Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promised grace;

But ah! what served it to be happy so,

Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?
W. Drummond

535. Sweet Soul, Which in the April of

Thy Years

WEET soul, which in the April of thy years

SWEET

So to enrich the heaven mad'st poor this round, And now, with golden rays of glory crowned, Most blest abid'st above the spheres of spheres; If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe that all up-bears, If ruth and pity there above be found, O deign to lend a look unto these tears. Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacrifice; And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take. Let this for me suffice: My heart, a living pyramid, I raise;

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen. W. Drummond

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
W. Shakespeare

537. One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon

the Strand

NE day I wrote her name upon the strand,

ONE

But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide and made my pains his prey.
Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalise;

For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wipèd out likewise.
Not so (quod I); let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;
My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.

E. Spenser

538. I Know That All Beneath the Moon

I

Decays

KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,

And what by mortals in this world is brought
In time's great periods shall return to naught;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know how all the Muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite which is so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;
And that naught lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will invassall reason's power.
Know what I list, this all cannot me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.
W. Drummond

539. Thou Window, Once Which Servèd

for a Sphere

HOU window, once which served for a sphere

THOU

To that dear planet of my heart, whose light Made often blush the glorious queen of night, While she in thee more beauteous did appear, What mourning weeds, alas! now dost thou wear? How loathsome to mine eyes is thy sad sight? How poorly look'st thou, with what heavy cheer, Since that sun set, which made thee shine so bright?

Unhappy now thee close, for as of late
To wond'ring eyes thou wast a paradise,
Bereft of her who made thee fortunate,

A gulf thou art, whence clouds of sighs arise;
But unto none so noisome as to me,

Who hourly see my murdered joys in thee.

W. Drummond

540.

HE

Eglamour's Lament

ERE she was wont to go, and here, and here! Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow: The world may find the spring by following her; For other print her airy steps ne'er left: Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk; But like the soft west-wind she shot along; And where she went, the flowers took thickest root As she had sowed them with her odourous foot.

541.

O Crudelis Amor

B. Jonson

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,

And there arrived, a new admired guest,

The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,

To hear the stories of thy finish'd love

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
T. Campion

542.

Her Autumn

WHEN
WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green, all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
W. Shakespeare

543.

Like As the Culver, on the Barèd
Bough

LIKE as the Culver, on the bared bough,

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate; And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow For his return that seems to linger late: