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, 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 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 Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade cre noon, If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; 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 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 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, Unclose those eye-lids, and outshine Why should it fade so soon away? Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty, SIR JOHN SUCKLING. Born 1609, died 1641. When, dearest! I but think of thee, Still present with us, though unsight.ed. Thus, whilst I sit and sigh the day, Thus absence dies; and dying, proves The waving sea can with each flood |