The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, I'll not change life with any king, I'll change my state with any wretch WILLIAM DRUMMOND SEXTAIN ITH gone is my delight and only pleasure, The last of all my hopes, the cheerful sun That clear'd my life's dark day, Nature's sweet treasure, More dear to me than all beneath the moon, What resteth now but that upon this mountain I weep till heaven transform me to a fountain? Fresh, fair, delicious, crystal, pearly fountain, On whose smooth face to look She oft took pleasure! While She her glass'd in thee rich Tagus' treasure In which the hunter saw the naked Moon; Deprived, that dies, by shadow of some mountain. Nymphs of the forests, nymphs who on this mountain Bid Her farewell who placed here her pleasure; Among the lesser lights as is the Moon, Blushing through scarf of clouds on Latmos mountain As is our earth in absence of the sun, Or wanting grass a mead, a vale, a mountain,- Ne'er think of pleasure, heart !— eyes! shun the sun; I DEATH NOT FEARED FEAR NOT henceforth death, Sith after this departure yet I breathe. Let rocks and seas and wind Their highest treasons show; Strive if they can to end my life and woe! Or if that aught can cause my fatal lot, MADRIGAL WEET ROSE! whence is this hue SWEET Which doth all hues excel? Whence this most fragrant smell? And whence this form and gracing grace in you? Or odoriferous Enna's plains you fed, ᎠᎬ PLEASANT DEATH EAR LIFE! while I do touch Which still themselves do kiss And sweetly me invite to do as much, My heart my sense doth leave, No sense my senses have, And inward powers do find a strange eclipse. Doth so me please, that I Would never longer seek in sense to dwell, MADRIGAL ADEDAL of my death I semble now that subtle worm uneath : Which, prone to its own ill, can take no rest : Of hope, which me deceives And thousand webs doth warp within my breast. And thus in end unto myself I weave A fast-shut prison No! but even a grave. NATHANIEL FIELD R MATIN SONG ISE, Lady Mistress! rise! The night hath tedious been ; Is not She a saint then, say! Rise Madam! rise, and give me light, All want day till thy beauty rise : For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes. |