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XLIV

LOOK, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour,

Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty Time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
She then is scorned that late adorned the fair;

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.
No April can revive thy withered flowers,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,
But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again.

SAMUEL DANIEL

1562-1619

BEA

XLV

QEAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that in beauty's lease, expired, appears
The date of age, the calends of our death,-
But ah, no more !—this must not be foretold;
For women grieve to think they must be old.

SAMUEL DANIEL

1562-1619

XLVI

CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night,

Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
With dark forgetting of my care return,

And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

MICHAEL DRAYTON

1563-1631

XLVII

EAR, why should you command me to my rest,

DEAR

When now the night doth summon all to sleep?

Methinks this time becometh lovers best :

Night was ordained together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things,

Which though the day disjoin by several flight,
The quiet Evening yet together brings,

And each returns unto his love at night!

O thou that art so courteous unto all,

Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus,
That every creature to his kind dost call,

And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?
Well could I wish it would be ever day,
If when night comes, you bid me go away.

XLVIII

SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—

Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,-

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

XLIX

ERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

WER

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
Ascend to heaven in honour of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done.

Whereso'er I am, below or else above you,

Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

MICHAEL

DRAYTON

1563-1631

JOSHUA SYLVESTER

1563-1618

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE

1564-1616

L

(8)

MUSIC to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing :
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

LI

( 12 )

WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green, all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence.
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

W

LII

( 15 )

WHEN I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory:
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE

1564-1616

LIII

(17)

WHO will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were filled with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,-in it, and in my rime.

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