What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;

And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave :
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a-while,-they glide

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
Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew ?
Alas, you have not known that shower

That mars a flower,

Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind,
Nor are ye worn with years ;

Or warp'd as we,
Who think it strange to see,
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known

The reason why

Ye droop and weep ;
Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss
From that Sweet-heart, to this?
-No, no, this sorrow shown

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 ;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song ;
And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you ;

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

We die
As your hours do, and dry

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

Ne'er to be found again.

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,

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;
A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather proof;
Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry ;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

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 buttery, and therein

A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipt, unflead;

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;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;

And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth

With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

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;
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 morning, sir, to you ;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.
Good morning to this primrose too ;

Good morrow to each maid ;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew

Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,

Alack and well-a-day !
For pity, sir, find out that bee,

Which bore my Love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave ;

I'll seek him in your eyes ;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave

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 with green turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender, pray take heed,

With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home ;—but 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes !