Y Lute, bee as thou waft, when thou didst grow
With thy greene mother in some shadie grove,
When immelodious windes but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.
Sith that deare voyce, which did thy founds approve
Which used in fuch harmonious traines to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune thofe fpheares above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleafing notes be pleafing notes no more,
But orphane wailings to the fainting eare,
Each stoppe a figh, each found drawes foorth a teare,
Be therefore filent as in woods before,
Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd Turtle still her loffe complaine.
Drummond, Edin. Ed. 1616.
ARE-charmer Sleep, Son of the fable Night;
Brother to Death, in filent darkness born;
Relieve my languifh, and rettore the light;
With dark forgetting of my care, return.
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The Shipwreck of my ill-advised Youth:
Let waking eyes fuffice to wail their fcorn,
Without the torments of the night's untruth.
Ceafe, dreams, the images of day-defires,
To model forth the paffions of the morrow;
Never let rifing Sun approve you liärs,
To add more grief to aggravate my forrow.
Still let me fleep, embracing clouds in vain';
And never wake to feel the day's difdain.
My heart was flain, and none but you and I;
Who fhould I think the murder fhould commit ?
Since but yourself there was no creature by,
But only I; guiltlefs of murd'ring it.
It flew itself; the verdict on the view
Do quit the dead, and me not acceffary:
Well, well, I fear it will be prov'd by you,
The evidence fo great a proof doth carry.
But O, fee, fee, we need enquire no further,
Upon your lips the fcarlet drops are found,
And in your eye the Boy that did the murder,
Your cheeks yet pale, fince first he gave the wound.
By this I fee, however things be past,
Yet Heaven will ftill have murder out at last.
ALEXIS, here thee ftay'd, among these pines
(Sweet Hermitreffe) shee did alone repaire,
Here did the spreade the treasure of her haire,
More rich than that brought from the Cholchian mines.
She fet her by these musket Eglantines;
The happie place the print feemes yet to beare,
Her voyce did sweeten here thy fugred lines,
To which windes, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their eare;
Mee here fhe first perceiv'd, and here a morne
Of bright carnations did orefpreade her face,
Here did fhee figh, there firit my hopes were borne,
And I first got a pledge of promis'd grace:
But ah! what ferv'd it to be happie fo?
Sith paffed pleasures double but new woe.
UNTO the boundlefs Ocean of thy Beauty,
Runs this poor River, charg'd with flreams of zea
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my Love, my Youth, my Plaints reveal.
Here I unclafp the Book of my charg'd foul,
Where I have caftth' Accounts of all my care:
Here have I fumm'd my fighs; here I enroll
How they were fspent for thee; look what they are,
Look on the dear expences of my Youth,
And see how juft I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth;
And crofs my cares, ere greater fums arife.
Read it, fweet Maid, tho' it be done but flightly;
Who can fhew all his Love, doth love but lightly.
TRUST not, fweet Soule, thofe curled waves of gold
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flackes of virgine fnow,
Nor fnow of cheekes with Tyrian graine enroll'd.
Truft not thofe fhining lights which wrought my woè,
When first I did their burning rayes beholde,
Nor voyce, whofe founds more strange effects doe show
Than of the Thracian Harper have beene tolde:
Looke to this dying Lille, fading Rose,
Darke Hyacinthe, of late whose blufhing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbes and graffe rejoyce,
And thinke how little is twixt Life's extreames :
The cruell Tyrant that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once (aye mee!) not spare that Spring of yours.
LOVE banish'd Heaven, in Earth was held in scorn,
Lov
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, tho' of a Goddess born,
Yet crav'd the alms of fuch as paffed by:
I, like a man devout and charitable,
Cloathed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,
With fighs and teares ftill furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest :
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