And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' ftrife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver ?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tafted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is fhe!
THE WOOING SONG OF PANGLORY.
LOVE is the bloom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows ;
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love:
Love the ftrong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose fhadows lions wild,
Softened by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no medicine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas:
Not all the kill his wounds can stanch,
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leavy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there fhrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that fing and play;
And of all Love's joyful flame
I the bud and bloom am.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing fball thy winning be.
See, see the flowers that below
Now as fresh as morning blow,
And of all, the virgin rose,
That as bright Aurora fhows;
How they all unleaved die,
Lofing their virginity:
Like unto a summer-fhade,
But now born, and now they fade.
Every thing doth pass away;
There is danger in delay.
Come, come gather, then, the rose;
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sand of Tagus' fore
In my bosom cafts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bowed,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me:
All the fars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing ball thy winning be.
Do not fear to put thy feet
Naked in the river, sweet;
Think not leech, or newt, or toad,
Will bite thy foot, when thou haft trod;
Nor let the water rising high,
As thou wad ft in, make thee cry,
And sob; but ever live with me,
And not a wave fhall trouble thee.
WEEP no more, nor figh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh, nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why bould sadness longer laft?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentleft fair, mourn, mourn no mo.
'Tis late and cold; ftir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold:
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You'll find but cold drink in the grave:
Plover, partridge for your dinner,
And a capon for the finner,
You shall find ready when you're up,
And
your horse fhall have his sup: Welcome, welcome, fhall fly round,
And I fall smile, though under ground.
TAKE, oh! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kies bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in vain.
Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are yet of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
DRINK to-day, and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:
Beft, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.
Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure 'gainst age but it;
It helps the head-ache, cough, and phthific,
And is for all diseases phyfic.
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