S

Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flow'rs are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue:
Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas !

Sonnet LXX

WEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

M

Sonnet LXXIII

And birds their

Y lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, ramage did on thee bestow. Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont 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 orphans' wailings to the fainting ear, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear, For which be silent as in woods before: Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

O

Of a Bee

DO not kill that bee

That thus hath wounded thee!
Sweet, it was no despite,

But hue did him deceive:
For when thy lips did close,
He deemed them a rose.

What wouldst thou further crave?

He wanting wit, and blinded with delight,
Would fain have kiss'd, but mad with joy did bite.

G

King Charles I. (1600-1649)

Majefty in Mifery

REAT Monarch of the world, from whose power springs

The potency and power of kings,

Record the royal woe my suffering sings:

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree,
(The only root of righteous royaltie)
With this dim diadem invested me:

With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe,
The holy unction, and the royal globe :
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.

They raise a war, and christen it THE CAUSE, While sacriligeous hands have best applause, Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;

Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.

My loyal subjects, who in this bad season Attend me (by the law of God and reason), They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.

Next at the clergy do their furies frown,
Pious episcopacy must go down,

They will destroy the crosier and the crown.

Churchmen are chain'd and schismaticks are freed,

Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,
The crown is crucified with the creed.

The Church of England doth all factions foster, The pulpit is userpt by each impostor, Extempore excludes the Paternoster.

The Presbyter and Independent seed

Spring with broad blades. To make religion bleed Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed.

The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier:
With such a bloody method and behaviour
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour.

My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb
So many princes legally have come,
Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.

Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance:
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd,
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

With propositions daily they enchant
My people's ears, such as do reason daunt,
And the Almighty will not let me grant.

They promise to erect my royal stem,
To make me great, t' advance my diadem,
If I will first fall down, and worship them!

But for refusal they devour my thrones,
Distress my children, and destroy my bones:
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones.