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Yet by his leave (for all his haste)
He did not so much wish all past
Perchance as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring,
Would not stay on, which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck :

And to say truth (for out it must)
It looked like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But O she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin.
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face;
I durst no more upon them gaze
Than on the sun in July.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving man with dish in hand,

Marched boldly up like our trained band, Presented, and away.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick:

And when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth;
And who could help it, Dick?

On a sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again and kiss:

Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.

THE GRASSHOPPER

From ODE TO MR. C. COTTON

RICHARD LOVELACE

H! thou that swingst upon the waving car
Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear,

Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert reared;

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly, And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomest then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

S

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

WEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

And all must die.

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

THE THIRSTY EARTH SOAKS UP THE

RAIN

ABRAHAM COWLEY

HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

THE

And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair,
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By its drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.

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