What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight; But you are lovely leaves, where we TO. PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years; Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this? 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 TO DAFFADILS. Fair Daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; Until the hasting day But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we We have short time to stay, as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; TO MEADOWS. Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come, To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, But now, we see none here, Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent A THANKSGIVING TO GOD. Lord, thou hast given me a cell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Like as my parlour, so my hall A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; Makes those, and my belovèd beet, 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 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 The while the conduits of my kine All these, and better, thou dost send That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly thine; —But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Good morning to this primrose too ; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee, I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' 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's soft and tender, pray take heed, UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flows |