Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die--
Lord, have mercy on us!
THOMAS CAMPION. 1567?-1619
168. Cherry-Ripe
THERE is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
169.
Laura
ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed:
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord;
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternal.
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1745 446 The Rosebud
But soon I heard
Her gesture motion and
Or if chill blustering
The buzzard came with
Her bosom heaved she
My Captain does not
There let Hymen oft
Blessed babe what glorious
O brightest though too
I do confess thou
136 Blow blow thou
In autumn on the
She never dies but
But when the days
Nature that heard such
C in a Prospect
Whate er she meant
Each one in her
Thou hast thy mighty
In vain in vain
The leaves of wasted
But half of our
The solemn echo seems
217 Weep no more
So peaceful rests without
What child is the
The night is come
Quite through the streets
There burst he forth
Com and trip it
No War or Battails
The Pict no shelter
And when our chaffering
Upon my buried body
Back and side go
Thus Nature spake The
In life she is
680 Consolation ALL are
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 1802
II I dream d
The ancient Mariner is
Make hast therefore sweet
Not in the evening
Mounted on panthers furs
O towne of townes
She only said The
Then with cantrip kisses
But little did the
Who are these coming
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