Then with these marigolds I'll make The lily and the fleur-de-lis, For that I them do only prize, They are but poor in scenting; The daffodil most dainty is, To match with these in meetness; These in their natures only are To place them in their order: Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine, Thus have I made this wreath of mine, And finished it featly. MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563-1681. HEART'S-EASE. I saw, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, At a fair vestal throned in the west. And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon. In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make a man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616. THE GARLAND. The pride of every grove I chose, The flowers she wore along the day; And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odors lost, their colors past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, "My love, my life," said I, "explain This change of humor; pr'ythee tell : That falling tear-what does it mean?" She sigh'd; she smiled and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May, At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. Such as she is, who died to-day, The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow. TO PRIMROSES MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664-1721. FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown, By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591. TO THE NARCISSUS. Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise; Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine, Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name. ECHO. His name revives, and lifts me up from earth; Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form, O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven's rich gift, THE ROSE. Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That goodness Time's rude hand defies; EDMUND WALLER, 1605-1687. ANCIENT SERVIAN SONG. O my fountain, so fresh and cool, Why art thou blown out so early? |