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THINK NOT, 'CAUSE MEN FLATT'RING SAY."

Bright as is the morning star,

That you are so; or, though you are,

Be not therefore proud, and deem

All men unworthy your esteem ;

Nor let brittle beauty make

You your wiser thoughts forsake:
For that lovely face will fail;
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail!
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain or winter's sun;
Most fleeting when it is most dear;
'Tis gone while we but say-'tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twined,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow
White and cold as winter's snow.

That eye, which now is Cupid's nest,

Will prove his grave, and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose,
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ;

And what will then become of all

Those whom now you servants call?
Like swallows, when your summer's done,
They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.
Then wisely choose one to your friend
Whose love may (when your beauties end)

Remain still firm; be provident,

And think, before the summer's spent,

Of following winter; like the ant,

66

THINK NOT, 'CAUSE MEN FLATT'RING SAY."

143

In plenty hoard for time of scant.

For when the storms of Time have moved
Waves on that cheek which was beloved;
When a fair lady's face is pined,

And yellow spread where red once shined;
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her,

Love may return, but lovers never :
And old folks say there are no pains
Like itch of love in aged veins.

O love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not lose this present minute;
For time and age will work that wrack
Which time or age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each year fresh skin resumes,
And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose, each spring, receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.

Oh, then, be wise, and whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason;
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But crop in time your beauties' flower,
Which will away, and doth together

Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING.

BY ROBERT HERRICK.

[ROBERT HERRICK, the son of a goldsmith, was born in London, in the year 1591. He studied at Cambridge, took holy orders, and obtained a living from Charles I. This he lost during the Civil Wars, and received again at the Restoration. He is believed to have lived to a good old age, though the time of his death is unknown.

Herrick associated with Ben Jonson and the other social spirits of the time. His poems exhibit, in some instances, a licentiousness which he deeply regretted in his after life. His language is picturesque and beautiful, and his verses, though very irregular, are, at times, extremely melodious.]

GET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,

Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

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Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;

Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night :
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park

Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey

The proclamation made for May :

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

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