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The music-loving birds are come
From cliffs and rocks unknown,
To see the trees and briars bloom
That late were overflown.

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
In every living thing,

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?
O beauty, be not thou accus'd
Too justly in this case!
Unkindly if true love be used,
"Twill yield thee little grace.

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,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;

Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy.
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!

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;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rosebuds filled with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

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 ;
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.

The palm and may make country-houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring!

JOHN DONNE

1573-1631

THIS HAPPY DREAM

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
It was a theme

For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou wak'dst me wisely; yet

My dream thou brok'st not but continu'dst it:

Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truth, and fables histories

Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

As lightning or a taper's light,

Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me.
Yet I thought thee

(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
Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying showed thee thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.

That love is weak, where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,

If mixture it of fear, shame, honour, have.
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

DEATH

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then

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,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two and wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

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.

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