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How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous,

flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you

here, And call'd their fellows to the sight, Would, looking round for the same

sight in vain, Creep back into their silent barks again. Where'er you walk'd trees were as rev

erend made, As when of old gods dwelt in every shade.

Is't possible they should not know,
What loss of honor they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,

And still their former pride retain ? Dull creatures ! 'tis not without cause

that she, Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree.

In ancient times sure they much wiser

were, When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse

to hear;
In vain did nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song hegun,
They call’d their wondering roots away,

And bade them silent to him run. How would those learned trees have

followed you? You would have drawn them, and their

poet too. But who can blame them now? for,

since you're gone, They're here the only fair, and shine

alone. You did their natural rights invade : Where ever you did walk or sit, The thickest boughs could make no

shade, Although the Sun had granted it: The fairest flowers could please no

more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them,

could do. When e'er then you came hither, that

shall be The time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear,
When by their sight they let us know

How we depriv'd of greater are. 'Tis you the best of seasons with you

bring; This is for beasts, and that for men the



1618–1658. (Richard LOVELACE was born at Woolwich in 1618; he died in Gunpowder Alley, near Shoe Lane, London, in April, 1658. His Lucasta was published in 1649, and his Posihume Poems in 1659. He was the author of The Scholar, a comedy, written in 1634, and of The Soldier, a tragedy, written in 1640, but these dramas are lost.]

WHEN love with unconfined wings When I lie tangled in her hair,
Hovers within my gates,

And fetter'd to her eye,
And my divine Althea brings

The birds that wanton in the air To whisper at my grates;

Know no such liberty.

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1608-9-1642. . [SUCKLING was born at Twickenham in 1608-9, and committed suicide in Paris in 1642. He published during his lifetime the drama of Aglaura, in 1638, and the Ballad of a Wedding, in 1640. His other works were first collected posthumously in 1648, under the title of Fragmenta Aurea.]


I PRITHEE, SEND ME BACK MY Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her, I PRITHEE, send me back my heart,
Looking ill prevail?

Since I cannot have thine;
Prithee, why so pale?

For if from yours you will not part,

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute ?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

To find it were in vain;
Saying nothing do't?

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Prithee, why so mute?

Would steal it back again.
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, If of herself she will not love,

And yet not lodge together?
Nothing can make her.

O Love! where is thy sympathy,
The devil take her!

If thus our breasts thou sever?

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1639-1701. [Sir Charles Sedley was born at Aylesford in 1639, and died August 20, 1701. His most famous comedy, The Mulberry Garden, appeared in 1688; his poetical and dramatic works were collected in 1719.]


[From The Mulberry Garden.) Ay, Chloris! that I now could sit My passion with your beauty grew, As unconcerned, as when

And Cupid at my heart, Your infant beauty could beget

Still, as his mother favored you,
No pleasure nor no pain.

Threw a new flaming dart.
When I the dawn used to admire, Each gloried in their wanton part:
And praised the coming day,

To make a lover, he
I little thought the growing fire

Employed the utmost of his art Must take my rest away.

To make a beauty she. lour charms in harmless childhood lay, | Though now I slowly bend to love, Lise metals in the mine:

Uncertain of my fate, Age from no face took more away,

If your fair self my chains approve, Than youth concealed in thine.

I shall my freedom hate. But as your charms insensibly

Lovers, like dying men, may well
To their perfection pressed,

At first disordered be;
Fond love as unperceived did fly, Since none alive can truly tell
And in my bosom rest.

What fortune they must see.


1615(?)-1650. (RICHARD CRASHAW, born, 1615 (?); expelled from Cambridge, 1644; became a Roman Catholic. Published Steps to the Altar, 1646, and died canon of Loretto, 1650.]


What bright soft thing is this,
Sweet Mary, thy fair eyes expense?

A moist spark it is.
A wat'ry diamond; from whence
The very term I think was found,
The water of a diamond.


WOULD'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks

Age? would'st see December smile?
Would'st see hosts of new roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring?
In some would'st see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours,
Fall with soft wings stuck with soft

And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay -
A kiss, a sigh, and so — - away;
This rare one, reader, would'st thou see?
Hark hither! — and thyself be he.

O'tis not a tear,
'Tis a star about to drop

From thine eye its sphere,
The sun will stoop and take it up,
Proud will his sister be to wear
This thine eye's jewel in her ear.

O'tis a tear,
Too true a tear; for no sad een

How sad soe'er
Rain so tear as thine;
Each drop leaving a place so dear,
Weeps for itself, as its own tear.

Such a pearl as this is
(Slipt from Aurora's dewy breast)

The rosebud's sweet lip kisses;
And such the rose itself when vext
With ungentle flames, does shed,
Sweating in too warm a bed.


To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's their second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force,
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sunder man and wife,
'Cause they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do nut weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep;
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot love could tie.
And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed, they'll take no harm.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And th' eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into that light
Whose day shall never die in night.

Such the maiden gem,
By the wanton spring put on,

Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the wat'ry sun;
This wat'ry blossom of thy een,
Ripe will make the richer wine.

Fair drop, why quak'st thou so?
'Cause thou straight must lay thy head

In the dust? O no,
The dust shall never be thy bed;
A pillow for thee will I bring,
Stuffd with down of angel's wing:

By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy large draughts of intellectual

day; And by thy thirsts of love, more large

than they;

Thus carried up on high,
(For to heaven thou must go)

Sweetly shalt thou lie,
And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe,
Till the singing orbs awake thee,
And one of their bright chorus make thee.

There thyself shalt be
An eye, but not a weeping one,

Yet I doubt of thee,
Whether th' hadst rather there have

shone, An eye of heaven; or still shine here, In th’ heaven of Mary's eye a tear.

By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce de

sire; By thy last morning's draught of liquid

fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss, That seal'd thy parting soul, and made

thee his;
By all the heavens thou hast in him,
Fair sister of the seraphim;
By all of him we have in thee,
Leave nothing of myself in me;
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.

O! THOU UNDAUNTED. O! THOU undaunted daughter of desires, By all thy dower of lights and fires;


1594-1674. (ROBERT HERRICK was born in Cheapside, in August, 1594, and died at Dean-Prior, in Devon. shire, on the 15th of October, 1674: He published one volume, containing Hesperides, dated 1648. and Noble Numbers, dated 1647.]

LORD, thou hast given me a cell,

Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather proof;
Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry ; Where thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate;

Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by th' poor,
Who thither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall

And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipt, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine.

The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be

There placed by thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;

And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering


With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

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