My Sences want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win, Redoubled by her secret notion: Like rich men that take pleasure In hidinge more then handling treasure. By absence this good means I gaine That I can catch her Where none can watch her In some close corner of my braine: There I embrace and kiss her, And so enjoye her, and so misse her. John Hoskins. On his Mistris, the Queen of Bohemia. Y That poorly satisfie our Bies Ou meaner Beauties of the Night, More by your number, then your light, What are you when the Sun shall rise? You Curious Chanters of the Wood, By your weake accents; what's your praise You Violets, that first apeare, What are you when the Rose is blowne? 20 10 So, when my Mistris shal be seene Sir Henry Wotton. Loves Victory. Ictorious beauty, though your eyes And therefore are unlike to boast Do not a single heart dispise. It came alone, but yet so arm'd With former love, I durst have sworne That where a privy coat was worne, With characters of beauty charm'd, Thereby it might have scapt unharm❜d. But neither steele nor stony breast Are proofe against those lookes of thine, Of any heart be long possest, Thy Conquest in regard of me Alasse is small, but in respect 20 ΙΟ 20 Let others with attention sit, But Kinde and True have been long tried And safely there at anchor ride. From change of winds there we are free, Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be. Aurelian Townshend. ΤΟ Μ' Elegy over a Tomb. Ust I then see, alas! eternal night Sitting upon those fairest eyes, And closing all those beams, which once did rise That light and heat in them to us did prove Oh, if you did delight no more to stay But rather chose an endless heritage, Tell us at least, we pray, Where all the beauties that those ashes ow'd Doth the Sun now his light with yours renew ? Did you restore unto the Sky and Air, The red, and white, and blew? Have you vouchsafed to flowers since your death Had not Heav'ns Lights else in their houses slept, Must not the Sky and Air have else conspir'd, Must not each flower else the earth could breed But thus enrich'd may we not yield some cause Had not your beauties giv'n this second birth To Heaven and Earth? Tell us, for Oracles must still ascend, For those that crave them at your tomb: Tell us, alas, that cannot tell our grief, Or hope relief. Lord Herbert of Cherbury. An Ode upon a Question Having interr'd her Infant-birth, The watry ground that late did mourn, The well accorded Birds did sing To which, soft whistles of the Wind, While doubling joy unto each other, ΙΟ |