In wyll to strong, in worke to weake is loue,
In hope to bolde, in feare more faynte then needes:
In thought a thousand guyles it stryues to proue,
In guyle, suspition painefull passions breedes.
Suspition easely yeelds to light beleefe,
And light beleefe to iealousie is thrall,
The iealous mynde deuoures it selfe with griefe,
Thus loue at once doth frye, freese, ryse and fall.
On pleasures paste to thinke, it takes delighte,
Whyles present blisse, by fonde conceyte it balkes,
Although the fruite it fynde, be pensiue plight,

I.

Give me the Harp — but every chord
That's mournful cast away;
My memory alone is stor'd
With sonnets light and gay;
Not such as Love incessant leaves
Within his spell-fraught bowers,
But such as sparkling Pleasure weaves
With Fancy's lightest flowers.
Then give the Harp — but pr'ythee take
The mournful chord away,
And notes of joy I'll swiftly wake,
And sonnets light and gay.

II.

If life's bright dawn was only made
To be obscur'd with tears,
Then keep the chord — its friendly shade

Rage on, ye winds, with direst might,
Descend ye lightnings from above;
Enfold me round ye shades of night,
And shield me from the shafts of Love.

No more can gentle Peace resume
Its wonted throne within my breast;
Or Hope the darksome void illume,
Sad bosom barr'd for e'er of rest.

Unkind Miranda! merc'less fair!
Say, why you caus'd me thus distress'd?
Too lovely nymph! why solemn swear,
You liv'd to make Orlando blest?

Say, why that cruel fond concern
Of poor Orlando, once you took?

There was a harp of old that hung
In fairy woods, — and youths of fire
Would touch the string, and, as they sung,
Breathe forth their inmost heart's desire.

Then swift the harp an answer made,
An answer ne'er to be forgot,
And told the swain the bashful maid
Was his alone, — or she was not.

Oh, were that harp existing now,
I would not seek its wild decree,
I'd trust unto my Mary's vow,
That she exists alone for me.

I'd sooner trust her glancing eye,
Which hath for me a sun-shine wore,

Ah, virtuous Bard! how sadly-silent lies
Thy tuneful tongue, that, with melodious sound,
Sung GOD's amazing works — the lofty skies
With glory beaming — earth with beauty crown'd.

Tho' here thy mortal part, in humble dust,
Lies underneath this sacred roof, interr'd;
Thy happy soul, united to the just,
Meets the reward thy wish to fame preferr'd.

The brazen tablet, a memorial here,
May moulder; but thy name shall never die:
For, in thy works, to Truth and Genius dear,
Shine, love to man, and love to GOD most high.

Who shall gain the maiden's love?
For so lovely are her eyes,
And so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

As a hawk's, her eyes no less
Than flowers are in loveliness,
But how may he bear their stress
Who in their fair bondage lies?
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

For her eyes, that clear and fair
As a royal eagle's are,
Turn the living to despair,
And the dead are racked with sighs.
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

To whom shall I my sorrows tell?
Who will listen to my woe?
Why in such a time farewell,
Comfort, wouldst thou bid, and go,
Leaving Love alone to dwell?

Hope, that fair appeared to me,
What away from me could wean thee?
Were I now thy face to see
Still wouldst thou a stranger be,
Since so long I have not seen thee!

They who sightless Love portray
No wise fancy so devise,
For Love has as many eyes
As the deaths for which I pray;
And not one to me replies.

How comely the maiden,
How lovely and fair!
Now tell me, thou sailor,
Who hast lived on the sea,
If ship, sail or star
Is fair as she.

And tell me, thou knight,
Wont in arms to be,
If steed, arms or war
Is fair as she.

And thou, shepherd-boy,
As thou keepest thy sheep,
If flock, hill or valley
Is fair as she.

Welcome to our longing sight,
Lovely Spring! with true delight,
We behold thy blissful charms,
Which the chearing sunshine warms,
Soft'ning breezes, length'ning days,
Vivid Light's more glorious rays;
Rising verdure, early flow'rs,
Op'ning in the fragrant bow'rs:
Spring ! those pleasing gifts are thine:
Now the fields with daisies shine—
Now the mossy banks display
Vi'lets smiling in the day,
Primroses, and cowslips, there,
Give fresh odours to the air:
See, for thee the wild-rose blooms,
Honeysuckles breathe perfumes;

Forbear, kind Sir, forbid your tears to flow:
Since Delia's false, she is not worth a tear:
Quench the fierce flame, forget it e'er did glow
With ardent love — thy breast is too sincere.

Gentle she's not, nor constant as the dove,
But proud and fickle as the restless wind;
Her breast ne'er felt the pangs of injur'd love,
And Plutus only govern'd Delia's mind.

Tear from thy breast with scorn the venom'd dart,
Send it the fair whose bosom beats so cold;
Tell her it was the victim of a heart