This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1910 edition. Excerpt: …eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thought of whom keeps sin away? Rise, madam, rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise; For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes. N. Field From The School of Compliment, 1631 Woodmen, shepherds, come away, This is Pan’s great holiday; Throw off cares, With your heaven-aspiring airs Help us to sing, While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves, Leave your arbours, bring your loves, Gather posies, Crown your golden hair with roses; As you pass Foot like fairies on the grass. Joy crown our bowers; Philomel Leave of Tereus’ rape to tell. Let trees dance As they at Thracian lyre did once. Mountains play, This is shepherds’ holiday. J. Shirley From The Witty Fair One, 1633 Love, a thousand sweets distilling, And with nectar bosoms filling, Charm all eyes that none may find us, Be above, before, behind us. And, while we thy pleasures taste, Enforce time itself to stay, And by forelock hold him fast Lest occasion slip away. J. Shirley From The Imposture, 1652 You virgins that did late despair To keep your wealth from cruel men, Tie up in silk your careless hair, Soft peace is come again. Now lovers’ eyes may gently shoot A flame that will not kill; The drum was angry, but the lute Shall whisper what you will. Sing 18, 18, for his sake Who hath restored your drooping heads; With choice of sweetest flowers make A garden where he treads; Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring, A petty triumph to his brow, Who is the master of our spring And all the bloom we owe. J. Shirley From The Imposture, 1652 O fly, my soul; what hangs upon Thy drooping wings, And weighs…
