NO TRUST IN TIME.

JOOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's

queen,

Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,

Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

LEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines ; She sat her by these muskëd eglantines

The happy place the print seems yet to bear;

Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear;

Me here she first perceived, and here a morn

Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;

Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,

And I first got a pledge of promised grace;

But ah! what served it to be happy so

Since passed pleasures double but new woe?

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

Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice,
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes:

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers
Shall once, ay me! not spare that spring of yours.

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,
Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass,
The humble violet, that lowly down

Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass,—
These, with a many more, methought complained
That Nature should those needless things produce,
Which not alone the sun from others gained,
But turn it wholly to their proper use.

I could not choose but grieve that Nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;

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;
The nimble fairies, by the pale-faced moon,
Watered the root, and kissed her pretty shade.
But, welladay! the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,

The fairest blossom of the garden dies.