WEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and skie; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angrie and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

THE PLAIDIE.

CPON ane stormy Sunday,
Coming adoon the lane,

Were a score of bonnie lassies
And the sweetest, I maintain,
Was Caddie,

That I took unneath my plaidie,
To shield her from the rain.

She said the daisies blushed

For the kiss that I had ta'en;
I wadna hae thought the lassie
Wad sae of a kiss complain;
"Now, laddie!

I winna stay under your plaidie,
If I gang hame in the rain!"
But, on an after Sunday,

When cloud there was not ane,
This self-same winsome lassie

(We chanced to meet in the lane)
Said "Laddie,

Why dinna ye wear your plaidie?
Wha kens but it may rain?"

CHARLES SIBLEY.

THE DAISY.

F all the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures white and rede,
Soch that men callen daisies in our town;
To hem I have so great affection,

As I said erst, whan comen is the May,
That in my bedde there daweth me no day
That I nam up and walking in the mede;
To seene this flour ayenst the sunne sprede,
Whan it up riseth early by the morow,
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorow.
So glad am I whan that I have the presence
Of it, to done it all reverence;

And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe,
And ever shall, till that mine herte die;
All swere I not, of this I will not lie.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.