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What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?
And lose you quite.
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave :
Into the grave.
TO. PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Teem'd her refreshing dew ?
That mars a flower,
Nor felt th' unkind
Or warp'd as we,
The reason why
Ye droop and weep ;
Or childish lullaby?
Or brought a kiss
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth
Fair Daffadils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon ;
Will go with you along.
We have as short a spring ;
Ne'er to be found again.
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill'd with flowers;
Where maids have spent their hours.
With wicker arks did come,
The richer cowslips home.
You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round; Each virgin, like a spring,
With honeysuckles crown'd. But now, we see none here,
Whose silvery feet did tread, And with disheveli'd hair
Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown, You're left here to lament
Your poor estates alone.
A THANKSGIVING TO GOD.
Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;
Is weather proof;
Both soft and dry ;
Hast set a guard
Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate ;
Both void of state ; And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen's small;
A little bin,
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be
There placed by thee;
And my content
To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
Spiced to the brink.
That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one ; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year ; The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine : All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
As wholly thine ;
My Christ, by Thee.
THE MAD MAID'S SONG.
Good morrow to the day so fair ;
Good morning, sir, to you ;
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good morrow to each maid ;
Wherein my Love is laid.
Alack and well-a-day !
Which bore my Love away.
I'll seek him in your eyes ;
l'th' bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not ; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him ;
And who do rudely move him.
With bands of cowslips bind him,
That I shall never find him.
UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.