CIV.

THE PROPHECY.

THE sea hath many thousand sands,
The sun hath motes as many;
The sky is full of stars, and love
As full of woes as any:
Believe me, that do know the elf,
And make no trial by thyself.

It is in truth a pretty toy

For babes to play withal;

But O the honies of our youth
Are oft our age's gall!
Self-proof in time will make thee know
He was a prophet told thee so:

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
Tells truth without belief;

For headstrong youth will run his race,
Although his goal be grief :

Love's martyr, when his heat is past,

Proves Care's confessor at the last.

Robert Jones.

CV.

A LOVER'S ARGUMENT.

LET not Chloris think, because
She hath envassel'd me,
That her beauty can give laws
To others that are free.
I was made to be the prey
And booty of her eyes :
In my bosom she may say,
Her greatest kingdom lies.

Though others may her brow adore,

Yet more must I that therein see far more
Than any other's eyes have power to see ;
She is to me

More than to any others she can be.

I can discern more secret notes

That in the margin of her cheeks Love

quotes

Than any else besides have art to read;
No looks proceed

From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.

O then why

Should she fly

From him to whom her sight

Doth add so much above her might?

Why should not she

Still joy to reign in me ?--Anon.

CVI.

AWAY, DELIGHTS!

AWAY, delights, go seek some other dwelling, For I must die;

Farewell, false Love; thy tongue is ever telling
Lie after lie.

For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
Alas! for pity go,

And fire their hearts

That have been hard to thee; mine was not so.

Never again deluding Love shall know me,
For I will die;

And all those griefs that think to over-grow me,

Shall be as I:

For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry "Alas! for pity stay,

And let us die

With thee; men cannot mock us in the clay."

Beaumont and Fletcher.

CVII.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon:
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the Even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay

As you, or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the Summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew

Ne'er to be found again.-R. Herrick.

CVIII.

THE EFFICACY OF DISDAIN.

Now have I learn'd with much ado at last
By true disdain to kill desire;

This was the mark at which I shot so fast,

Unto this height I did aspire :

Proud Love, now do thy worst and spare not,
For thee and all thy shafts I care not.

What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind,
What life to quicken dead desire ?

I count thy words and oaths as light as wind, I feel no heat in all thy fire:

Go, change thy bow and get a stronger,

Go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer.

In vain thou bait'st thy hook with beauty's blaze, In vain thy wanton eyes allure;

These are but toys for them that love to gaze,
I know what harm thy looks procure:

Some strange conceit must be devised,
Or thou and all thy skill despised.-Anon.

CIX.

COUNSEL TO GIRLS.

GATHER ye Rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.-R. Herrick.

CX.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear !

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;

Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust,
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest, royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin;

Here the bones of birth have cried,

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings :

Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

F. Beaumont.