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XCVI.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT,

1605-1668.

SONG.

HE lark now leaves his watery nest,

THE

And climbing, shakes his dewy wings;

He takes this window for the east ;

And to implore your light, he sings, Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.

XCVII.

EDMUND WALLER,

1605-1687.

SONG.

G

O, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wond'rous sweet and fair.

XCVIII.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674.

OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,

Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee and wish thee long.

XCIX.

SW

THE LADY'S SONG.

WEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Can'st thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O! if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.

C.

WH

ORSAMES' SONG.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING, 1609-1641.

HY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do 't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :

The devil take her!

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