Continually at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well :

But yet, alas! for all this I

Have little mind that I must die.

The gown which I do use to wear,
The knife wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat,
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turned to clay,
And many of my mates are gone,
My youngers daily drop away,

And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.

If none can 'scape death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey,
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
Then I to 'scape shall have no way.
O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mend, sith I must die.

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.

JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

WOW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,

Now

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.

SWEET

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.