QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,

And all the darkling hours they plied,

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so

-but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged,

Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,

And onward each rejoicing steered: Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,

Through winds and tides one compass guides,

To that, and your own selves, be true.

INBORN ROYALTY.

O THOU goddess, Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st

In these two princely boys! They are as gentle

As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,

Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind,

That by the top doth take the mountain pine,

And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful

That an invisible instinct should frame them

To royalty unlearned; honor untaught;

Civility not seen from other; valor, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop

As if it had been sowed!

SHAKSPEARE: Cymbeline.

SONNET.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were, when first your eye I eyed,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forest shook three summers' pride;

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,

Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dialhand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,

Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

WHEN I love, as some have told,
Love I shall when I am old,
O ye Graces! make me fit
For the welcoming of it.
Clean my rooms as temples be,
To entertain that deity;

Give me words wherewith to woo,
Suppling and successful too;
Winning postures, and withal,
Manners each way musical;
Sweetnesse to allay my sour
And unsmooth behavior:
For I know you have the skill
Vines to prune, though not to kill;
And of any wood ye see,
You can make a Mercury.

HERRICK.