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TRUE BEAUTY.

SONNET.

HOW much more doth beauty wondrous

seem

By that sweet ornament which truth
doth give!

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live!
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their maskèd buds
discloses ;

But for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so: Of their sweet deaths are sweeter odours made; And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth : When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.

SHAKESPEARE

1564-1616.

WERE I AS BASE.

SONNET.

[graphic]

ERE I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my love, as high as heaven
above,

Yet should the thoughts of me, your
humble swain,

Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main,

Where'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you, like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

Wheresoe'er I am,-below, or else above you,

Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

SYLVESTER.

1565-1618.

LORDLY GALLANTS.

SONG.

[graphic]

ORDLY gallants, tell me this,

Though my safe content ye weigh

not,

In your greatness what one bliss

Have you gain'd that I enjoy not?
You have honour, you have wealth;
I have peace, and I have health;
All the day I merry make,
And at night no care I take.

Bound to none my fortunes be,

This or that man's fall I fear not;

Him I love that loveth me,

For the rest a pin I care not.
You are sad when others chafe,
And grow merry as they laugh;
I that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.

GEORGE WITHER.

1588-1667.

PACK CLOUDS AWAY.

SONG.

[graphic]

ACK clouds away, and welcome day, 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; Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow!

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves, among yourselves
Sing my fair love good morrow!

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VERSES ON LUCY,

COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

HIS morning, timely wrapp'd with holy
fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous
Muse

What kind of creature I could most desire
To humour, serve, and love, as poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned and a manly soul

I purposed her: that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of destiny, and spin her own free hours.

Such, when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see,
My Muse bade BEDFORD write, and that was she!

[graphic]

BEN JONSON. 1574-1637.

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