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Pillars let some set up,

If so they please,

Here is my hope

And my Pyramides.

Robert Herrick.

LXXXVI.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;

And so to bid good-night?
Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.-Robert Herrick.

LXXXVII.

AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON.

AH Ben!

Say how or when

Shall we thy guests
Meet at those lyric feasts
Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun,

Where we such clusters had

As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
My Ben!

Or come agen,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus;

But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,

Lest we that talent spend ;

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock,-the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.

Robert Herrick.

LXXXVIII,

AN AWAKENING SONG.

SISTER, awake! close not your eyes!
The day her light discloses,

And the bright morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.

See, the clear sun, the world's bright eye,

In at our window peeping :

Lo! how he blusheth to espy

Us idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,

And let us, without staying,

All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a-maying.—Anon.

LXXXIX.

FROM "THE TWO NOBLE

KINSMEN."

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim ;

Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.

All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,

Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly!-John Fletcher.

XC.

THE BROWN OWL.

SWEET Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers like a lady bright,

Thou singest alone, sitting by night,
Te whit, te whoo!

Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,
With shrill command the mouse controls,
And sings a dirge for dying souls,
Te whit, te whoo !—Anon.

XCI.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.

WEEP with me, all you that read
This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When Fates turned cruel,

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, (what now we moan,)
Old men so duly,

As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He played so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

But, viewing him since, (alas, too late)
They have repented;

And have sought (to give new birth)
In baths to steep him ;

But being so much too good for Earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson.

XCII.

EARLY ONE MORNING.

EARLY one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maid sing in the valley below:
66 Oh, don't deceive me, Oh, never leave me !
How could you use a poor maiden so?

"Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,

Remember the bow'r where you vow'd to be true.
Oh, don't deceive me, Oh, never leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?

"Oh, gay is the garland, and fresh are the roses,
I've cull'd from the garden to bind on thy brow.
Oh, don't deceive me, Oh, never leave me !
How could you use a poor maiden so?"

Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing,
Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below:
"Oh, don't deceive me, Oh, never leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?"-Anon.

XCIII.

THE WILL.

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies; here I bequeath

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