TO CYNTHIA

WHEN I behold the heaven of thy face,
And see how every beauty, every grace
Move, and are there

As in their Sphere,

What need have I (my Cynthia) to conferre
With any Chalde, or Astrologer:

Since in the Scheme of thy faire face I see
All the Aspects of my nativity.

For if at any time thou should'st cast downe
From thy serenest brow an angry frowne,
Or should'st reflect

That dire aspect

Of opposition, or of enmity,

That looke would sure be fatall unto me,
Unlesse faire Venus kinde succeeding ray,
Did much of the malignity allay.

Or if I should be so unfortunate

To see a looke, though of imperfect hate,
I am most sure

That quadrature

Would cast me in a quartan love-sicke fever,
Of which I should recover late, if ever,
Or into a consumption, so should I
Perish at last, although not suddenly.

But when I see those starry Twins of thine, Behold me with a Sextile, or a Trine,

And that they move

In perfect love

With amorous beams, they plainly do discover,
My horoscope markt me to be a lover:
And that I onely should not have the honor
To be borne under Venus, but upon her.

SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON.

UPON THE THOUGHT OF AGE
AND DEATH

THE breath of time shall blast the flowry Spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring
So darke a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy faire eyes, in an eternall night.
Some melancholly chamber of the earth,

(For that like Time devoures whom it gave breath)
Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere
Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.
But I whose griefe no formall limits bound,
Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,
Will there immure myselfe. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.

Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,
Thou hadst reviv'd to triumph o're thy hearse.
WILLIAM HABINGTON.

GO, LOVELY ROSE

Go, lovely Rose,

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spy'd,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended dy'd.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retir'd;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer her self to be desir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die that she,

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

EDMUND WALLER.

SONNET: HOW SOON HATH TIME

How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth yeer!
My hasting dayes flie 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 ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure eev'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 Masters eye.

JOHN MILTON.

SONNET: WHEN I CONSIDER HOW
MY LIGHT IS SPENT

WHEN I consider how my light is spent,

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

JOHN MILTON.

SONNET: AVENGE O LORD THY
SLAUGHTER'D SAINTS

AVENGE O Lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so rare of old
When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,
Forget not: In thy book record their groanes
Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold

Slayn by the bloody Piedmontese that roll'd

Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their

moans

The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O're all th' Italian fields where still doth sway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

JOHN MILTON.

A CONSTANT LOVER

OUT upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings

Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world agen
Such a constant Lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no staies,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very Face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.