And your sweet beauty, past compare, 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 Sweeter than Aurora's air, Chaster than the virgin Spring, If such goodness live 'mongst men, SIR HENRY WOTTON. 1568-1639. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, More by your number than your light! You curious chanters of the wood, By your weak accents! what's your praise You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, So when my Mistress shall be seen 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, That lips could speak had power to move thee : But I can let thee now alone, And since thou canst love more than one, The morning rose that untouch'd stands But scent and beauty both are gone, Such fate ere long will thee betide, 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! 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 But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams Nay! suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear! 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; 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; 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 And others see, know, love, in heaven's great height, It elsewhere saw the Idea of that face, Trust not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show 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. |