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Each stroke' a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear. For which be silent as in woods before ;
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
[To the Nightingale.] DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends
(Ere that the blushing Morn3 dare shew her light) Such sad lamenting strains, that Night attends,
Become all ear ; Stars stay to hear thy plight! If one, whose grief e'en reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, (not in a dream,) did taste delight, May thee importune, who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in wo, in wo's despight; Tell me, (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing !) for what thou thus com
plains, Since Winter's gone, and + Sun in dappled sky Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains ?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
stop.” 2 " Be therefore."
36 dawr." 4 “ Sith (winter gone) the.” SNow smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and." 6 " sobb’d.”
Turice happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary,' who is not alone,
Or the hoarse a sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve ! O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, 3 which new-born - flowers
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, 5 slights;
1 « solitare, yet.”
2 66 soft."
SWEET Spring, thou turn’st, with all thy goodly
train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with
flowers ! The Zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The Clouds for joy in pearls weep down their
showers, Thou turn’st, 'sweet youth! but ah! my pleasant
hours And happy days with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to a sours ! Thou art the same which still thou wert 3 before;
Delicious, lusty, * amiable, fair :
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone! nor gold nor gems can her s restore. Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and
come, When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.
So ed. 1616.-Ed. 1657," Dost return?” 36 wast." 46 wanton.”
5C6 her can."
« in." 6" While."
[To the Nightingale.] Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers! To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare ;
Attir'd in sweetness sweetly is not driven
mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays !
This world a hunting is;
Now, if by chance we fly
[The following Sonnet is taken from “ The Flowres of
Sion,” ed. 1656—the variations noted at the foot of the page are from ed. 1630.]
mariner so far ' not flies An howling tempest, harbour to obtain, Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise,
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain,
Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain
From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. To me the world did once seem sweet and fair,
While senses light, mind's perspective 3 kept blind,
Or if ought here is had that praise should have,
I « fast."
2 « Once did this world to me,” 4 66
a life obscure."