That she may thy career with roses spread. Give life to this dark world which lieth dead! In larger locks than thou wast wont before, With diadem of pearl thy temples fair. Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. * ** * * * This is the morn should bring unto this grove My love, to hear, and recompence my love! But shew thy blushing beams; And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see, than those which by Penéus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now Flora deck thyself in fairest guise, If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let zephyr.only breathe, And with her tresses play. 1 The winds all silent are, Makes vanish every star. Night, like a drunkard, reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. And nothing wanting is, save she, alas! SONNET. THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove, own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. SONNET. SWEET spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. Thou turn'st, sweet youth! but ah! my pleasant hours And happy days, with thee come not again! Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to sours! Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair, But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours, THIS world a hunting is, The prey poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death; His speedy greyhounds are Lust, sickness, envy, care, Strife, that ne'er falls amiss, With all those ills that haunt us while we breathe. |