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Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise.
Nay, suns, which shine as clear
As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye winds would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Let Zephyr only breathe,
Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
SLEEP, SILENCE' CHILD
SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath :
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
DEAR chorister, who from these shadows sends,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains
Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky
Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? The bird, as if my question did her move,
With trembling wings sobbed forth, 'I love! I love!'
LIKE the Idalian queen,
Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen,
At first glance of the morn,
In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flowers
I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The winds and trees amazed
With silence on her gazed;
The flowers did smile, like those upon her face,
A hyacinth I wished me in her hand.
THE beauty and the life
Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon,
O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread
The soul with many a groan
Had left each outward part,
And now did take its last leave of the heart; Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead;
When the afflicted band about her bed,
Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Lightly, gentle earth,
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin :
Here the bones of birth have cried,
"Though gods they were, as men they died!
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON
TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
Do not conceal those radiant eyes,
The starlight of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
Do not conceal those tresses fair,
Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
No spices grow in all the rest.
Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,
Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;
Lest, music hearing no such thing,
The nightingale forget to sing.
Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;
Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all thy worth.
Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
Lest virtue overcome by vice