George Wither

So now is come our joyful feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make Within one valley a large silver lake: About whose banks the fertile mountains stood

Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear

Amarillis I did woo, And I courted Phillis too; Daphne, for her love, I chose;

Did I not know a great man's power and might In spite of innocence can smother right, Colour his villainies to get esteem,

Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness than all art

Seest thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays? And that vapours which do breathe

Ah me! Am I the swain That late from sorrow free

Lordly gallants! tell me this (Though my safe content you weigh not), In your greatness, what one bliss

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care

Now gentle sleep hath clos'd up those eyes, Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe, And free access unto that sweet lip lies

Methought his royal person did foretell A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear; His look majestic seem'd to compel

When with a serious musing I behold The grateful and obsequious marigold, How duly every morning she displays