Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me; Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave In the bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there, I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who so rudely move him. He's soft and tender, pray take heed; With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home; but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him. TO BLOSSOMS Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do you fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Tis pity nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. TO DAFFODILS Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon: Stay, stay, Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along! We have short time to stay as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning-dew, Ne'er to be found again. JULIA Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing did I say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. Some asked how pearls did grow, and where, Then spake I to my girl, To part her lips, and show me there The quarelets of pearl. One asked me where the roses grew, I bade him not go seek; But forthwith bade my Julia shew A bud in either cheek. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF THEIR TIME Gather the rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse, and worst Time shall succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.