Since I am thine, oh, come; but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt wo!
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath!
I long to kiss the image of my death.

SONNET.

[To his Lute.]

My lute, be as thou wert', when thou did2 grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee" bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,

5

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of wo?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear,

7

6

Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a

tear.

8

For which be silent as in woods before;

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

SONNET.

[To the Nightingale.]

DEAR quirister, who from those shadows sends
(Ere that the blushing Morn1 dare show her light)
Such sad lamenting strains,, that Night attends,
Become all ear; Stars stay to hear thy plight!
If one, whose grief e'en reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, (not in a dream,) did taste delight,
May thee importune, who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in wo, in wo's despight;
Tell me, (so may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long sing!) for what thou thus complains,

3

Since Winter's gone, and 2 Sun in dappled sky Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move,

4

66

With trembling wings sigh'd forth, “I love, I love!"

SONNET.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary 5, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.

1 " dawn."

2 "Sith (winter gone) the."

3 "Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and."

4 "sobb'd."

5 "solitare, yet."

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve! O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd2, which new-born3 flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles', slights; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

5

SONNET.

SWEET Spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers!

The Zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The Clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.

Thou turn'st', sweet youth! but ah! my pleasant

6 So ed. 1616.-Ed. 1657, " Dost return ?"

3" do the."

And happy days with thee come not again!
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets to1 sours!
Thou art the same which still thou wert before;

Delicious, lusty3, amiable, fair:

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone! nor gold nor gems can her restore. Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come, When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET.

[To the Nightingale.]

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers!
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare;
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs

Attir'd in sweetness sweetly is not driven

Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?

Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays!

THIS world a hunting is;

The prey poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death;

His speedy greyhounds are

Lust, sickness, envy, care,

Strife, that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.

Now, if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,

Old age, with stealing pace,

Casts on his nets, and there we panting die.

[The following Sonnet is taken from "The Flowres of Sion," ed. 1656. The variations noted at the foot of the page are from ed. 1630.]

THE weary mariner so far1 not flies

An howling tempest, harbour to obtain,

Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise,
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,

As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain,

Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain

1 66 fast."