THE SELF-BANISHED. SONG. T is not that I love you less In vain, alas! for every thing Which I have known belongs to you; Your form does to my fancy cling, And makes my old wounds bleed anew. Absence is vain, for every thing Which I have known belongs to you. Who, in the Spring, from the new sun Too late begins those shafts to shun Which Phoebus through his veins has shot. Too late he would the pain assuage, And to thick shadows would retire ; About with him he bears the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow'd I have, and never must WALLER. SILENCE. EACE, idle voice, be ever dumb; If silence be a kind of death, He kindles grief who gives it breath : On thine own hearth-'twill quickly die; BISHOP KING.* * Henry King, Bishop of Chichester.-This and several other pieces are taken from his Poems, republished by Pickering, 1820. SIC VITA. IKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the sun, or like the shade, The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The gourd consumes, and man he dies. Like to the grass that's newly sprung, The grass withers, the tale is ended, SIMON WASTELL. 1580. VIRTUE. WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose whose hue, early and brave, Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses, GEORGE HERBERT. GO, LOVELY ROSE. SONG. O, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, Tell her that's young, In deserts, where no men abide, Sweet is the worth Of Beauty, from the light retired : Suffer herself to be desired, And not so blush to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee How small a part of time they share WALLER. |