TO-MORROW

LORD, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!

My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise

Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.

Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,

While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,

And wish her lays were tunéd like the lark;

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night :
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with

sorrow;

For why, she sigh'd, and bade me come to

morrow.

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Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;

To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!

Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow :

Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to

morrow.

FAREWELL

GOOD night, good rest. Ah, neither be my

share :

She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.

Farewell, quoth she, and come again to-morrow:
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
'T may be, she joyed to jest at my exile,
'T may be, again to make me wander thither:
Wander, a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

BEAUTY

BEAUTY is but a vain and doubtful good ;

A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud; A brittle glass that's broken presently :

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,

So beauty blemish'd once, 's for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.

AN ELEGY

SWEET Rose, fair Flower, untimely pluck'd, soon

vaded,

Pluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,

And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.

I

weep

for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why, thou left'st me nothing in thy will:
And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave;
For why, I craved nothing of thee still:

—O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.