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SONNET.

Dear wood, and you sweet solitary place,
Where I estranged from the vulgar live,
Contented more with what your shades me give,
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace:
What snaky eye, grown jealous of my pace,
Now from your silent horrours would me drive,
When Sun advancing in his glorious race
Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive?
What sweet delight a quiet life affords,
And what it is to be from bondage free,
Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discords,
Sweet flow'ry place, I first did learn of thee.
Ah! if I were mine own, your dear resorts
I would not change with princes' stateliest courts.

MADRIGAL.

Unhappy light,
Do not approach to bring the woeful day,
When I must bid for aye
Farewel to her, and live in endless plight.
Fair Moon with gentle beams,
The sight who never mars,

[stars,
Clear long-heaven's sable vault, and you, bright
Your golden locks long view in earth's pure streams;
Let Phæbus never rise
To dim your watchful eyes.
Prolong, alas, prolong my short delight;
And if ye can, make an eternal night,

SONNET.

Place me where angry Titan burns the Moor,
And thirsty Africk fiery monsters brings,
Or where the new-born phenis spreads her wings,
And troops of wond’ring birds her flight adore:
Place me by Gange or Inde's enamelld shore,
Where smiling Heavens on Earth cause double

springs;
Place me where Neptune's choir of syrens sings,
Or where made hoarse through cold he leaves to

roar : Place me where Fortune doth her darling's crown, A wonder or a spark in Envy's eye ; Or you, outrageous Fates, upon me frown, Till Pity wailing see disaster'd me; Affection's print my mind so deep doth prove, I may forget myself—but not my love.

MADRIGAL The ivory, coral, gold,

of breast, of lip, of hair,
· So lively Sleep doth show to inward sight,

That 'wake I think I hold
No shadow, but my fair :
Myself so to deceive
With long-shut eyes I shun the irksome light.
Such pleasure here I have
Delighting in false gleams,
If Death Sleep's brother be,
And souls bereft of sense have so sweet dreams,
How could I wish thus still to dream and die!

SONNET.

Of mortal glory O soon darken'd ray!
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away,
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,
And with that Sun, from whence it came, combin'd,
Now makes more radiant Heaven's eternal day.
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears,
Let widow'd Music only roar and groan,
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,
For dwelling place on Earth for thee is none:
Death hath thy temple raz'd, Love's empire foi”d,
The world of honour, worth, and sweetness spoil'd.

SONNET.

Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly

train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their

show'rs. Sweet Spring, thou com’st—but, ah! my pleasant

hours, And happy days, with thee come not again ; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wert before Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ;

But she whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

ON THE

PORTRAIT OF THE COUNTESS OF PERTH.

SONNET.

The goddess that in Amathus doth reign,
With silver trammels, and sapphire-colour'd eyes,
When naked from her mother's crystal plain,
She first appeard unto the wond’ring skies :
Or when the golden apple to obtain,
Her blushing snow amazed Ida's trees,
Did never look in half so fair a guise,
As she here drawn all other ages stain.
O God what beauties to inflame the soul,
And hold the hardest hearts in chains of gold!
Fair locks, sweet face, Love's stately capitol,
Pure neck which doth that heavenly frame uphold,
If Virtue would to mortal eyes appear,
To ravish sense, she would your beauty wear.

MADRIGAL,

My thoughts hold mortal strife,
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries,
Peace to my soul to bring,
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize :

But he grim grinning king,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having deckt with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

A TRANSLATION

OF

SIR JOHN Scot's VERSES,

Beginning, Quod vitæ sectabor iter?

What course of life should wretched mortals take! · In books hard questions large contention make.

Care dwells in houses, labour in the field;
Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.
In foreign lands thou never canst be blest:
If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distress’d.
In wedlock frequent discontentments swell;
Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell.
How many troubles are with children born!
Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn.
Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void;
Grey hairs are cold, unfit to be employ'd.
Who would not one of these two offers try,
Not to be born; or, being born, to die?

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