TRUTH THE SOUL OF BEAUTY. 179 TRUTH THE SOUL OF BEAUTY. O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament that truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,. Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so: Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. W. Shakespeare. 180 THE PAINS OF MEMORY. THE PAINS OF MEMORY. ALEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines; She sat her by these muskèd eglantines,— (The happy place the print seems yet to bear)— To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear; W. Drummond. ON HIS BLINDNESS. 181 ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, To serve therewith my Maker, and present That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed J. Milton. 182 TO MR. LAWRENCE. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, From the hard season gaining? Time will run What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? J. Milton. IN PRAISE OF DAPHNE. 183 IN PRAISE OF DAPHNE. My Daphne's hair is twisted gold, HER GOLDEN HAIR. AMARANTHA, sweet and fair, O braid no more that shining hair! As its calm ravisher, the wind; J. Lylye. But shake your head, and scatter day! Colonel Lovelace. |