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Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ?
Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody!
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell ?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafʼning clamours in the slipp’ry clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ?—Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.


Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end ?
Then, soal, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store.
By terms divine, in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed,—without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men ;
And death once dead, there 's no more dying then.

To say,

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held;
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

“Within thine own deep sunken eyes,"
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise ;
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer, “ This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,"'
Proving his beauty by succession thine :
This were to be new-made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

Oh! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live;
The canker'd blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves-sweet roses do not so,
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made ;
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming:
I love not less, though less the show appear :
That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove : O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Fear no more the heat o'th' sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages :
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o'th' great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash:

Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on nov
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth h
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty
Where all the treasure of thy lusty do
To say, “Within thine own deep si
Were an all-eating shame and thri
How much more praise deserv’d
If thou couldst answer, “ This
Shall sum my count, and ma
Proving his beauty by succ
This were to be new-mad
And see thy blood warm


gged flesh and clothes did well agree :
nd about, amazed Horror flies,
11, Shame veils his guilty eyes,
*h, Hell's hungry throat still yawning lies.
ables, spread before her,
m, more than stony hard,
•tial judge, and strict restorer
'h pain, or with reward;
all our debts, the card
nd life, and death, were painted :
I so untainted,

with thousand terrors fainted.

the same,

t Sinai heard, FLETCHEK

- did flame, aucated at Camb.

t afеard, wie is known of his life.

me. suffolk, A.D. 1623. His poel.. of Christ deserves a high place i

W, In its imaginative and allegorical vé. diction of it possesses a remarkable atins

e draw. siveness.

The birth of Him that no beginning knew,
Yet gives beginning to all that are boru,
And how the Infinite far greater grew
By growing less, and how the rising morn,
That shot from Heav'n, and back to Heav'n return,

The obsequies of Him that could not die,

And death of life, end of eternity,
How worthily He died, that died unworthily;
How God and man did both embrace each other,
Met in one person, Heaven and Earth did kiss,
And how a Virgin did become a mother,
And bare that Son, who the world's Father is,
And maker of His mother, and how bliss

Descended from the bosom of the High,

To clothe Himself in naked misery,
Sailing at length to Heav'n, in Earth, triumphantly,--
Is the first flame, wherewith my whiter Muse
Doth burn in heavenly love, such love to tell.
O Thou that didst this holy fire infuse,
And taught'st this breast, but late the grave of Heil,


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