Lapas attēli

Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
And roses of their thorns disarm;
But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods,
Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime

To kill her infants in their prime,

Should quickly make the example yours;
And, ere we see,

Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee.


THE wanton troopers riding by

Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm, alas! nor could
Thy death yet ever do them good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill,
Nor do I for all this, nor will.
But if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears
Rather than fail.

But O my fears!

It cannot die so.

Heaven's King

Keeps register of everything,

And nothing may we use in vain ;

Even beasts must be with justice slain,

Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean, their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain.

There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me; nay, and I know
What he said then, I'm sure I do:
Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!'
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled;
This waxed tame while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart
Left me his fawn, but took my heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away

With this; and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent ;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me: how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me!

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As Sylvio did; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.

But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they

It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft

And white-shall I say?-than my hand,
Nay, any lady's of the land!

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
"Twas on those little silver feet:
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race :-
And when 't had left me far away
"Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness:

And all the spring-time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ;

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes.

For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold :-
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without-roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint
And die as calmly as a saint!
See how it weeps! the tears do come
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It, till it doth o'erflow, with mine,
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go;

In fair Elysium to endure

With milk-white lambs and ermines pure

O, do not run too fast, for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal
Let it be weeping too; but there
The engraver sure his art may spare ;
For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there;
Then at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be

White as I can, though not as thee.


My love is of a birth as rare

As 'tis, for object, strange and high;

It was begotten by despair
Upon impossibility.

Magnanimous despair alone

Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive

Where my extended soul is fixed;

But fate does iron wedges drive,

And always crowds itself betwixt.

For fate with jealous eyes does see

Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;

Their union would her ruin be,

And her tyrannic power depose.

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