DEATH'S SUMMONS. ADIEU; farewell earth's bliss, This world uncertain is : Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Lord have mercy on us! Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour : I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Strength stoops unto the grave : I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Wit with his wantonness, Hath no ears for to hear I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! Haste therefore each degree Mount we unto the sky; I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us! From The Two Gentlemen of SILVIA. HO is Silvia? what is she, WH That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. To help him of his blindness; She excels each mortal thing, From Love's Labour's Lost. THE RHYME OF WHITE AND RED. F she be made of white and red, IF Her faults will ne'er be known, For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, 1 An old form of "own." T IF BIRON'S CANZONET. F love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove ; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, prehend; If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; mend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; (Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire ;) Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, oh, pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue! THE LOVER'S TEARS. O sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows: Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light: Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee, So ridest thou triumphing in my woe: Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show : But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. queen of queens, how far dost thou excel ! No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. |