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Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds; and leavest the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

HERRICK.-BORN 1591.

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.

Ye have beheld where 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 dishevell'd hair,
Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,
Ye're left here to lament
Your poor estates alone.

TO BLOSSOMS.

BY HERRICK.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

But

Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past;
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? '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, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO DAFFODILS,

BY HERRICK.

FAIR daffodils we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd its 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 dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

GEORGE HERBERT.-BORN 1593; DIED 1632.

MATIN HYMN.

I CANNOT ope mine eyes,

But thou art ready there to catch

My morning soul and sacrifice;

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart?

Silver, or gold, or precious stone,

Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart?

That Thou shouldst it so eye and woo, Pouring upon it all thy art,

As if that Thou hadst nothing else to do?

Indeed man's whole estate

Amounts, and richly, to serve Thee;

He did not heaven and earth create,

Yet studies them, not Him by whom they be.

Teach me Thy love to know;

That this new light which now I see
May both the work and workman show;
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to Thee!

VIRTUE.

BY HERBERT.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night,
For thou must die.

K

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box were sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives,
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

SHIRLEY.-BORN 1596; DIED 1666.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things.
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings.
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to fate

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

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