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Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; 0, Cupid, so thou pity me,
I will not wish to part from thee.
A YEAR AGO.
A YEAR ago, a year ago,
I thought my heart so cold and still, That Love it never more could know :
That withering Time, and Sorrow's chill,
I said “I ne'er shall love again "-
A year ago, a year ago,
My soul was wrapt in grief and gloom, And sighs would swell, and tears would flow,
As, bending o'er the lost one's tomb,
I felt I ne'er could love again-
A year ago, a year ago,
All vain were Beauty's witching wiles, And eye of light, and breast of snow,
And raven tress, and lip of smiles,
I never wished to love again-
LOVE'S EXCUSE FOR SADNESS.
Cuide not belov'd, if oft with thee
I feel not rapture wholly;
Runs o'er in melancholy.
From summer skies is given ;
'Tis but the cloud of heaven!
Thine image glass'd within my soul,
So well the mirror keepeth;
The shadow also sleepeth.
THE SHEPHEARD TO THE
Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, which you couched
beare Within your palie faces, Upon the gentle wing of some calme breath
ing winde That playes amidst the plaine, If by the favour of propitious starres you
gaine Such grace as in my ladie's bosom place to
find, Be proud to touch those places ! And when her warmth your moysture
forth doth weare,
Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed, Your honours of the flowrie meades, I pray, You pretty daughters of the earth and
sunne, With milde and seemely breathing straite
display My bitter sighs, that have my hart undone!
Vermillion roses, that with new dayes rise Display your crimson fold, fresh looking,
faire, Whose radiant bright disgraces The rich adorned rayes of roseate-rising
morn! Ah! if her virgin's hand Do pluck your purse, ere Phoebus view the
land, And vaile your gracious pomp in lovely
Nature's scorn, If chaunce my mistress traces Fast by your flowers to take the Sommer's
ayre, Then wofull blushing tempt her glorious
eyes To spread their teares, Adonis' death report
And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for
her friend, Whose drops of bloud withén your leaves
consorting, Report fair Venus' moanes to have no end, Then may Remorse, in pittying of my smart, Drie up my teares, and dwell within her hart!
PHILLIS, men say that all my vows
Are to thy fortune paid; Alas! my heart he little knows
Who thinks my love a trade.
Were I, of all these woods, the lord,
One berry from thy hand More real pleasure would afford,
Than all my large command.