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TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry,–

| As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill :

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

DIRGE.

LEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
1 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' the 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 the 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!

Cymbeline, Act iv. Sc. 2.

Minor Poets.

Sir Philip SIDNEY.

Born 1544. Killed at the Battle of Zutphen, Sept. 22, 1586.

SONNETS.

COME Sleep! O Sleep, that certain knot of peace,
V The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low ;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw.
Oh! make in me those civil wars to cease ;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind of light,
A rosy garland, and a weary head :
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

EAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;

And thou my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. O take fast hold ; let that light be my guide In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how ill becometh him to slide, Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

Born 1564. Died 1593.

The PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love ;

And we will all the pleasures prove, That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold ;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

SiR WALTER RALEIGH.

Born 1552. Executed 1618.

REPLY TO MARLOWE'S 'THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

TO HIS LOVE.

TF all the world and love were young,
1 And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field and fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

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