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You, best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,
And yet your graces outwardly divine,
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine:

You, in whom Nature chose herself to view,
When she her own perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you,

At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire.
Even as a man that in some trance had seen
More than his wondering utterance can unfold,
That wrapt in spirit, in better worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly be told:

Most of all short, when I should show you most,
In your perfections so much am I lost.

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part,
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free:
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retain;
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,

Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

AN HYMN.

TO HIS LADY'S BIRTH PLACE.

Coventry, that dost adorn

The country wherein I was born,

Yet therein lies not thy praise,

Why I should crown thy towers with bays:
'Tis not thy wall me to thee weds,
Thy ports, nor thy proud pyramids,
Nor thy trophies of the boar,
But that she which I adore,

Which scarce Goodness' self can pair,
First there breathing blessed thy air.
Idea, in which name I hide

Her, in my heart deified,

For what good man's mind can see,
Only her ideas be;

She, in whom the virtues came

In woman's shape, and took her name,

She, so far past imitation,

As but Nature our creation

Could not alter, she had aimed

More than woman to have framed:
She, whose truly-written story,

To thy poor name shall add more glory,
Than if it should have been thy chance
T'have bred our kings that conquered France.
Had she been born the former age,
That house had been a pilgrimage,
And reputed more divine,

Than Walsingham or Becket's shrine.

That princess, to whom thou dost owe Thy freedom, whose clear blushing snow The envious Sun saw, when as she

Naked rode to make thee free,

Was but her type, as to foretell

Thou should'st bring forth one, should excell
Her bounty, by whom thou should'st have
More honour, than she freedom gave;

And that great queen, which but of late
Ruled this land in peace and state,
Had not been, but Heaven had sworn
A maid should reign when she was born.

Of thy streets which thou hold'st best,
And most frequent of the rest,
Happy Mich-Parke, of the year,
On the fourth of August there,
Let thy maids from Flora's bowers,
With their choice and daintiest flowers
Deck thee up, and from their store
With brave garlands crown that door.
The old man passing by that way,
To his son in time shall say,
"There was that lady born, which long
To after ages shall be sung;"
Who unawares being passed by,

Back to that house shall cast his eye,
Speaking my verses as he goes,
And with a sigh shut every close.
Dear city, travelling by thee,
When thy rising spires I see,
Destined her place of birth;
Yet methinks the very earth
Hallowed is, so far as I
Can thee possibly descry:
Then thou, dwelling in this place,
Hearing some rude hind disgrace
Thy city with some scurvy thing,
Which some jester forth did bring,
Speak these lines where thou dost come,

And strike the slave forever dumb.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

1563-1593.

["England's Helicon." 1600.]

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That vallies, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs.

And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delights each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

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