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Phyl. Say to her thy true love was not here.

55

Remember, remember,

To-morrow is another day.

Cor. Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear.
Farewell then, farewell then!

Heaven keep our loves alway!

THE NEW JERUSALEM

Hierusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,

No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell;
There envy bears no sway;

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1600.

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There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

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Quite through the streets, with silver sound,

The flood of life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring;

There evermore the angels sit,

And evermore do sing.

Our Lady sings Magnificat

With tones surpassing sweet;

And all the virgins bear their part,
Sitting about her feet.

Hierusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

16c1.

WEEP YOU NO MORE, SAD FOUNTAINS

Weep you no more, sad fountains;

What need you flow so fast?

Look how the snowy mountains

Heaven's sun doth gently waste.

But my sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping,
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling

When fair at ev'n he sets?
Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes;
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping,
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

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MAYING SONG

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!
The Day her light discloses,

And the bright Morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.

See, the clear Sun, the world's bright eye,

In at our window peeping:

Lo, how he blusheth to espy

Us idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,

And let us, without staying,

All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a-Maying!

1604.

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING

Ye little birds that sit and sing

Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phyllis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys,

Go, pretty birds, about her bower!
Sing, pretty birds; she may not lower!
Ah me, methinks I see her frown:
Ye pretty wantons, warble!

Go tell her, through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden:

Go, pretty birds, and tell her so!

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And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice.
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown:
Ye pretty wantons, warble!

O, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber!
Sing round about her rosy bed,

That, waking, she may wonder.
Say to her 't is her lover true,
"That sendeth love to you, to you!"

And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

1607.

SAMUEL DANIEL

FROM
DELIA

XXXVI

Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose
(The image of thy blush, and summer's honour)
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty Time bestows upon her:

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No sooner spreads her glory in the air

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But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
She then is scorned that late adorned the fair.

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine:

No April can revive thy withered flowers

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift, speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,
But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again.

XLVII

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 't is gone as it had never been.

IO

Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish;
Short is the glory of the blushing rose,
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose,
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,

Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that in beauty's lease expired appears
The date of age, the Calends of our death.
But, ah, no more! this must not be foretold,
For women grieve to think they must be old.

LI

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my languish, and restore the light.
With dark forgetting of my care, return,
And let the day be time enough to mourn

The shipwrack of my ill-adventured youth;
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,

To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

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FROM

THE CIVIL WARS

The morning of that day which was his last,
After a weary rest rising to pain,

1592.

Out at a little grate his eyes he cast

Upon those bordering hills and open plain,

And views the town, and sees how people passed;

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Where others' liberty makes him complain

The more his own, and grieves his soul the more,
Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor.

"O happy man," saith he, "that lo I see Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields,

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