CII A SUPPLICATION Awake, awake, my Lyre! Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark, how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found And she to wound, but not to cure. My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sieep, sleep again, my Lyre! In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. A. COWLEY THE MANLY HEART Shall I, wasting in despair, Or my cheeks make pale with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day Or the flowery meads in May— If she be not so to me What care I how fair she be? Shall my foolish heart be pined If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Or her merits' value known Think what with them they would do Who without them dare to woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be? 91 Great or good, or kind or fair, For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? G. WITHER CIV MELANCHOLY Hence, all you vain delights, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound! Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; J. FLETCHER To a Lock of Hair 93 CV TO A LOCK OF HAIR Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright Since then how often hast thou prest Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, With such an angel for my guide; Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me Not then this world's wild joys had been : And soothed each wound which pride inflamed :- If thou hadst lived and lived to love me! SIR W. SCOTT CVI FORSAKEN O waly waly up the bank, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me. O waly waly, but love be bonny A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair. Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ; The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, |