Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines, Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, The happy place the print seems yet to bear; Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. But, ah! what serv'd it to be happy so, SEXTAIN. The heaven doth not contain so many stars, So many leaves not prostrate lie in woods, As my rent mind hath torments all the night, And heart spends sighs, when Phoebus brings the light. Why should I been a partner of the light, Why was not I a liver in the woods, Or citizen of Thetis' crystal floods, Than made a man, for love and fortune's wars? I look each day when death should end the wars, With watchful eyes I ne'er behold the night, Mother of peace, but ah! to me of wars, And Cynthia queen-like shining through the woods, When straight those lamps come in my thought, whose light My judgment dazzled, passing brightest stars, And then mine eyes en-isle themselves with floods. Turn to their springs again first shall the floods, End these my days, indwellers of the woods, In vain the stars, indwellers of the woods, Phoebus, arise, SONG. And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 1 Printed careere in the Bodleian copy. Elsewhere cariere or carrier And, emperor like, decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn That day, long-wished day, Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates not hope betray), Which, only white, deserves. A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring unto this grove My love, to hear and recompense my love. But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see, than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise; Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise; If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. The winds all silent are, Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels; The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: And every thing, save her, who all should grace. TO CHLORIS. [From Madrigals and Epigrams.] See, Chloris, how the clouds Tilt in the azure lists, And how with Stygian mists Each horned hill his giant forehead shrouds ; The air, grown great with rain, Now seems to bring Deucalion's days again. If not for love, yet to shun greater harms. SONNET TO SIR W. ALEXANDER. The love Alexis did to Damon bear Of foreign shepherds bent to try the states, Whatever fate heavens have for me designed, VOL. II. SONNETS. [From Flowers of Sion.] Look how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, For the Baptist. The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their marble caves, 'Repent, repent !' |