RUST not, Sweet Soul! those curlèd

waves of gold

With gentle tides which on your temples flow,

Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin

snow,

Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain

enroll'd.

Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,

When first I did their burning rays be

hold;

Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show

Than of the Thracian harper have been told! Look to this dying lily, fading rose,

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass

rejoice

And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes ! The sweet tyrant that did kill those flowers Shall once, ay me, not spare that Spring of

MARINA's gone and now sit I
As Philomela on a thorn,
Turned out of nature's livery,

Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn :

Only she sings not, while my sorrow can Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan.

So shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honey-suckle sheaves

The bee goes when the day is done;

The Song of Celadyne

So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I, since she is gone.

To some few birds kind nature hath
Made all the summer as one day;
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, they know not yet,
The pain to be deprived, or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be
Some, that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory;

But could they teach forgetfulness,

I'd learn, and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades

Men from themselves, to think they be
Headless, or other body's shades,

Hath long and bootless dwelt with me.
For could I think she some idea were
I still might love, forget, and have her here.

The Song of Celadyne

For such she is not; nor would I

For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company

Hath brought to those I felt before;

For then no future time might hap to know That she deserv'd, or I did love her so.

Ye hours then, but as minutes be!
Though so I shall be sooner old,
Till I those lovely graces see,

Which but in her, can none behold.

Then be an age! That we may never try

More grief in parting, but grow old and die.