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Or like a wind that chafes the flood, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.
[1612 - 1650.]
My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.
And I will reign alone;
A rival on my throne. It so much loves, and fill the room
He either fears his fate too much, My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch, Stay for me there! I will not fail
To gain or lose it all.
(1596 - 1666.)
DEATH THE LEVELLER. Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. The glories of our blood and state Thus from the sun my vessel steers, Are shadows, not substantial things; And my day's compass downward bears :
There is no armor against fate; Nor labor I to stem the tide
Death lays his icy hand on kings: Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down, "T is true, with shame and grief I yield, And in the dust be equal made Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, With the poor crooked scythe and spade. And gotten liast the victory, In thus adrenturing to die
Some men with swords may reap the field, Before me, whose more years might crave And plant fresh laurels where they A just precedence in the grave.
kill; But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, But their strong nerves at last must yield; Beats my approach, tells thee I come: They tame but one another still: And slow howe'er my marches be,
Early or late I shall at last sit down by thee.
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath The thought of this bids me go on,
When they, pale captives, creep to death. And wait any dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The garlands wither on your brow; The crime, -- I am content to live
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Dividel, with but half a heart,
Upon Death's purple altar now Till we shall meet, and never part.
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
Your heads must come
To the cold tornb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF
Whilst I do rest, my soul advance;
CELINDA. WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove, Which did, it seemed, in new delight The pleasures of the time unite To give a triumph to their love, They stayed at last, and on the grass Reposéd so as o'er his breast She bowed her gracious head to rest, Such a weight as no burden was. Long their tixed eyes to heaven bent, Unchanged they did never move, As if so great and pure a love No glass but it could represent. “These eyes again thine eyes shall see, Thy hands again these hands infold, And all chaste pleasures can be told, Shall with us everlasting be. Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, Much less your fairest mind invade; Were pot our souls immortal made, Our equal loves can make them such."
(1605 - 1650.)
WHOE'ER she be,
Where'er she lie,
Till that ripe birth
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
(1605 – 1682.)
| Till that divine Ilea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses.
The night is come; like to the day,
I wish her beauty
When love with unconfinéd wings
Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
• Welcome, friend."
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
That for a hermitage :
And in my soul am free,
Enjoy such liberty.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
I wish her store
True: a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.