Oh! that the cause which doth consume our joy
  Would the remembrance of it too destroy!

LIFE.

    Woods cut again do grow: 
  Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done,
  But we, once dead, do no more see the sun! 
    What fair is wrought
  Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought.

SONNET.—­SPRING.

Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly train,—­ Thy head with flame, thy mantle bright with flowers:  The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,—­ The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;—­ Sweet Spring, thou com’st—­but ah! my pleasant hours, 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 wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair, But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air Is gone—­nor gold, nor gems can her restore, Neglected virtue—­seasons, go and come, When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET.

  Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours,
  Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
  Well pleased with delights which present are,—­
  Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers,
  To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers
  Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare,
  And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,—­
  A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
  What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
  (Attir’d in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
  Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
  And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? 
  Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
  To airs of spheres—­yes, and to angels lays!

SLEEP.

  Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread,
    And silently her resty coach doth roll,
  Rousing with her, from Thetis’ azure bed,
    Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole;
  While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad. 
    The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries,
    And, looking pale from height of all the skies,
  She dyes her beauties in a blushing red;
    While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,
  And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep,
  And Proteus’ monstrous people in the deep,—­
    The winds and waves, hush’d up, to rest entice,—­
  I wake, I turn, I weep, oppress’d with pain,
  Perplex’d in the meanders of my brain.

  Sleep, Silence’ child, sweet father of soft rest,
    Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
    Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
  Sole comforter of minds which are oppress’d—­
    Lo! by thy charming rod, all breathing things
  Lie slumb’ring, with forgetfulness