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Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go

Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Thou 'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and

desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

1633.

John Donne.

I

"I KNOW THAT ALL BENEATH THE MOON DECAYS"

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time's great periods shall return to nought;
The fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of spright, which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,

To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of minds' accords,

Where sense and will invassal reason's power: Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, O me! I both must write and love.

1616.

2

FOR THE BAPTIST

THE last and greatest herald of Heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and

mild.

His food was locusts, and what young doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: "All ye, whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn;
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!"
-Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their marble caves "Repent!
Repent!"

1623.

3

TO HIS LUTE

My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Sith that dear voice which thy sounds approve,
Which us'd in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
Be therefore silent as in woods before:

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
William Drummond.

1616.

SONNETS

I

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE
AGE OF TWENTY-THREE

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three-and-twenti'th year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of
Heav'n;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

1631. 1645.

II.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May; Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate ¦ Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh:

As thou from year to year hast sung too late

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why; Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate. Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 1645.

III

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS
INTENDED TO THE CITY

CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

If deed of honour did thee ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from

harms.

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er lands and

seas,

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower;
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground: and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 1642. 1645.

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