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SONG FROM JASON.

I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,

And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,

The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me

Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS.

OF A' THE AIRTS.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the west;
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair,

I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air:

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DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It would not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then it grows and smells, Iswear,
Not of itself, but thee,

BEN JONSON.

THE NIGHT PIECE: TO JULIA.

HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee;
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright
thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber,
What though the moon do slumber?
The starres of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers cleare, without number.
Then, Julia, let me wooe thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,

My soule I'll poure into thee.

HERRICK.

DISDAIN RETURNED.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts, with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. THOMAS CAREW.

LOVE.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies,
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho!
SAMUEL DANIEL.

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Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would
do

Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
G. WITHER.

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