Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/402

 Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments shower?— Nobler wines why do we pour?— Beauteous flowers why do we spread Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses while I live, Now your wines and ointments give: After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have: All are Stoics in the grave.

351. 3. The Swallow

Foolish prater, what dost thou So early at my window do? Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day; A dream that ne'er must equall'd be By all that waking eyes may see. Thou this damage to repair Nothing half so sweet and fair, Nothing half so good, canst bring, Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey

It was a dismal and a fearful night: Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light, When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breast By something liker Death possest.