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I walk, whilst thought (too cruel to my harms,) With endless grief my heedless judgment charms.

My silent tongue assail'd by secret fear,
My traitorous eyes imprison'd in their joy:
My fatal peace devour'd in feigned cheer,
My heart enforc'd to harbour in annoy:
My Reason rob'd of power by yielding Care,
My fond opinions slave to every toy.

Oh, Love! thou guide in my uncertain way,
Woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay!

SALADINE'S SONNET.

From the same.

Ir it be true that heaven's eternal course

With restless sway, and ceaseless turning glides:
If air inconstant be, and swelling source

Turns and returns with many fluent tides:

If Earth, in Winter, Summer's pride estrange,
And Nature seemeth only fair in change:

If it be true that our immortal spright,

Deriv'd from heavenly pure, in wandering still,

In novelty and strangeness doth delight,
And by discovering power discerneth ill:
And if the body, for to work his best,
Doth with the seasons change his place of rest:

Whence comes it, that inforc'd by furious skies,
I change both place and soil, but not my heart,
Yet salve not in this change my maladies?
Whence grows it that each object works my smart?
Alas! I see my faith procures my miss,
And change in Love against my nature is.
Et florida pungunt.

MONTANUS'S PASSION.

From the same.

HADST thou been born whereas perpetual cold

Makes Tanais hard, and mountains silver old:
Had I complain'd unto a marble stone,
Or to the floods bewray'd my bitter moan,

I then could bear the burthen of my grief:

But even the pride of countries at thy birth, Whilst heaven did smile, did new array the earth, With flowers chief:

Yet thou, the flower of beauty, blessed born,

Hast pretty looks, but all attir'd in scorn.

Had I the power to weep

sweet Mirrha's tears,

Or by my tears to pierce repining ears:

Hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint,
To scorn the woes that doth my heart attaint,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief:
But not my tears, but truth with thee prevails,
And seeming sour thy sorrows thee assails:

Yet small relief:

For if thou wilt, thou art of marble hard;

And if thou please, my suit shall soon be heard.

CHARACTERS GRAVEN ON A BEECH TREE.

From the same.

FIRST shall the heavens want starry light;

The seas be robbed of their waves:

The day want sun, and sun want bright,

The night want shade, the dead men graves.
The April flowers, and leaves, and tree,

Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the top of highest hills,
By humble plains be overpride,

And poets scorn the Muse's quills,
And fish forsake the water glide:
And Iris lose her colour'd weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.

First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,
And Love relent in deep disdain,

And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,

And Envy pity every pain,

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with corn,
And snow bemoisten Julia's face,

And Winter spring and Summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION.

From the same.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of self-same colours is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.

Her

eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The Gods do fear when as they glow,

And I do tremble when I think.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud, That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver crimson shroud,

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:

Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

Her eyes are like to budded roses,

Whom ranks of lillies neighbour nigh,

Within which bounds she balm incloses,

Apt to entice a Deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;

Heigh ho, for Rosalind.

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