RUST not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold
With gentle tides that on your temples flow;
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow,

Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolled : Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, When first I did their burning rays behold;

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show Than of the Thracian harper have been told :

Look to this dying lily, fading rose,

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes: The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers Shall once, ay me! not spare that spring of yours. WILLIAM DRummond.

OWN in a valley, by a forest's side,

Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her

waves,

I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,

As if the lilies grew to be his slaves.

The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,
Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass,
The humble violet, that lowly down

Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass,-
These, with a many more, methought complained
That Nature should those needless things produce,
Which not alone the sun from others gained,
But turn it wholly to their proper use.

I could not choose but grieve that Nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,

Nor fairer garden yet was ever known :

The maidens danced about it morn and noon,

And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies, by the pale-faced moon,
Watered the root, and kissed her pretty shade.
But, welladay! the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,

The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

WILLIAM Browne.

SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;

I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes:
I write of Youth, of Love ;-and have access
By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white :
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King:
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall,
Of Heaven,-and hope to have it after all.
ROBERT HErrick.

OU say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away:
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ;—
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,

The most I love, when I the least express it:
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound:

Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below:
So when love speechless is, she doth express

A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.

Now since my love is tongueless, know me such

Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

ROBERT HERRICK.