16. Beauty, Sweet Love, Is Like the Morning Dew

BE

EAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;

The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appears
The Date of Age, the Kalends of our Death
But ah! no more! this must not be foretold,
For women grieve to think they must be old.

S. Daniel

17.

When Daffodils Begin to Peer

WHEN daffodils begin to peer,

WHEN

With heigh! the doxy over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark that tirra-lirra chants,

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

W. Shakespeare

18. Fair Is My Love for April's in Her Face

FAIR is my love for April's in her face:

Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place,

But cold December dwelleth in her heart; Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes,
As air perfumed with amber is her breath,
Like swelling waves, her lovely breasts do rise,

As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death : Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live, When unkind earth, death and despair doth give!

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face,

Love twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favour, courtesy, and grace,

But touch her heart, ah that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain. R. Greene

19.

To Aurora

IF thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,

And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
What world of loving wonders should'st thou see;
For if I saw thee once transformed in me,
Then in thy bosom would I pour my soul;
Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
And if that ought mischanced thou should'st not moan
Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;

No, I would have my share in what were thine.
And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
This happy harmony would make them none.

20.

O

W. Alexander, Earl of Stirling
Aurora

HAPPY Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap,
And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,

Then need'st thou not which ah! I grieve to grant -
Repine at Jove, lulled in his leman's lap:
That golden shower in which he did repose
One dewy drop it stains.

Which thy Aurora rains
Upon the rural plains,

When from thy bed she passionately goes.

Then, wakened with the music of the merles,
She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:
That faithful flame which in her bosom burns
From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:

Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,
She so her grief delates.

-O favoured by the fates
Above the happiest states,

Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!

21.

W. Alexander, Earl of Stirling

To Meadows

E have been fresh and green,

YE

Ye have been filled with flowers,

And ye the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they

With wicker arks did come

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round:
Each virgin like a spring,
With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here
Whose silvery feet did tread
And with dishevelled hair
Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock and needy grown,
You're left here to lament
Your poor estates, alone.

R. Herrick

22.

23.

The Primrose

ASK me why I send you here

This Sweet Infanta of the year?

Ask me why I send to you

This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?
I will whisper to your ears:

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, [yet it doth not break]?
I will answer:- These discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.

T. Carew or R. Herrick