WRONG NOT, SWEET MISTRESS RONG not, sweet mistress of my heart, With thinking that he feels no smart, Since, if my plaints were not t' approve For, knowing that I sue to serve I rather choose to want relief, Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, He smarteth most who hides his smart, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1552-1618. AGE. M I despised, because you say Know, lady, you have but your day; And night will come, when men will swear Time has spilt snow upon your hair. And such a smiling tulip too, Ah, then, too late, close on your chamber keeping, It will be told, That you are old, By those true tears you're weeping. "Ayres and Dialogues," by IIenry Lawes. 1653. TO THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. OU meaner beauties of the night, 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, By your weak accents, what's your praise You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, As if the spring were all your own, So, when my mistress shall be seen SIR HENRY WOTTON. 1568-1639. AWAKE, AWAKE, MY LYRE. ODE. WAKE, awake, my lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale, Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she, And I so lowly be, Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark! how the strings awake, And though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try, Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye! Weak lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure ; C Too weak, too, wilt thou prove My passion to remove, Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire: All thy vain mirth lay by ; Bid thy strings silent lie; Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die. COWLEY. 1618-1667. THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. OME, live with me, and be my love, There will we sit upon the rocks, |