« ElőzőTovább »
THYRSIS'S PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS.
[From England's Helicon.] On a hill that grac'd the plain Thyrsis sate, a comely swain,
Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill; Whilst his flock, that wander'd nigh, Cropt the green grass busily,
Thus he tuned his oaten quill :
Ver hath made the pleasant field
They in pleasing passen all.
Leafy groves now mainly ring
Notes that make the echoes long :
And are list'ning to her song,
Fairly spreads the damask rose,
Beauties, pencils cannot feign: Yet, if Astra pass the bush, Roses have been seen to blush;
She doth all their beauties stain,
Fields are blest with flow'ry wreath,
Birds make happy every grove,
She makes marble fall in love.
THE SYREN'S SONG.
[In the Inner Temple Mask.]
Steer, hither steer, your winged pines,
All beaten mariners !
A prey to passengers.
Fear not your ships,
Where never storms arise,
For stars, gaze on our eyes ; The compass love shall hourly sing, And, as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more.
Bishop of Chichester, was born in 1591. He turned the
Psalms into verse in 1651, and published in 1657 a small volume of Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets. His Elegies are written on the deaths of Prince Henry, Sir Walter Raleigh, Gustavus Adolphus, Dr. Donne, and Ben Jonson, whom he laments as his dead friends, and some others; particularly his father, Dr. John King, bishop of
London. His poems are terse and elegant, but, like those of most of
his contemporaries, deficient in simplicity. He died in 1669.
What is th' existence of man's life?
It is a storm, where the hot blood
Which beats his bark with many a wave Till he casts anchor in the
It is a fow'r, which buds, and grows,
It is a dream, whose seeming truth
It is a dial, which points out
It is a weary interlude,