Which by and by black night doth take away, In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by: – This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave erelong. XXIX W. Shakespeare REMEMBRANCE HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought WHE I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. W. Shakespeare L' XXX REVOLUTIONS IKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, ́ In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand XXXI AREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing, For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter; XXXII THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION HEY that have power to hurt, and will do none, TTY that bad now thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; W. Shakespeare XXXIII THE LOVER'S APPEAL A ND wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay! say nay! for shame, And wilt thou leave me thus, And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Neither for pain nor smart : And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee? Alas! thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay! say nay ! Sir T. Wyat XXXIV THE NIGHTINGALE S it fell upon a day Asit month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, She, poor bird, as all forlorn, That to hear her so complain -Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead: All thy fellow birds do sing R. Barnefield |