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C.

ORSAMES' SONG.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING, 1609-1641.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do 't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :

The devil take her !

CI.

H

SONG.

ONEST lover whosoever,

If in all thy love there ever

Was one wavering thought, if thy flame

Were not still even, still the same:

Know this,

Thou lovest amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when she appears i' the room

Thou dost not quake, and art struck dumb,

And in striving this to cover

Dost not speak thy words twice over,

Know this,

Thou lovest amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If fondly thou dost not mistake,
And all defects for graces take,

Persuad'st thyself that jests are broken When she hath little or nothing spoken, Know this,

Thou lovest amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when thou appear'st to be within
Thou lett'st not men ask and ask again;
And when thou answerest, if it be

To what was asked thee, properly,
Know this,

Thou lovest amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when thy stomach calls to eat
Thou cutt'st not fingers 'stead of meat,

And with much gazing on her face

Dost not rise hungry from the place,
Know this,

Thou lovest amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If by this thou dost discover

That thou art no perfect lover,

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H

CII.

RICHARD CRASHAW,

ON THE ASSUMPTION.

1612-1649.

ARK! she is called, the parting hour is come;

Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home.

A piece of heavenly earth; purer and brighter

Than the chaste stars, whose choice lamps come to light her,

Whil'st through the crystal orbs, clearer than they,
She climbs; and makes a far more milky way.
She's called. Hark how the dear immortal dove
Sighs to his silver mate, 'Rise up,' my love,
Rise up, my fair, my spotless one,
The winter's past, the rain is gone;
The spring is come, the flowers appear,
No sweets, save thou, are wanting here.
Come away, my love,

Come away, my dove,

Cast off delay;

The court of heaven is come

To wait upon thee home;

Come, come away!

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