For which obedient zeal of thine, And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; From teeming eyes; to these we bring, To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls, When we conduct her to her groom; No more, no more, since thou art dead, We, cowslip balls, Or chains of columbines shall make, No, no; our maiden pleasures be One seed of life left, 'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise ; May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense; Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument. May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir No boisterous winds or storms come hither, Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring, May all shy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers; Upon thine altar; then return, And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. ODE TO ENDYMION PORTER. Not all thy flushing suns are set, Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere Yet the next morn regild the fragrant East. Alas! for me! that I have lost Sunk is my sight, set is my sun, And all the loom of life undone The staff, the elm, the prop, the sheltering wall Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall. Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive, And like a Phoenix re-aspire From out my nard and funeral fire, And as I prime my feathered youth, so I Do marvell how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by. I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand, Now as I do, and, but for thee, I must confess, I could not be ; Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine. WHAT LOVE IS. Love is a circle, that doth restless move UPON PREW HIS MAID. In this little urn is laid Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid, THE WHITE ISLAND. In this world, the Isle of Dreams, But when once from hence we fly, Uniting In that whiter Island, where There no monstrous fancies shall Out of hell an horror call, To create, or cause at all Affrighting. There, in calm and cooling sleep, Pleasures such as shall pursue MUSIC. Charm me asleep, and melt me so Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou Power that canst sever From me this ill; And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever. Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire, Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep And give me such reposes, May think, thereby, I live and die 'Mongst roses. Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers, Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; I leave this light, For Heaven. OBERON'S FEAST. Shapcot to thee the Fairy State Because thou prizest things that are Take first the feast; these dishes gone, A little mushroom-table spread, The elves present, to quench his thirst, Quite through the table, where he spies Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle; |