YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, Was my sweet Highland Mary! Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. Of all the girls that are so smart, Her father he makes cabbage-nets, To such as please to buy 'em : When she is by, I leave my work, I'll bear it all for Sally; Of all the days that's in the week For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; My master carries me to church, I leave the church in sermon-time When Christmas comes about again, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, She is the darling of my heart, AWAKE, awake, my Lyre! WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED WHOE'ER she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me; Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And tell thy silent master's humble And teach her fair steps to our earth; tale In sounds that may prevail; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she And I so lowly be, Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: -Meet you her, my Wishes, Tell her, such different notes make all thy Bespeak her to my blisses, harmony. Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest: A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Whate'er delight For thou canst never tell my humble Can make day's forehead bright Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Reason masters every sense, Modest in her most of mirth. Such she is; and if you know That she be but somewhile young; WILLIAM BROWNE. TO VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day, The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The sooner will his race be run, 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, ROBERT HERRICK. ROSALINE. LIKE to the clear in highest sphere Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think. Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud Or like the silver crimson shroud Her lips are like two budded roses Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck is like a stately tower Her paps are centres of delight, Heigh ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, LINES ON ISABELLA MARKHAM. WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose; Then muse not, nymphs, though I be- It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, moan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she The lips befitting words most kind, were mine! THOMAS LODGE. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN Love, with unconfinèd wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire; And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, Know no such libertìe. When, linnet-like, confinèd I He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood, Know no such libertìe. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free, The does tempt to love's desire, Yet not a heart to save my pain? SONG. FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you; Let her alone, she will court you. At morn and even shades are longest; TO LUCASTA, BEN JOSON. ON GOING TO THE WARS. TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde, Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, |