OW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Sit, Jessica look, how the floor of heaven. There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims: But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. HE forward violet thus did I chide : Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: ROM you have I been absent in the Spring, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; ARIEL'S SONG. They were but sweet, but figures of delight, H, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, As the perfumèd tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: |