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The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him.

But I remained, whose hopes were dim,

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth

To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of biri.

O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,

Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine; My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with

thine. Thou art to me most like a royal guest,

Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof, Where simple rustics spread their festal fare

And, blushing, own it is not good enough. Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com’st to me,

From high emprise and noble toil to rest,
My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with

thine ;
But the poor mansion offers thee its best.


O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

O sacred essence, other form,
O solemn ghost, О crownéd soul !

Yet none could better know than 1,

How much of act at human hands

The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die.

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MERRY Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower ;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning, —
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower ;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander :
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower.


'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence' end, Will I Rosalinda write ;

Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven nature charged

That one body should be filled
With all graces wide enlarged :

Nature presently distilled
Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra's majesty,
Atalanta's better part,

Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised ; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.



On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet ! By that flower there is a bower

Where the heavenly muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.


Why should this desert silent be?

For it is unpeopled ? No;
Tongues I 'll hang on every tree,

That shall civil sayings show:
Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage;
That the stretching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age :
Some, of violated vows

Who would not that face admire ?

Who would not this saint adore ! Who would not this sight desire ?

Though he thought to see no more,

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,

Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again.


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A VIOLET in her lovely hair,
A rose upon her bosom fair !

But O, her eyes
A lovelier violet disclose,
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose

That's 'neath the skies.

Fair Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips,
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends : Here in her

hairs The painter plays the spider; and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, | And leave itself unfurnished.



A lute beneath her graceful hand
Breathes music forth at her command ;

But still her tongue
Far richer music calls to birth
Than all the minstrel power on earth

Can give to song.


WHENAs in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.


Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O, how that glittering taketh me!



I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair,
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.

I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks, — love's bowers, –
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red.
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.

GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. GIVE place, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle-light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just

As had Penelope the fair ;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,

As it by writing sealéd were:
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint: With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind,

Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain ; “She could not make the like again."

I do not love thee for those soft
Red coral lips I 've kissed so oft ;
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech whence music still is heard,
Though from those lips a kiss being taken
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.

I do not love thee, O my fairest,
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar, which stands under
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ;
Though that neck be whiter far
Than towers of polished ivory are.

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,

To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun.







The forward violet thus did I chide :-
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet

that smells,
If not from my love's breath? the purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnéd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair :
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
ne blushing shame, another white despair ;

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light, -

You common people of the skies,

What are you when the moon shall rise ? You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents,- what's yonr praise When Philomel her voice shall raise ?

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