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THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In desarts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush to be admired.

Then, die; that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share,

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

Bòrn 1607, died 1666.

THE ROSE.

Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes;

Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade cre noon,
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.

If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane;
For that same beauty doth in bloody leaves

The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn ;

And many Herods lie in wait each hour

To murder thee as soon as thou art born,

Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath
Anticipating life, to hasten death.

JOHN MILTON.

Born 1608, died 1674.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still! Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of Day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love: O if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, e'er the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

SONNET.

O lady fair! whose honour'd name is borne
By that soft vale, where Rhine so loves to stray,
And sees the tall arch crown his watery way!
Sure happy he, though much the Muse's scorn,
Too dull to die beneath thy beauty's ray,

98

HENRY GLAPTHORNE.

Who never felt that spirit's charmed sway Which gentle smiles and gentle deeds adorn; Though in those smiles are all love's arrows worn,

Each radiant virtue though those deeds display! Sure happy he, who that sweet voice should hear Mould the soft speech, or swell the tuneful strain, And, conscious that his humble vows were vain, Shut fond attention from his closed ear;

Who, piteous of himself, should timely part,
Ere love had held long empire in his heart!

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Unclose those eye-lids, and outshine
The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover is divine,

Why should it fade so soon away?
Stars vanish so, and day appears ;
The suns so drown'd i' th' morning tears.

Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,
Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover!
It is not love's but sorrow's duty,
To die so soon for a dead lover.
Banish, oh banish grief, and then
Our joys will bring our hopes again.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Born 1609, died 1641.

When, dearest! I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted;
For beauties that from worth arise,
Are, like the grace of deities,

Still present with us, though unsight.ed.

Thus, whilst I sit and sigh the day,
With all his borrow'd lights away,
Till night's black wings do overtake me ;
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleepy men,
So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies; and dying, proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection:
Since in the darkest night they may,
By love's quick motion, find a way
To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood
Bathe some high promont', that has stood
Far from the main up in the river:
Oh! think not, then, but love can do
As much; for that's an ocean too,
Which flows not every day, but ever!

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