But, being spent, the worse and worse Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, whilst ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

TO MEADOWS.

Ye have been fresh and green,

Ye have been filled with flowers;

And ye the walks have been,

Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld where they

With wicker arks did come;

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
Each virgin, like the spring,
With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here,
Whose silvery feet did tread;

And, with dishevelled hair,
Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts having spent

Your stock, and needy grown;

You're left here to lament,

Your poor estates alone.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see,
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun,
Has not attained its noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run,

But to the even song,

And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain,

Or, as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

THE NIGHT-PIECE.-TO JULIA.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee;

Nor snake, nor slow-worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee,

Let not the dark thee cumber,
What though the moon doth slumber?
The stars of the night,

Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.

May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, you, awhile they glide

Like

Into the grave.

The want in these graceful and delicate lyrics is thew and sinew. And yet they are what they pretend to be-airy petals of the cherry-blossom, hinting of fruit, bees fluttering and musical, giving token of honey.

The Muse fares ill in civil contentions. As Herrick fled before the Roundheads, so was George Wither opprest by the Cavaliers. The following noble praise of poetry was written in a prison; in a prison the poor poet passed many of his latter years, and it is still a question whether he actually died in confinement, or perished of want and misery after his release.

But, alas! my muse is slow;
For thy pace she flags too low.
But though for her sake I'm curst,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble,
Ten times more than ten times double;
I would love and keep her too
Spite of all the world could do.

For though banished from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,

And consume the sullen night;
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,
And those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though I may not see those groves,

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel

Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;

Though of all those pleasures past

Nothing now remains at last,
But remembrance, poor relief

That more makes than mends my grief;
She's my mind's companion still
Maugre Envy's evil will:

Whence she should be driven too,
Were't in mortal's power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
In her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.

In

my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw;
And raise Pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustling;

By a daisy, whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
On a shady bush or tree
She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Some things, that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness :