IL PENSEROSO.

Page

A HUSBAND ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE

BLOW, BLOW THOU WINTER'S WIND

EPITAPH ON LADY MARY VILLIERS

EPITAPH ON MARIA WENTWORTH

EPITAPH ON THE FIRST DAUGHTER

EPITAPH ON THE FIRST SON

FIDELE

Wm. Drummond 79

Shakespeare 76

Henry Vaughan 107

ON THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS PELHAM Bishop Corbet

F. Beaumont 100

Wm. Drummond

99

89

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO SEA H. Lawes

WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE? F. Quarles 168

xi

THE MUSE.

SHE doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves, spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness

In the very gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;

That strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves;