Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend! Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter's head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, [1 st. 'Bove all-nothing within that lowers. [ 3 st. M MONTROSE'S LOVE. Y dear and only love, I pray That little world,—of THEE,— Be govern'd by no other sway Than purest Monarchy. For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, As Alexander I will reign, He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch And in the Empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to vie with me, [1 st. But if thou wilt prove faithful then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen, G I'll serve thee in such noble ways I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, Marquis of Montrose. A LOVER'S ABSENCE. O carve our loves in myrtle rinds And tell our secrets to the woods, To send our sighs by faithful winds, And trust our tears unto the floods; To call where no man hears, And think that rocks have ears; To walk and rest, to live and die, And yet not know whence, how or why; A lover's absence say. Follies without, are cares within; Where eyes do fail, there souls begin. William Cartwright. THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE. O, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her grace spy'd, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer her self to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, That are so wond'rous sweet and fair. We have short time to stay, as you, As quick a growth to meet decay, We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Robert Herrick. THE NIGHTINGALE. WEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours Well pleased with delights which present are, William Drummond. |