Were her hands as rich a prize If she be not chaste to me, No; she must be perfect snow, Then if others share with me, WALTER RALEIGH. JULY FLOWERS. AND these with hispid leaf and blooms Of darkened sapphire, richly swinging The bell-flower nettle-leaved illumes With azure light the woods; while bringing Around it hoops of insect things With merry song and dancing wings. SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR? HALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, What care I how fair she be? Should my heart be grieved or pined If she be not so to me, Shall a woman's virtues move Be she with that goodness blest What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Great, or good, or kind, or fair, What care I for whom she be? GEORGE WIther. EARLY MORNING. DID you but know when bathed in dew, Amidst the thorny brake; How fragrant blew the ambient air, O'er beds of primroses so fair, Paler than the autumnal leaf, The cheek of sloth shall grow; HERRICK. SPRING. WHEN sturdy March's storms are overblown And April's gentle showers are slidden down, To close the wind-chapt earth. QUARLES. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. AIR flower that, lapt in lowly glade, None fairer wakes, on bank or spray, Art thou that "Lily of the field,” He showed to our mistrustful kind, Of God's paternal care? Not this, I trow; far brighter shine There, when mild autumn's early rain |