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May read in thee, –

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.


Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance

And teach the maid
That goodness Time's rude hand de-

fies, That virtue lives when beauty dies.]


1593–1634. (GEORGE HERBERT, born, 1592-3; died, 1634. He was Public Orator at Cambridge from 1619 to 1627, and was Rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, in 1631. His poems were first published, 1633.]

VIRTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, The bridal of the earth and sky,

A box where sweets compacted lie, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, My music shows you have your closes, For thou must die.

And all must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;
Thy root is ever in its grave,

But when the whole world turns to coal, And thou must die.

Then chiefly lives.


1589-1639. [THOMAS CAREW, Sewer in Ordinary to Charles I., was born about 1589, and died in 1639. He published Coelum Brittanicum, 1623, and Poems, 1640.]


Give me more love, or more disdain;

The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings equal ease unto my pain;

The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate,

Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love

Like Danaë in a golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven, that's but from hell re-

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

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But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combin’d,

Kindle never-dying fires; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

ASK ME NO MORE. Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties' orient deep, These fow'rs, as in their causes, sleep.

A PRAYER TO THE WIND, Go, thou gentle whispering wind, Bear this sigh; and if thou find Where my cruel fair doth rest, Cast it in her snowy breast; So enflam'd hy my desire, It may set her heart a-fire : Those sweet kisses thou shalt gain, Will reward thee for thy pain. Boldly light upon her lip, There suck odors, and thence skip To her bosom; lastly, fall Down, and wander over all ; Range about those ivory hills From whose every part distils Amber dew; there spices grow, There pure streams of nectar flow :

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

There perfume thyself, and bring The white my innocence displaying,
All those sweets upon thy wing: The red my martyrdom betraying:
As thou return'st change by thy pow'r The frowns that on your brow resided,
Every weed into a flow'r;

Have those roses thus divided.
Turn each thistle to a vine,

0! let your smiles but clear the weather, Make the bramble eglantine;

And then they both shall grow together,
For so rich a booty made,
Do but this, and I am paid.
Thou canst wit thy pow'rful blast,

Heat apace, and cool as fast :
Thou canst kindle hidden flame,

Ask me why I send you here
And again destroy the same :

This firstling of the infant year; Then, for pity, either stir

Ask me why I send to you Up the fire of love in her,

This primrose all bepearld with dew; That alike both flames may shine,

I straight will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears: Or else quite extinguish mine.

Ask me why this flow'r doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;

Ask me why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break; KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, I must tell you, these discover 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown:

What doubts and fevers are in a lover. Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, liv'd unknown,

THE PROTESTATION. Had not my verse exhal'd thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. No more shall the meads be deck'd with

flowers, That killing power is none of thine, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers;

I gave it to thy voice and eyes : Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Nor warbling birds delight to sing;

Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Nor April violets paint the grove; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere If I forsake my Celia's love. Lightning on him that fix'd thee there.

The fish shall in the ocean burn, Tempt me with such affrights no more,

And fountains sweet shall bitter turn; Lest what I made I uncreate :

The humble oak no flood shall know Let fools thy mystic forms adore,

When floods shall highest hills o'erflow; I'll know thee in thy mortal state.

Black Lethe shall oblivion leave;
Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, If e'er my Celia I deceive.
Knew her themselves through all her

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, veils.

And Venus' doves want wings to fly;

The sun refuse to show his light, RED AND WHITE ROSES.

And day shall then be turn'd to night,

And in that night no star appear;
Read in these roses the sad story,

If once I leave my Celia dear.
Of my hard fate, and your own glory:
In the white you may discover

Love shall no more inhabit earth,
The paleness or a fainting lover; Nor lovers more shall love for worth;
In the red the flames still feeding Nor joy above in heaven dwell,
On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. Nor pain torment poor souls in hell;
The white will tell you how I languish, Grim Death no more shall horrid prove;
And the red express my anguish: If e'er I leave bright Celia's love.


1618–1667 [ABRAHAM Cowley was the posthumous son of a London stationer, and was born in the latter part of the year 1618. He was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, where he remained from 1636 to 1643. He took the royalist side during the Civil War, and helped the King's cause both at Oxford and afterwards as Secretary to the Queen in her exile in Paris. In 1655 he returned to England, where he remained under strict surveillance till Cromwell's death; then he rejoined his friends in France. At the Restoration he came back, and lived in retirement at Barnes and Chertsey till his death in 1667. His poems were, published in the following order : Poetical Blossomes, 1633; Love's Riddle, a comedy, 1638; The Mistress, 1647; The Guardian (surreptitiously published), 1650; the first folio edition of the Works, 1656; other editions of the same followed with the addition of such new poems and essays as he produced from time to time. The most complete editions of his works are those which appeared in 1708 and 1721.]


say the old :

to see

may be.


Ah, wretched We! poets of earth!

but thou WHERE honor, or where conscience does

Wert living the same poet which thou'rt not bind, No other law shall shackle me;

Whilst angels sing to thee their airs Slave to myself I will not be:

divine, Nor shall my future actions be confin'd

And join in an applause so great as By my own present mind.

thine, Who by resolves and vows engag'd does

Equal society with them to hold, stand

Thou need'st not make new songs, but For days that yet belong to Fate, Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his es

And they, kind Spirits! Shall all rejoice tate Before it falls into his hand.

How little less than they exalted man
The bondman of the cloister so
All that he does receive does always owe;
And still as time comes in, it goes away,
Not to enjoy, but debts to pay.

Unhappy slave! and pupil to a bell!
Which his hour's work, as well as hours,

What shall I do to be forever known, does tell!

And make the age to come my own? Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing I shall like beasts or common people knell.

die, Unless you write my elegy; Whilst others great by being born are


Their mother's labor, not their own. Poet and Saint! to thee alone are giv'n In this scale gold, in th' other fame does The two most sacred names of earth lie; and heav'n,

The weight of that mounts this so high. The hard and rarest union which can be, These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded Next that of Godhead with humanity.

brig't, Long did the Muses banished slaves Brought orth with their own fire and abide,

light. And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, Like Moses thou (thu'spells and charms Out of myself it must be strook. withstand)

Yet I must on: What sound is't strikes Hast brought them nobly home back to mine ear? their Holy Land.

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear :

It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can If my abused touch allow
Raise up the bury'd man.

Aught to be smooth or soft but thou ! Unpass'd Alps stop me, but I'll cut If what seasonable springs, through all,

Or the eastern summer brings, And march, the Muse's Hannibal. Do my smell persuade at all Hence, all the flatt’ring vanities that lay Aught perfume but thy breath to call; Nets of roses in the way;

If all my senses objects be Hence, the desire of honors or estate, Not contracted into thee, And all that is not above Fate;

And so through thee more pow'rful pass, Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my As beams do through a burning-glass; days,

If all things that in nature are Which intercepts my coming praise. Either soft, or sweet, or fair, Come, my best Friends ! my books! and Be not in thee so epitomiz’d, lead me on,

That nought material's not compris'd, 'Tis time that I were gone.

May I as worthless seem to thee, Welcome, great Stagirite! and teach As all but thou appear to me.

me now All I was born to know:

THE WISH. Thy scholar's vict'ries thou dost far outdo;

WELL, then, I now do plainly see, He conquer'd the earth, the whole world This busy world and I shall ne'er agree, you.

The very honey of all earthly joy Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose bless'd Does of all meats the soonest cloy: tongue and wit

And they (methinks) deserve my pity Preserves Rome's greatness yet:

Who for it can endure the stings, Thou art the first of orators; only he The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings, Who best can praise thee next must be. Of this great hive, the City. Welcome the Mantuan swan! Virgil the wise,

Ah! yet, e'er I descend to the grave, Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; May I a small house and large garden Who brought green Poesy to her per


And a few friends, and many books, both And made that art which was a rage.

true, Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I Both wise, and both delightful too! do

And since Love ne'er will from me flee, To be like one of you?

A mistress moderately fair,
But you have climb'd the mountain's And good as guardian angels are,
top, there sit

Only belov’d, and loving me!
On the calm flourishing head of it,
And whilst, with wearied steps, we up-

LOVE IN HER SUNNY EYES. See us and clouds below.

Love in her sunny eyes does basking

play: Love walks the pleasant mazes of her

hair; THE SOUL.

Love does on both her lips for ever If mine eyes do e'er declare

stray, They've seen a second thing that's fair; And sows and reaps a thousand kisses Or ears that they have music found,

there; Besides thy voice, in any sound;

In all her outward parts Love's always If my taste do ever meet,

seen, After thy kiss with aught that's sweet; But, Oh! he never went within.

fect age,

ward go,

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