Puslapio vaizdai
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[MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull in Warwickshire about the year 1563. He died on the 23d of December, 1631, and lies buried in Westminster Abbey. In 1591 he published The Harmony of the Church, which was for some unknown reason refused a license, and has never been reprinted till recently. It was followed by Idea and The Pastorals, 1593; Mortimeriados (the Barons' Wars), 1596; The Heroical Epistles (one had been separately printed, 1598); The Owl, 1604; Legends of Cromwell and others, 1607-1613; Polyolbion (first eighteen books, 1612, whole, 1622); The Battle of Agincourt, 1626; besides minor works at intervals.]

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"Yet when there haps a honey fall, We'll lick the syrup'd leaves, And tell the bees that theirs is gall To this upon the greaves.

"The nimble squirrel noting here, Her mossy dray that makes, And laugh to see the dusty deer Come bounding o'er the brakes.

"The spider's web to watch we'll stand,
And when it takes the bee,
We'll help out of the tyrant's hand
The innocent to free.

"Sometime we'll angle at the brook,
The freckled trout to take,
With silken worms and bait the hooks
Which him our prey shall make.

"Of meddling with such subtle tools,
Such dangers that enclose,
The moral is, that painted fools
Are caught with silken shews.

"And when the moon doth once appear,
We'll trace the lower grounds,
When fairies in their ringlets there
Do dance their nightly rounds.

"And have a flock of turtle doves,
A guard on us to keep,
As witness of our honest loves,
To watch us till we sleep."

Which spoke, I felt such holy fires
To overspread my breast,
As lent life to my chaste desires,
And gave me endless rest.

By Cynthia thus do I subsist,

On earth heaven's only pride; Let her be mine, and let who list Take all the world beside.


1 PRAY thee love, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me,

I but in vain that saint adore,
That can, but will not save me;

These poor half kisses kill me quite ;
Was ever man thus served?
Amidst an ocean of delight,

For pleasure to be starved.

Show me no more those snowy breasts,
With azure rivers branched,

Where whilst my eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanched.
O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell,

By me thou art prevented;
'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in hell,

But thus in heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me;
O, these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me.
But see how patient I am grown,

In all this coyle about thee;
Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,
I cannot live without thee.

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