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The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Man had straightforward gone
The which He doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are,
On which heaven's palace archèd lies:
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
The Sundays of man's life,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for His;
That, as each beast his manger knows,
The rest of our creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at His passion
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day.
The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Having a new at His expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price
And fit for paradise.
Thou art a day of mirth :
And where the week-days trail on ground,
O let me take thee at the bound,
Sir John Suckling.
(From "The Ballad upon a Wedding.")
ER finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on, which they did bring;
And to say truth (for out it must),
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
But oh! she dances such a way!
Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy bears comparison
(Who sees them is undone),
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red, and one was thin
Some bee had stung it newly;
Than on the sun in July.
GATHER THE ROSE-BUDS.
ATHER ye rose-buds as ye may,
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,
age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Time still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
Full and fair ones—come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow?—I answer, There,
AIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon:
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Until the hasting day
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
We have short time to stay, as you,
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.
your hours do, and drv
Like to the Summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again.
'AIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.