Ask me no more, whither doth baste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night; For, in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

MURDERING BEAUTY.

I'LL gaze no more on her bewitching face, Since ruin harbors there in every place; For my enchanted soul alike she drowns With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns.

I'll love no more those cruel eyes of hers, Which, pleas'd or anger'd, still are murderers:

For if she dart (like lightning) through the air

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;

If she behold me with a pleasing eye, I surfeit with excess of joy, and die.

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 by 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:

There perfume thyself, and bring
All those sweets upon thy wing:
As thou return'st change by thy pow'r
Every weed into a flow'r;

Turn each thistle to a vine,
Make the bramble eglantine;
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,
And again destroy the same:
Then, for pity, either stir
Up the fire of love in her,

That alike both flames may shine,
Or else quite extinguish mine.

UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY. KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd

Of common beauties, liv'd unknown, Had not my verse exhal'd thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame.

That killing power is none of thine,
I gave it to thy voice and eyes:
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;

Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there.

Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate:
Let fools thy mystic forms adore,

I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.

RED AND WHITE ROSES. REAL in these roses the sad story, Of my hard fate, and your own glory: In the white you may discover The paleness or a fainting lover; In the red the flames still feeding On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. The white will tell you how I languish, And the red express my anguish :

The white my innocence displaying,
The red my martyrdom betraying:
The frowns that on your brow resided,
Have those roses thus divided.

O! let your smiles but clear the weather,
And then they both shall grow together.

THE PRIMROSE.

ASK me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears:
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;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fevers are in a lover.

THE PROTESTATION.

No more shall the meads be deck'd with flowers,

Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers;
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing;
Nor April violets paint the grove;
If I forsake my Celia's love.

The fish shall in the ocean burn,
And fountains sweet shall bitter turn;
The humble oak no flood shall know
When floods shall highest hills o'erflow;
Black Lethe shall oblivion leave;
If e'er my Celia I deceive.

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus' doves want wings to fly;
The sun refuse to show his light,
And day shall then be turn'd to night,
And in that night no star appear;
If once I leave my Celia dear.

Love shall no more inhabit earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth;
Nor joy above in heaven dwell,
Nor pain torment poor souls in hell;
Grim Death no more shall horrid prove;
If e'er I leave bright Celia's love.

It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can
Raise up the bury'd man.
Unpass'd Alps stop me,
through all,

but I'll cut

And march, the Muse's Hannibal.

If my abused touch allow

Aught to be smooth or soft but thou! If what seasonable springs,

Or the eastern summer brings,

Do my smell persuade at all

Nets of roses in the way;

Hence, the desire of honors or estate,
And all that is not above Fate;

Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days,

Which intercepts my coming praise. Come, my best Friends! my books! and lead me on,

'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagirite! and teach

If all my senses objects be
Not contracted into thee,

And so through thee more pow'rful pass
As beams do through a burning-glass;
If all things that in nature are
Either soft, or sweet, or fair,
Be not in thee so epitomiz'd,
That nought material's not compris'd,
May I as worthless seem to thee,
As all but thou appear to me.

THE WISH.

WELL, then, I now do plainly see,
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree,
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy:
And they (methinks) deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the City.

Ah! yet, e'er I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have!

And a few friends, and many books, both true,

Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since Love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian angels are,
Only belov'd, and loving me!

THE SPRING.

[From The Mistress.]

THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say

The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,

As ever they were wont to be;
Nay the birds' rural music too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you:

I saw a rose-bud ope this morn; I'll

swear

The blushing morning open'd not more

fair.

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 reverend 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 begun, 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 nc 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 spring.

WHEN love with uncontinèd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.