THAT time of year, thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold; Bare ruined Quires! where, late, the sweet birds sang. In me, thou seest the twilight of such day

As, after sunset, fadeth in the West; Which, by-and-by, black Night doth take away; Death's second self, that seals up all in rest! In me, thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire; Consumed with that, which it was nourished by. This, thou perceiv'st! which makes thy love more strong

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

NoT marble, nor the gilded monument

Of Princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme! But you shall shine more bright in these contents, Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish Time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn;

And broils root out the work of masonry;

Nor MARS his sword, nor war's quick fire, shall burn The living record of your memory!

'Gainst death, and all oblivious enmity;

Shall you pace forth! Your praise shall still find room! Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out, to the ending Doom. So till the Judgement that yourself arise,

You live in this; and dwell in Lovers' eyes!

COME unto these yellow sands;
And then take hands!
Courtesied when you have, and kist
The wild waves whist;
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet Sprites, hear
The Burthen.

BURTHEN, DISPERSEDLY.

Hark! Hark! bow-wow!

The watch-dogs bark! bow-wow!

Hark! Hark! I hear
The strain of strutting Chanticleer
Cry, 'Cock-a-doodle do!'

O, MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay, and hear! Your True Love 's coming;
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty Sweeting!
Journeys end in Lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know!

What is Love? 'Tis not hereafter!
Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure!
in delay, there lies no plenty!
Then come, kiss me, sweet and twenty!
Youth's a stuff will not endure!

UNDER the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me;
And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat;
Come hither! Come hither! Come hither!
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather!

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i' th' sun;
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets;

Come hither! Come hither! Come hither! &c.

ORPHEUS, with his lute, made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing!

To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprang! as sun and showers
There had made a lasting Spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads; and then lay by!
In sweet Music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart.
Fall asleep! or, hearing, die!

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As Man's ingratitude!

Thy tooth is not so keen;

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! Sing, Heigh ho! unto the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning! most loving, mere folly!
The[n], Heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot!

Though thou the waters warp;
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not!

Heigh ho! Sing, Heigh ho! unto the green holly! &c.

COME away, come away, death!

And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath!

I am slain by a fair cruel Maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true
Did share it!

Not a flower, not a flower sweet

On my black coffin, let there be strown! Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse! where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where

Sad True Lover never find my grave,
To weep there!

TAKE, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn!
And those eyes, the break of day;
Lights that do mislead the Morn!

But my kisses bring again! bring again!
Seals of love; but sealed in vain! sealed in vain !

JOHN FLETCHER.

[He inserted the above stanza in The Bloody Brother; and then added the following one. Both are thought to be translations from the Latin of CAIUS CORNELIUS GALLUS.—E. A.]

HIDE, O, hide those hiils of snow;
Which thy frozen bosom bears!
On whose tops, the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears.

But first set my poor heart free!
Bound in those icy chains by thee.