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The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone,
Fear, discontent, and sorrows come.
All my griefs to this are jolly:
Nought so fierce as melancholy!

I'll not change life with any king,
I ravish'd am: can the world bring
More joy than still to laugh and smile,
In pleasant toys time to beguile?
Do not, O do not trouble me!
So sweet content I feel and see.
All my joys to this are folly :
None so divine as melancholy!

I'll change my state with any wretch
Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch;
My pain past cure, another hell,
I may not in this torment dwell.
Now, desperate, I hate my life;
Lend me a halter or a knife!
All my griefs to this are jolly:
Nought so damn'd as melancholy!

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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!
Tell me (so may thy streams long cheer this mountain,
So serpent ne'er thee stain, nor scorch thee sun,
So may with gentle beams thee kiss the moon !)
Dost thou not mourn to want so fair a treasure?

While She her glass'd in thee rich Tagus' treasure
Thou envy needed not, nor yet the fountain

In which the hunter saw the naked Moon;
Absence hath robb'd thee of thy wealth and pleasure,
And I remain like marigold, of sun

Deprived, that dies, by shadow of some mountain.

Nymphs of the forests, nymphs who on this mountain
Are wont to dance, showing your beauty's treasure
To goat-feet Sylvans and the wondering Sun!
Whenas you gather flowers about this fountain,

Bid Her farewell who placed here her pleasure;
And sing her praises to the stars and moon!

Among the lesser lights as is the Moon,

Blushing through scarf of clouds on Latmos mountain
Or when her silver locks she looks for pleasure
In Thetis' stream proud of so gay a treasure,
Such was my Fair when she sat by this fountain,
With other nymphs, to shun the amorous Sun.

As is our earth in absence of the sun,
Or when of sun deprivèd is the moon,
As is without a verdant shade a fountain,

Or wanting grass a mead, a vale, a mountain,-
Such is my state, bereft of my dear treasure,
To know whose only worth was all my pleasure.

Ne'er think of pleasure, heart !— eyes! shun the sun;
Tears be your treasure, which the wandering moon
Shall see you shed, by mountain, vale, and fountain.

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;
Let sky and earth combined

Strive if they can to end my life and woe!
Sith grief can not, me nothing can o'erthrow.

Or if that aught can cause my fatal lot,
It will be when I hear I am forgot.

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?
In flowery Postum's field perhaps ye grew,
Or Hybla's hills you bred,

Or odoriferous Enna's plains you fed,
Or Tmolus, or where boar young Adon slew.
Or hath the Queen of Love you dyed of new
In that dear blood, which makes you look so red?
No! none of these, but cause more high you bliss'd:
My Lady's breast you bare, and lips you kiss'd.

ᎠᎬ

PLEASANT DEATH

EAR LIFE! while I do touch
These coral ports of bliss,

Which still themselves do kiss

And sweetly me invite to do as much,
All panting in my lips

My heart my sense doth leave,

No sense my senses have,

And inward powers do find a strange eclipse.
This death so heavenly well

Doth so me please, that I

Would never longer seek in sense to dwell,
If that even thus I only could but die.

MADRIGAL

ADEDAL of my death

I semble now that subtle worm uneath :

Which, prone to its own ill, can take no rest :
For, with strange thoughts possess'd,
I feed on fading leaves

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 ;
No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes,
Nor slumbers made me sin.

Is not She a saint then, say!
Thought of whom keeps sin away?

Rise Madam! rise, and give me light,
Whom darkness still will cover
And ignorance, more dark than night,
Till thou smile on thy lover.

All want day till thy beauty rise :

For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes.

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