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Like unto a summer-shade,

But now borne, and now they fade.
Every thing doth passe away,
Thear is danger in delay:

Come, come, gather then the rose,
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sande of Tagus' shore
Into my bosome casts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corne
To my house is yerely borne:
Every grape of every vine

Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my traine have bow'd,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me.
All the starres in Heav'n that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine:
Onely bend thy knee to mee,

Thy wooing shall thy winning bee."

So with her syre to Hell shee tooke her flight, (The starting ayre flew from the damned spright) Whear deeply both aggriev'd, plunged themselves in night.

But to their Lord, now musing in his thought,
A heavenly volie of light angels flew,
And from his Father him a banquet brought,
Through the fine element; for well they knew,
After his Lenten fast, he hungrie grew:

And as he fed, the holy quires combine
To sing a hymne of the celestiall Trine;

All thought to passe, and each was past all
thought divine.

The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joyes,
Attemper'd to the layes angelicall;

And to the birds the winds attune their noyse;
And to the winds the waters hoarcely call,

Thus sought the dire enchauntress in his minde And eccho back againe revoyced all;

Her guileful bayt to have embosomed:

But he her charmes dispersed into winde.
And her of insolence admonished,

And all her optique glasses shattered.

That the whole valley rung with victorie.
But now our Lord to rest doth homewards flie:
See how the night comes stealing from the moun-
tains high.

Drummond.

William Drummond, ein schottischer Edelmann und der erste Schotte überhaupt, welcher in der englischen Schriftsprache dichtete, ward am 13. December 1585 zu Hawthornden in MidLothian geboren, studirte in Edinburg und dann von 1606 bis 1610 in Bourges die Rechte, und lebte dann auf seinen Gütern an seinem Geburtsorte, wo er am 4. December 1649 starb. Als lyrischer Dichter nimmt er unter seinen Landes- und Zeitgenossen eine der ersten Stellen ein; er ist reich an Gedanken und Bildern, frei von jenem damals nur zu sehr vorherrschenden geschmacklosen Schwulste und von affectirter Gesuchtheit, und drückte sich anmuthig, gefällig und würdevoll aus; seine Sonnette und Madrigale gehören daher zu den besten jener Periode. Sie finden sich, so wie seine übrigen Poesien im vierten Bande von Anderson's Sammlung; früher waren sie entweder zerstreut, oder nur theilweise von ihm selbst gesammelt, wie z. B. in seinen Flowers of Sion erschienen. Auch als Historiker hat er sich durch seine treffliche Geschichte Schottlands (London 1655, Folio) ehrenvolle Anerkennung erworben.

The Instability of Mortal Glory. Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bayes, Skie - threatning arches, the rewards of worth, Books heavenly wise in sweet harmonious layes,

Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in bloud do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun - burnt Gange,
Gigantall frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders webs are made the sport of daies,

Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone;
Where fore my mind above time, motion,
place,

Norsnow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd. Trust not those shining lights which wrought

my woe,

When first I did their azure raies behold,
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do
show,

Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. Than of the Thracian harper have been told:

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Sleep, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Loe, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulnesse possest,
And yet o're me to spread thy drowsie wings
Thou spar'st, (alas!) who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With faigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deafe god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt be-
queath,

I long to kisse the image of my death.

Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waves of
gold

With gentle tides that on your temples flow,
Nor temples spred with flakes of virgin snow,

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My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that deare voice which did thy sounds
approve,

Which wont in such harmonious straines to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheares ahove,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans wailings to the fainting eare,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a
teare,
For which be silent as in woods before:

Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd turtle still her losse complaine.

A passing glance, a light'ning 'long the skies, Which ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight,

| A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise, Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and night:

Is this small trifle, life, held in such price,
Of blinded wights, who ne're judge aught aright?
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight,
As life, that wastes itselfe, and living dies.
Ah! What is humane greatness, valour, wit!
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise?
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit,
Thrall earth's vaste round, triumphal arches
raise?

That's all a dreame, learne in this prince's
fall,

In whom, save death, nought mortall was at all.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his

own,

Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternall love:
O how more sweet is birds harmonious moane,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's
throne,

Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve! O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome breath,

And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold,

Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in

gold!

The world is full of horrours, troubles,

slights;

And happy days, with thee come not againe;
The sad memorials only of my paine
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to

sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome
air

Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

A good that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the Aprill flow'rs,
A sweet with flouds of gall, that runs combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
than wind,

Woods harmlesse shades have only true A honour that more fickle
delights.
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the earely houres,
Of winters past, or comming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding spraies, sweet-smelling

flow'rs:

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs,
Thou thy Creator's goodnesse dost declare,
And what deare gifts on thee he did not spare,
A staine to humane sense in sin that low'rs.
What soule can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoiles, spights and

wrongs,

And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet, artlesse songster, thou my mind doest

raise

To ayres of spheares, yes, and to angels layes.

Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly traine,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine, The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their

show'rs.

Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours,

A treasury which bankrupt time devoures,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind;
A vaine delight our equalls to command,
A stile of greatnesse, in effect a dreame,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck't with a pompous name;

Are the strange ends we toyle for here
below,
Till wisest death make us our errours know.

Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth

fade,

The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoyl'd of that juyce which kept it fresh and green,

As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spred,
And, (blasted,) scarce now shows what it hath
been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke
aright

Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day: Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morne,

And twice it is not given thee to be borne.

Wither.

George Wither, ein eben so talentvoller als unruhiger Kopf, der Sohn eines Landedelmannes, ward 1588 zu Bentworth in Hampshire geboren und studirte in Oxford. Sein Vater rief ihn aber wieder zurück und verlangte, dass er sich der Landwirthschaft widmen solle; statt ihm zu gehorchen ging Wither nach London und gab, nachdem er sich bereits einigen literarischen Ruf er worben, hier 1613 eine Sammlung Satiren heraus (Abuses stript and whipt), die ihm lange Kerkerhaft zuzogen. Während derselben schrieb er sein bestes poetisches Werk: The Shepheards Hunting. Nach seiner Freilassung führte er ein sehr unruhiges Leben und musste noch öfter wieder ins Gefängniss wandern; zuletzt aber bei dem ersten Ausbruche des Bürgerkrieges verkaufte er sein väterliches Landgut und stellte sich an die Spitze einer Reiterschaar auf Seiten des Parlaments. In Gefangenschaft gerathen, sollte er gehängt werden, aber der Dichter Denham verwandte sich für ihn und rettete ihm das Leben. Später ward er Cromwell's Generalmajor für Surrey und hatte reichen Antheil an der Beute, den er aber bei der Thronbesteigung Karl's II. wieder herausgeben musste. Seine Protestationen zogen ihm von Neuem Kerkerstrafe zu; elend und arm starb er endlich 1667.

Unter seinen poetischen Arbeiten sind die Leistungen seiner Jugend unstreitig die besten; sie beurkunden reiche Phantasie, Geist und Scharfsinn und sind correct und rein. Später wurde er jedoch gesucht und affectirt, und Künstelei sollte ersetzen, was ihm die Natur in reiferen Jahren versagte.

A Sonnet upon a stolen Kiss.
Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes,
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts
awe;

And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies,
From whence I long the rosie breath to draw.
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss;
None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,
Nor rob I her of ought which she can miss:
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so;
Why then should I this robbery delay?
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

From the Shepheards Hunting.

As the sunne doth oft exhale

Vapours from each rotten vale;
Poesie so sometimes draines,
Grosse conceits from muddy braines;
Mists of envie, fogs of spight,

Twixt mens judgements and her light:
But so much her power may doe,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,

As she makes wing, she gets power:

in

Yet the higher she doth sore,
She's affronted still the more:
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she restes with Fame at last,
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight:
For if I could match thy rime,
To the very starres I 'de clime.
There begin againe, and flye,
Till I reach'd aeternity.
But (alas) my Muse is slow:
For thy page she flagges too low:
Yes, the more's her haplesse fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late.
And poore I, her fortune ruing,
Am my selfe put up a muing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'le flye where I never did.
And though for her sake I'me crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,

And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more then ten times double:
I would love and keepe her too,
Spight of all the world could doe.
For though banisht from my flockes,
And confin'd within these rockes,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keepes many cares away.
Though I misse the flowry fields,
With those sweets the spring - tyde yeelds,

Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepheards chaunt their loves
And the lasses more excell,

Then the sweet voyc'd Philomel,
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remaines at last,
But Remembrance (poore reliefe)

That more makes, then mends my griefe:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre Envies evil will.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former dayes of blisse,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw:
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest objects sight;
By the murmure of a spring,
Or the least boughs rusteling;
By a dazie whose leaves spred,
Shut when Tytan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Then all natures beauties can,
In some other wiser man.
By her helpe I also now,
Make this churlish place allow
Somthings that may sweeten gladnes
In the very gall of sadnes;

The dull loaneness, the blacke shade,
That those hanging vaults have made,
The strange musicke of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves,
This blacke den which rocks embosse,
Over-growne with eldest mosse,
The rude portals that give light,
More to terrour then delight.
This my chamber of neglect,
Wal'd about with disrespect,
From all these, and this dull ayre,
A fit object for despaire;

She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore thou best earthly blisse,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesie, thou sweetest content
That ere Heav'n to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee,

Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorne,
That to nought but earth are borne:
Let my life no longer bee,

Then I am in love with thee.

Though our wise ones call it madnes,
Let me never taste of sadnes,
If I love not thy mad'st fits
Above all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy,

Doe account thy raptures folly:

Thou dost teach me to contemne

What makes knaves and fooles of them.

*

Now that my body dead-alive,
Bereav'd of comfort lyes in thrall,
Doe thou, my soul, begin to thrive,
And unto honie turne this gall:

So shall we both through outward wo
The way to inw ard comfort know

As to the flesh we foode do give,
To keepe in us this mortall breath:
So soules on meditation live,
And shunne thereby immortall death:
Nor art thou ever neerer rest,

Then when thou find'st me most opprest.

First thinke, my soule, if I have foes
That take a pleasure in my care,
And to procure these outward woes
Have thus entrapt me unaware:

Thou should'st by much more carefull bee,
Since greater foes lay waite for thee.

Then when mew'd up in grates of steele,
Minding those joyes mine eyes doe misse
Thou find'st no torment thou do'st feele,
So grievous as privation is:

Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow,
Pine in the losse of blisse they know.

Thou seest there's given so great a might
To some that are but clay as I,
Their very anger can affright;
Which if in any thou espie

Thus thinke, if mortals frownes strike feare,
How dreadfull will God's wrath appeare!

By my late hopes that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer bee,
And make the freedome I have lost
A meanes that may remember thee:

Had Christ not thy Redeemer bin,
What horrid thrall thou had'st beene in.

These iron chaines, the bolt's of steele, Which other poore offenders grinde,

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