I walk, whilst thought (too cruel to my harms,) With endless grief my heedless judgment charms. My silent tongue assail'd by secret fear, Oh, Love! thou guide in my uncertain way, SALADINE'S SONNET. From the same. Ir it be true that heaven's eternal course With restless sway, and ceaseless turning glides: Turns and returns with many fluent tides: If Earth, in Winter, Summer's pride estrange, If it be true that our immortal spright, Deriv'd from heavenly pure, in wandering still, In novelty and strangeness doth delight, Whence comes it, that inforc'd by furious skies, MONTANUS'S PASSION. From the same. HADST thou been born whereas perpetual cold Makes Tanais hard, and mountains silver old: 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, 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. Before I false my faith to thee. First shall the top of highest hills, And poets scorn the Muse's quills, First direful Hate shall turn to Peace, And Death his fatal stroke shall cease, And Envy pity every pain, And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile, First Time shall stay his stayless race, And Winter spring and Summer mourn, 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: 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, Heigh ho, for Rosalind. |