RUST not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold With gentle tides that on your temples flow; Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow, Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolled: Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, When first I did their burning rays behold; Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show Than of the Thracian harper have been told: Look to this dying lily, fading rose, Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers OWN in a valley, by a forest's side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride, As if the lilies grew to be his slaves. The gentle daisy, with her silver crown, Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass,- I could not choose but grieve that Nature made ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was ever known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies. WILLIAM BROWNE. SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, OU say I love not, 'cause I do not play Still with your curls, and kiss the time away: You blame me, too, because I can't devise Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;— By Love's religion, I must here confess it, The most I love, when I the least express it: Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. Now since my love is tongueless, know me such ROBERT HERRICK. |