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The Primrose.

Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break ;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

CAREw.

Serenade.

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies:

And winking marybuds begin

To ope their golden eyes ;

With every thing that pretty bin ;

My lady sweet, arise. SHAKSPEARE.

Primula Veris.

Qvaeris cur tibi muneri
Sic anni dederim primitias novi,

Cur hic flos tibi venerit,
Primi veris honos, roribus emicans ? —

Qvas dat delicias Amor,
Illas, crede mihi, fletubus inrigat.—

Qvaeris cur ita pallidus
Aegrescat viridi lumine flosculus;

Culmo cur tenero nimis
Flectatur, neqve adhuc fractus humi cadat ?—
Haec te, crede mihi, docent

Ut spes inter Amor pendeat et metus.
K.

Surgere iam Tempus.

Audisne ? caeli iam canit ad fores
Alauda: iam sol deseruit torum,
Et flore sub clauso latentes
Suadet eqvos reserare fontes.

Iam semiapertos pandere calthulae
Gaudent ocellos : qvidqvid amat Venus
Iam surgit: O tandem morantes
Discutias, mea vita, somnos.

To the Redbreast.

Unheard in summer's flaring ray,
Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer,
Wooing the stillness of the autumn day;
Bid it a moment linger,
Nor fly
Too soon from winter's scowling eye.

The blackbird's song at eventide,
And her's who gay ascends,
Filling the heavens far and wide,
Are sweet ; but none so blends
As thine

With calm decay and peace divine.
KEBLE.

Shylock.

B. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

S. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
B. Do all men kill the things they do not love ?
S. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ?
B. Every offence is not a hate at first.
S. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee

twice ? SHAKSPEARE.

i

Ad Rubeculam.

O qvae muta sedes, sol ubi fervidis
Aestivum radiis occupat aera,
Nunc, arguta volucris,
Desuetum repara melos,

Auctumniqve diem compositam tuis
Capta carminibus, ne nimium cito
Torvae lumina brumae
Pormidans fugiat retro.

Sub noctem merulae suave sonant modi;
Nec non suave sonant illius illius,
Qvae summas petit auras
Et lati spatia aetheris

Inplet laetitia: neutra tamen mihi
Tam morti placidae consona, tam piae
Concordare videtur
Paci qvam tua carmina.
R. B.

Vindicta.

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