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THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A

PROSPECT OF FLOWERS.

See with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days !
In the green grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair aspect tames
The wilder flowers, and gives them names ;
But only with the roses plays,

And then does tell
What colours best become them, and what smell.

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Who can foretell for what high cause
This darling of the Gods was born ?
Yet this is she whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.

Happy who can
Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

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O then let me in time compound
And parley with those conquering eys,
Ere they have tried their force to wound ;
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,
And them that yield but more despise :

Let me be laid,
Where I may see the glories from some shade.

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Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,
Reform the errors of the Spring;
Make that the tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
And roses of their thorns disarm ;

But most procure
That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods,
Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds ;
Lest FLORA, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make th’ example yours ;

And ere we see-
Nip in the blossom-all our hopes and thee.

A. Marvell.

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40

XXII.

CVI.

CHILD AND MAIDEN.

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit

As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No happiness or pain !

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When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day,
I little thought the rising fire

Would take my rest away.

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Your charms in harmless childhood lay

Like metals in a mine;
Age from no face takes more away

Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,

And center'd in my breast.

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My passion with your beauty ew

While Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,

Threw a new flaming dart :
Each gloried in their wanton part :

To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

Sir C. Sedley.

XXIII.

CVII.

CONSTANCY.

I CANNOT change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn,
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born ;
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try,-
And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still live on, and die.

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When, killd with grief, Amintas lies,

And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour that ends his smart

Will then begin your pain,
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.

J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

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XXIV.

CVIII.

COUNSEL TO GIRLS.

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day

Tomorrow will be dying.

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The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a getting
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

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That age is besć which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while you may, go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for every tarry.

R. Herrick.

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CIX.

XXV

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

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True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

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Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

Colonel Lovelace.

XXVI.

CX.

ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ?

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You curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise ?

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