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Arose the virgin, born of heavenly brood,

And to her snowy palfrey got again To seek her strayed champion if she might attain.

The lion would not leave her desolate,

But with her went along, as a strong guard

Of her chaste person, and a faithful


Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward;

And, when she waked, he waited diligent,

With humble service to her will prepared:

From her fair eyes he took commandment

And ever by her looks conceived her intent.



WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer's green, all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence,

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.



To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were, when first your eye 1 eyed,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forest shook three summers' pride;

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I


Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,

Since first I saw you fresh which yet

are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dialhand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,

Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.


TRUTH needs no color with his color fixed,

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;

But best is best, if never intermix'd. SHAKSPEARE.


WHEN I love, as some have told,
Love I shall when I am old,
O ye Graces! make me fit
For the welcoming of it.
Clean my rooms as temples be,
To entertain that deity;
Give me words wherewith to woo,
Suppling and successful too;
Winning postures, and withal,
Manners each way musical;
Sweetnesse to allay my sour
And unsmooth behavior:
For I know you have the skill
Vines to prune, though not to kill;
And of any wood ye see,
You can make a Mercury.


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"Quotque aderant vates, rebar adesse Deos." - Ovid.

"By pain of heart, now checked, and now impelled,

The intellectual power from words to things

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way."-WORDS worth.

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