do suffer wrong; Though Wit bids Will to blow retreat, Great rivers scarce may quench the same. Too late for Wit to bid take heed. * [From Wilbye's "Second set of Madrigales," 1609.] LOVE not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, Keep therefore a true woman's eye, [From the same.] DRAW on, sweet Night, best friend unto those cares That do arise from painful melancholy! My life so ill through want of comfort fares, That unto thee I consecrate it wholly. Sweet Night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from paining; And while thou all in silence dost infold, I then shall have best time for my complaining. [From the same.] So light is Love, in matchless beauty shining, Can draw her chariot 'midst the Paphian flowers. [From the same.] HAPPY, oh happy he who, not affecting Hymen's Eglogue between Admetus and Menalchas. [From "A New Spring, Shadowed in sundry Pithie Poems," signed "Musophilus," 1619. 4to.] Menalchas. WHAT makes Admetus sad?-Whate'er it be, Which unresolv'd, doth leave thee in suspense ? Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well. Men. Where lies thy grief? Admet. My countenance can tell. Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy count'nance fresh enough! Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind as rough. Men. Of cares, Admetus? Admet. Yes, I have my share. Men. Yet hope of cure! Admet. No hope of cure to care. |