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OME live with me, and be my love ;

And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold ;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
An if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.




Brighter than sunshine ; for it did acquaint The dullest sight with all the glorious prey That in the pebble-paved channel lay. No molten crystal, but a richer mine,

Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran thereDiamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine, Through whose bright-gliding current might

A thousand paked nymphs, who ivory shine,

Enamelling the banks, made them more dear
Than ever was that glorious palace gate
Where the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.

Upon this brim the eglantine and rose,

The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree, As kind companions, in one union grows,

Folding their twining arms, as oft we see
Turtle-taught lovers either other close,

Lending to dulness feeling sympathy ;
And as a costly valance o'er a bed,
So did their garland-tops the brook o'erspread.

Their leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show,

Though all were green, yet difference such in green, Like to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow,

Prided the running main, as it had been,




HE parrot, from East India to me sent,

Is dead : all fowls, her exequies frequent !
Go, godly birds, striking your breasts, bewail,
And with rough claws your tender cheeks assail.
For woful hairs let piece-torn plumes abound ;
For long shrild trumpets let your notes resound.
Why, Philomel, dost Tereus' lewdness mourn ?
All-wasting years have that complaint now worn :
Thy tunes let this rare bird's sad funeral borrow,
Itys a great, but ancient cause of sorrow.
All you whose pinions in the clear air soar,
But most, thou friendly turtle-dove, deplore :
Full concord all your lives was you betwixt,
And to the end your constant faith stood fixt;
What Pylades did to Orestes prove,
Such to the parrot was the turtle-dove.
But what avail'd this faith? her rarest hue !
Or voice that how to change the wild notes knew!

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