The music-loving birds are come What Saturn did destroy, Love's Queen revives again; And now her naked boy Doth in the fields remain, Where he such pleasing change doth view As if the world were born anew To gratify the Spring. If all things life present, Why die my comforts then? Why suffers my content? Am I the worst of men? FOLLOW YOUR SAINT FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love; But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. All that I sang still to her praise did tend, Yet she my love and music both doth fly, It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. CHERRY-RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds filled with snow: Her eyes like angels watch them still; THOMAS NASH 1567-1601 SPRING SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring ; The palm and may make country-houses gay, The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, JOHN DONNE 1573-1631 THIS HAPPY DREAM DEAR love, for nothing less than thee For reason, much too strong for fantasy. My dream thou brok'st not but continu'dst it: Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best As lightning or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me. (For thou lov'st truth) an angel at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, then thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then; I must confess, it could not choose but be Coming and staying showed thee thee, That love is weak, where fear's as strong as he; If mixture it of fear, shame, honour, have. DEATH DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow From rest and sleep which but thy picture be, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore. And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more. |