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Or the stream
That no beam
Therefore mortals all, deluded
By thy grave and wrinkled face, In their judgments have concluded That thy slow and snail-like pace
Still doth bend
To no end,
Budding youth's vain blooming wit
Thinks the spring shall ever last ; And the gaudy flowers that sit On Flora's brow, shall never taste
Nor, forlorn, Bend their heads with chilling blast.
Riper age expects to have
toil : Times to give, and to receive Seeds and fruits from fertile soil :
But at length
Doth his strength,
Cold December hope retains,
That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving:
But thy scythe
Ends his strife,
[From Alison's “ Hour's Recreation in Musick,"
In hope a king doth go to war,
In hope, a lover lives full long;
In hope, just men do suffer wrong:
Though wit bids will to blow retreat,
Will cannot work as wit could wish.
Too late to warn the hungry fish.
[From Wilbye's “ Second set of Madrigales," 1609.]
Love not me for comely grace,
So thou and I shall sever ;
And love me still, but know not why,
To doat upon me ever.
[From the same.)
Draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares
That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares,
That unto thee I consecrate it wholly,
Sweet night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from
paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold,
I then shall have best time for my complaining. [From the same.)
So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When she revisits Cyprus' hallow'd bowers, Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,
Can draw her chariot ʼmidst the Paphian flowers, Lightness to love how ill it fitteth, So heavy on my heart she sitteth.
[From the same.]
HAPPY, oh happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind repos'd, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares ! Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.