And your sweet beauty, past compare,
Makes my poor eyes the bolder.
Where beauty moves, and wit delights,
And signs of kindness bind me,
There, O there, where'er I go,
I leave my heart behind me.

If I have wrong'd you, tell me wherein, And I will soon amend it;

In recompense of such a sin,

Here is my heart ;—I'll send it. If that will not your mercy move, Then for my life I care not; Then, O then, torment me still, And take my life! I care not.

ON A BEAUTIFUL VIRGIN.

In this marble buried lies
Beauty may enrich the skies,
And add light to Phoebus' eyes.

Sweeter than Aurora's air,
When she paints the lilies fair
And gilds cowslips with her hair.

Chaster than the virgin Spring,
Ere her blossoms she doth bring,
Or cause Philomel to sing.

If such goodness live 'mongst men,
Bring me it! I shall know then
She is come from heaven agen.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

1568-1639.

ON HIS MISTRESS,

THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you when the Sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents! what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud Virgins of the Year,
As if the Spring were all your own!
What are you when the Rose is blown?

So when my Mistress shall be seen
In beauty of her form and mind,-
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,—
Tell me, if she were not design'd
The eclipse and glory of her kind ?

SIR ROBERT AYTOUN.

1570-1637-8.

THE FORSAKEN.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak had power to move thee :

But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind
Which kisseth everything it meets :

And since thou canst love more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be loved by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd stands
Arm'd with her briars, how sweet she smells!
But pluck'd, and strain'd through ruder hands,
Her sweet no longer with her dwells :

But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like fair flowers, to be thrown aside :
And thou shalt sigh when I shall smile,
To see thy love to every one

Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1585-1649.

PHOEBUS, ARISE!

Phœbus! arise,

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red!

Rouse Memnon's Mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy carière with roses spread!

The nightingales thy coming each where sing:

Make an eternal Spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead!
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,

And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair!

Chase hence the ugly Night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light!

This is that happy morn,

That day, long-wished day

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And Fates not hope betray)

Which only white deserves

A diamond for ever should it mark.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair king who all preserves!

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise;

Nay! suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear!
Now, Flora! deck thyself in fairest guise!

If that ye, Winds! would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,

Your stormy chiding stay!

Let Zephyr only breathe,

And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death!

The Winds all silent are;
And Phoebus in his chair,
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star;
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels ;

The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue;

The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue;
Here is the pleasant place :

And every thing save Her who all should grace.

SONNETS.

That learned Grecian, who did so excel

In knowledge passing sense that he is named
Of all the after-worlds Divine, doth tell
That at the time when first our souls are framed,
Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell,
They live bright rays of that Eternal Light

And others see, know, love, in heaven's great height,
Not toil'd with aught to reason doth rebel.
Most true it is: for straight at the first sight
My mind me told that in some other place

It elsewhere saw the Idea of that face,
And loved a Love of heavenly pure delight.
No wonder now I feel so fair a flame,
Since I her loved ere on this earth she came.

Trust not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow,
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enroll'd
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rays behold;

Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the Thracian harper have been told!
Look to this dying lily, fading rose,

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams

Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice; And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes !

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers

Shall once, ay me! not spare that Spring of yours.