Sweet spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers, Thou turn’st, sweet youth; but ah! my pleasant hours 5 And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; 10 But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air, Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore. Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come, When thine, forgot, lie closèd in a tomb. _William Drummond._ XXXV _SONNET._ Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part-- Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 5 And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 10 When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes,-- Now if thou would’st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover! _Michael Drayton._ XXXVI _A SAD SONG._ Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that’s gone: Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again; Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 5 Fate’s hidden ends eyes cannot see: Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. 10 _Beaumont and Fletcher._ XXXVII _INVOCATION TO SLEEP._ Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence, 5 All my powers of care bereaving! Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought, 10 Through an idle fancy wrought: Oh, let my joys have some abiding! _Beaumont and Fletcher._ XXXVIII _SONG._ Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.