SONNET. DEAR Wood, and you sweet solitary place, And what it is to be from bondage free, I would not change with princes' stateliest courts. UNHAPPY light, MADRIGAL. 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 Phoebus 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, Or where the new-born phenix spreads her wings, 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 darlings crown, Or you, outrageous Fates, upon me frown, Affection's print my mind so deep doth prove, 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. 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 trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind! Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind, Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres, SONNET. SWEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'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 ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE COUNTESS OF PERTH. SONNET. THE goddess that in Amathus doth reign, 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, A TRANSLATION OF SIR JOHN SCOT'S VERSES, Beginning, Quod vitæ sectabor iter? WHAT Course of life should wretched mortals take! |