TO BLOSSOMS

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do you fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis 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 awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO DAFFODILS

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attained his noon :

Stay, stay,

Until the hast'ning day
Has run

But to the even-song;

And having prayed 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-dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

JULIA

SOME asked me where the rubies grew,
And nothing did I say,

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where,
Then spake I to my girl,

To part her lips, and show me there
The quarelets of pearl.

One asked me where the roses grew,
I bade him not go seek ;

But forthwith bade my Julia shew
A bud in either cheek.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF THEIR TIME

GATHER the rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But, being spent, the worse, and worst
Time shall succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while you may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

TWELFTH NIGHT, OR KING AND QUEEN

Now, now the mirth comes,

With the cake full of plums,

Where bean's the king of the sport here;

Beside, we must know,

The pea also

Must revel as queen in the court here.

Begin then to choose,
This night, as ye use,

Who shall for the present delight here;
Be a king by the lot,

And who shall not

Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here.

Which known, let us make
Joy-sops with the cake;

And let not a man then be seen here,
Who unurged will not drink,

To the base from the brink,

A health to the king and the queen here.

Next crown the bowl full
With gentle lamb's-wool;
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale, too;

And thus ye must do

To make the wassail a swinger.

Give them to the king
And queen wassailing;

And though with ale ye be wet here;
Yet part ye from hence,

As free from offence,

As when ye innocent met here.

THE BAG OF THE BEE

ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee,
Two Cupids fell at odds;

And whose the pretty prize should be,
They vowed to ask the gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'ad seen them, She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes And gave the bag between them.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE

LORD, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;

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.

H

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
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 sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send
Me for 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,
O Lord, by Thee.