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My thoughts on me then tyrannise,

No gem, no treasure, like to this, Fear and sorrow me surprise ;

'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. Whether I tarry still, or go,

All my joys to this are folly, Methinks the time moves very slow.

Nought so sweet as Melancholy. All my griefs to this are jolly,

'Tis my sole plague to be alone; Nought so sad as Melancholy.

I am a beast, a monster grown; When to myself I act, and smile,

I will no light por company, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,

I find it now my misery. By a brook-side, or wood so green,

The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,

Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. A thousand pleasures do me bless,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
And crown my soul with happiness.

Nought so fierce as Melancholy.
All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

I'll not change life with any king :

I ravish'd am! can the world bring When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

More joy, than still to laugh and smile, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,

In pleasant toys time to beguile ? In a dark grove, or irksome den,

Do not, O do not trouble me, With discontents and furies, then

So sweet content I feel and see. A thousand miseries at once

All my joys to this are folly, Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.

None so divine as Melancholy. All my griefs to this are jolly,

I'll change my state with any wretch None so sour as Melancholy.

Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch. Methinks I hear, methinks I see,

My pain past cure ; another hell; Sweet music, wondrous melody,

I may not in this torment dwell; Towns, palaces, and cities fine,

Now, desperate, I hate my life: Here now, then there, the world is mine;

Lend me a halter or a knife. Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.

Nought so damn’d as Melancholy.
All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

а

BROWNE.

LAY.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends :—my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headless bears, black men, and apes.
Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly,

None so damn'd as Melancholy.
Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Metbinks I now embrace my miss :
O blessed days, O sweet content!
In Paradise my time is spent!
Such thoughts may still my fancy move,
So may I ever be in love!

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits! O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late.
No torment is so bad as love,
So bitter to my soul can prove.

All my griefs to this are jolly,

Nought so harsh as Melancholy.
Friends and companions, get you gone!
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.

[In“ Britannia's Pastorals.” Book II. Song 3.] Shall I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then awhile to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath ;
And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath :-
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth ;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Such she is; and if you know

For in your sweet dividing throat Such a one as I have sung,

She winters, and keeps warm her note. Be she brown, or fair, or-so, That she be but somewhile young ;

Ask me no more where those stars light Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,

That downwards fall in dead of night; That I love, and love alone.

For in your eyes they sit, and there

Fixed become as in their sphere. THE SYREN's song,

Ask me no more if east or west [In “ The Inner Temple Masque.")

The Phænix builds her spicy nest: Steer, hither steer your winged pines,

For unto you at last she flies,
All beaten mariners !

And in your fragrant bosom dies Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers : Perfumes far sweeter than the best

HERRICK. Which make the Phænix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips; But come on shore,

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

But you may stay yet here awhile, Exchange, and be a while our guests ;

To blush and gently smile, For stars gaze on our eyes ;

And go at last. The compass Love shall hourly sing,

What, were ye born to be And, as he goes about the ring,

An hour or half's delight, We will not miss

And so to bid good-night? To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Then come on shore,

Merely to show your worth, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have
CAREW.

Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shewn their pride,

Like you, awhile, they glide He that loves a rosy cheek,

Into the grave.
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,-

KING.
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Like to the falling of a star,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Or as the flights of eagles are; Hearts with equal love combin’d,

Or like the fresh springs gaudy bue, Kindle never-dying fires.

Or silver drops of morning dew; Where these are not, I despise

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

Or bubbles which on water stood:

Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light SONG.

Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

The winds blow out, the bubble dies; When June is past, the fading roses

The spring entamb'd in autumn lies; For, in your beauty's orient deep

The dew dries up, the star is shot ; These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

The flight is past—and man forgot. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair, Ask me no more whither doth haste

I in these flowery me The nightingale when May is past ;

These crystal streams should solace me,

DISDAIN RETURNED.

SIC VITA.

WALTON

THE ANGLER'S W88.

would be:

To whose harmonious bubbling noise

Here give my weary spirits rest, I with my angle would rejoice ;

And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above Sit here and see the turtle dove

Earth, or what poor mortals love ; Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

Or, with my Bryan and my book, Or on that bank feel the west wind

Loiter long days near Shawford brook : Breathe health and plenty: please my mind There sit by him and eat my meat, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,

There see the sun both rise and set, And then wash'd off by April showers;

There bid good morning to next day, Here hear my Kenna sing a song,

There meditate my time away, There see a blackbird feed her young,

And angle on, and beg to have Or a leverock build her nest :

A quiet passage to my grave.

a

BALLADS.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

(HAMILTON). A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride, Busk ye,

busk ye, my winsome marrow? Busk

ye,
busk

ye, my bony bony bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,'

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow?
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Why does she weep thy bony bony bride ?

Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, magn she

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, [weep, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow ?
What yonder floats on the rueful ruefúl Aude ?

What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.
Wash, 0 wash his wounds his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow,

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight, but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald a stronger arm

Thou met'st and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, [grass, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. FlowsYarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flowsTweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,

In floury bands thou him didst fetter,
Though he was fair and weil belov'd again,

Than me he never lued thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. c. How can I busk a bony bony bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow. O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing,

A SCOTTISH SONG.

Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;

If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
But e'er the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.

Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy, Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;

Thy father breides me great annoy. I sang, my voice the woods returning,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! But lang e'er night the spear was flown

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. That slew my love, and left me mourning.

When he began to court my luve, What can my barbarous barbarous father do,

And with his sugred words to muve, But with his cruel rage pursue me ?

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

To me that time did not appeire:

But now I see, most cruell hee How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

Cares neither for my babe nor mee. My happy sisters may be may be proud;

Balow, &c. With cruel and ungentle scoffin,

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

And when thou wakest sweitly smile: My luver nailed in his coffin.

But smile not, as thy father did,

To cozen maids; nay, God forbid ! My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, And strive with threatening words to muve me,

Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. My luver's blood is on thy spear,

Balow, &c. How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

I canoae chuse, but ever will Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,

Be luving to thy father stil: With bridal sheets my body cover,

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir be ryde, Unbar ye bridal maids the door,

My love with him maun stil abyde: Let in the expected husband lover.

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,

Mine hart can neir depart him frae. But who the expected husband husband is ?

Balow, &c. His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

To faynings fals thine hart incline: Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after.

Be loyal to thy luver trew,

And nevir change hir for a new :
Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,

If gude or faire, of hir have care,
O lay his cold head on my pillow ;
Take aff take aff these bridal weids,

For womens banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, &c. And crown my careful head with willow,

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; O could my warmth to life restore thee!

My babe and I'll together live, Yet lie all night between my briests,

He'll comfort me wlien cares doe grieve: No youth lay ever there before thee.

My babe and I right saft will ly,

And quite forget man's cruelty. Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,

Balow, &c. Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, And lye all night between my briests,

That ever kist a woman's mouth! No youth shall ever lye there after.

I wish all maids be warn’d by mee,

Nevir to trust man's curtesy; 4. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,

For if we doe bot chance to bow, Return and dry thy useless sorrow.

They'lle use us than they care not how. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

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