THE LOVER'S DAY-BREAK.

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,
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 curtain, and begin the dawn.

So they that are to love inclined,
Swayed by chance, not choice, or art,
To the first that's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
'Tis not she that first we love,

But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in the evening made, Stars gave the first delight,

Admiring, in the gloomy shade,

Those little drops of light;

Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,

He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertained his eyes.

EDMUND WALLER.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;

His wonder was determined there,

And could no higher rise;

He neither might, nor wished to know

A more refulgent light;

For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employed his utmost sight.

TO CHLORIS SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

CHLORIS! yourself you so excel,

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,
That, like a spirit, with this spell

Of my own teaching, I am caught.

That eagle's fate and mine are one,
Which, on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Had Echo, with so sweet a grace,
Narcissus' loud complaints returned,
Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burned.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

Go, 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 wondrous sweet and fair!

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

1608-1642.

THE BRIDE.

HER finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth, for out it must,
It looked like the great collar, just,
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison,

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Kath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin-
Some bee had stung it newly;

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.