Sidor som bilder




Will last to be a precious stone


fields and we not see't ? When all your world of beauty's gone.

Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey

The proclamation made for May:

And siu no more, as we have done, by staying; CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING But, my Coriuna, come, let's go a-Maying. GET up, get up for shame, the blooming There's not a budding boy or girl this day

But is got up, and gone to bring in May. Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. A deal of youth, ere this, is come See how Aurora throws her fair

Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Some have despatch'd their cakes and Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree. Before that we have left to dream: Each flower bas wept and bow'd toward the And some have wept, and woo'd, and east

plighted troth, Above an hour since : yet you not dress'd ; And chose their priest, ere we can cast off Nay ! not so much as out of bed ?

sloth: When all the birds have matins said 10 Many a green-gown has been given; si And sung their thankful hymns, 't is sin, Many a kiss, both odd and even: Nay, profanation to keep in,

Many a glance too bas been sent Whereas a thousand virgins on this day

From out the eye, love's firmament; Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen

a-Maying To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; And sweet as Flora. Take no care And take the harmless folly of the time. For jewels for your gown or hair :

We shall grow old a pace, aud die
Fear not; the leaves will strew

Before we know our liberty.
Gems in abundance upon you :

Our life is short, and our days run Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, As fast away as does the suu; Against you come, some orient pearls un- And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, wept;

Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
Come and receive them while the light So when or you or I are made
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
And Titan on the eastern hill

All love, all liking, all delight
Retires himself, or else stands still

Lies drowned with us in endless night. Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief Then while time serves, and we are but dein praying


69 Few beads are best when once we go Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.


and green,






Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming,

mark How each field turns a street, each street a

park Made green and trimm'd with trees:

see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door ere


An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Cau such delights be in the street

As Julia once a-slumbering lay
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.
For some rich flower he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he sucked from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir,
So Julia took the pilferer,




Bid me to live, and I will live

Thy Protestant to be, Or bid me love, and I will give

A loving heart to thee.

And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began hiinself t' excuse:
Sweet lady-tower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But, taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrup ran at waste.
Besides, kuow this: I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing; 20
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship:
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much kuow:
Wheo next he came a-pilfering so,
He should froın her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his bive.

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Bid me to weep, and I will weep

While I have eyes to see: And, baving none, yet I will keep

A heart to weep for thee.

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Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having prayed together, we

Will with


you along

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We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.

We die,
As your hours do, and dry

Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,

Ne'er to be found again.


A LITTLE mushroom table spread,
After short prayers, they set on bread;
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glittering grit to eat
His choice bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is serv'd,
We must not think his ear was sterv'd;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy.
And now we must imagine, first,
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seed-pearl of infant dew
Brought and besweetened in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies:
Of which he eats, and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle.
A little fuzz-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands;
That was too coarse: but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg
And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag:
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmets' eggs; what would be more ? 30
But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh,
A bloated earwig and a fly;
With the red-capp'd worm that 's shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth. A little moth
Late fattend in a piece of cloth:
With withered cherries, mandrakes' ears,
Moles' eyes ; to these the slain stag's tears
The imctuous dewlaps of a snail,
The broke-heart of a nightingale


Why I tie about thy wrist,

Julia, this my silken twist;

For what other reason is't, But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art ? But thy bondslave is my heart; 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free: But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound, and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.




Shut not so soon ; the dull-ey'd night

Has not as yet begun


To make a seizure on the light,

Or to seal up the sun.



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Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here a while, To blush and gently smile;

And go at last.


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LIVE, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board.
The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed
With crawling woodbine over-spread ;
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown
Made of the fleece's purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat,
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt

The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered ;
Thy feasting-tables shall be hills
With daisies spread and daffodils,
Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought, and this as brave ;
So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess.
At shearing-times, and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it.
On holidays, when virgins meet
To dance the heyes with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth, and then ap-

pear The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-fac'd plum, all simp’ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt tind The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribands to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.



Bright tulips, we do know

You bad your coming hither, And fading-time does show

That ye must quickly wither.


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Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings
Of winning colours, that shall move
Others to lust, but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be
If thou wilt love, and live with me.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES Waenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!



WHEN I behold a forest spread
With silken trees upon thy head,
And when I see that other dress
Of flowers set in comeliness;
When I behold another grace
In the ascent of curious lace,
Which like a pinnacle doth show
The top, and the top-gallant too.
Then, when I see thy tresses bound
Into an oval, square, or round,
And knit in kuots far more than I
Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie;
Next, when those lawny films I see
Play with a wild civility,
And all those airy silks to flow,
Alluring me, and tempting so:
I must confess mine eye and heart
Dotes less on Nature than on Art.

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[Publ. with Hesperides, 1648]



Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o'-th-Wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way

Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber : What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me;

And when I shall meet

Thy silv'ry feet
My soul I'll pour into thee.

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When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill;

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!


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