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Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy

valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely

melancholy.

Now if thou would'st, when all have given

him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet

recover.

DRINK TO-DAY, AND DROWN ALL

SORROW

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

(1585–1649)

TO A NIGHTINGALE

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Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober
Falls with the leaf still in October.

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 leafy

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 low'rs. 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 angels'

lays.

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THE BOOK OF THE WORLD

Of this fair volume which we World do

name

If we the sheets and leaves could turn

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest

breath, When his pulse failing, Passion speech

less lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of

death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes: * consumptive cough

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rare:

Thou art not sweet, though made of mere

delight, Nor fair nor sweet, unless thou pity me. I will not soothe thy fancies: thou shalt

prove That beauty is no beauty without love.

Find out His power which wildest powers

doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not

spare,
In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves

of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is

best, On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking

hold; Or if by chance we stay our minds on

aught, It is some picture in the margin wrought.

Yet love not me, nor seek thou to allure
My thoughts with beauty, were it more

divine.
Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
I'll not be wrapt up in those arms of

thine: Now show it, if thou be a woman right, – Embrace, and kiss, and love me, in de

spite.

CHERRY RIPE
MADRIGAL

There is a garden in her face,
LIFE, A BUBBLE

Where roses and white lilies grow;

A heavenly paradise is that place, This Life, which seems so fair,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow; Is like a bubble blown up in the air There cherries grow that none may buy, By sporting children's breath,

Till “Cherry-Ripe” themselves do cry. Who chase it everywhere And strive who can most motion it be- Those cherries fairly do enclose queath.

Of orient pearl a double row, And though it sometimes seem of its own Which when her lovely laughter shows, might

They look like rose-buds filled with Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,

snow: And firm to hover in that empty height, Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, That only is because it is so light. Till “Cherry-Ripe” themselves do cry. -But in that pomp it doth not long appear;

Her eyes like angels watch them still; For when 'tis most admired, in a thought, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Because it erst was naught, it turns to Threatening with piercing frowns to kill naught.

All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh

Till “Cherry-Ripe” themselves do cry. THOMAS CAMPION (?-1619)

ADVICE TO A GIRL
THE CHALLENGE

Never love unless you can Thou art not fair, for all thy red and Bear with all the faults of man! white,

Men sometimes will jealous be For all those rosy ornaments in thee; Though but little cause they see,

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