O cease your idle prate ye swains
Of whom the fairest be
For there is one caps all the plains
& thats Rosale[e]
Talk ye of stars in ladies eyes
& cheeks were roses be
by supprise
& thats rosale[e]

Ye shepherds cease your idle lays
One comes oertopping all your praise
& thats Rosalee
Why boast this pale that rosey call
One has more charms yell find in all
& thats Rosalee
Boast ye of stars in ladies eyes
Just suns light up not brighter skyes
Then those of Rosalee

O cease your idle songs ye swains

A DONIS dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
The Queen of Beauty o'er his tomb shall shed
Her flowing sorrows for Adonis dead;
For earth's cold lap her velvet couch forego,
And robes of purple for the weeds of woe.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
Stretch'd on this mountain thy torn lover lies;
Weep, Queen of Beauty! for he bleeds—he dies.
Ah! yet behold life's last drops faintly flow,
In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow!

My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me,
and things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself
with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,
and pass my days with little cheer
since I have parted from my dear.

Oh come home soon, I write to her.
Go screw yourself, is her answer.
Now what is that, for Christian word?
I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

But still I love her, yes I do.
I love her and the children too.
I only think it fit that she

Love's kisses spurned so long ago,
Dead as the years, that o'er them flow;—
And now, my gilded treasuries
Would I might give—for memories.

Childe Watters in his stable stoode,
And stroaket his milke-white steede;
To him there came a ffaire young ladye
As ere did weare womans weede.

Saies, "Christ you save, good Chyld Waters!'
Sayes, "Christ you save and see!
My girdle of gold, which was too longe,
Is now to short for mee.

"And all is with one chyld of yours,
I feele sturre att my side;
My gowne of greene, it is to strayght;
Before it was to wide.'

"If the child be mine, Faire Ellen,' he sayd,
"Be mine, as you tell mee,
Take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,

Blessed with a joy that only she
Of all alive shall ever know,
She wears a proud humility
For what it was that willed it so,—
That her degree should be so great
Among the favored of the Lord
That she may scarcely bear the weight
Of her bewildering reward.

As one apart, immune, alone,
Or featured for the shining ones,
And like to none that she has known
Of other women's other sons,—
The firm fruition of her need,
He shines anointed; and he blurs
Her vision, till it seems indeed
A sacrilege to call him hers.

But now
From the brow
Of old Skiddaw, high-perched
On the last of the cairns,
Myself and my bairns,
We searched
For our sweetest of sweet little Hesperids;
And our lids
Were stung
By the “saut”
Sharp slung
From the wall
Of a squall,
That wrought,
And blurred,
And slurred
The air
Out there,
So that naught
Of our Isle,
The while,
Could we see,
But a film of the faintest ivory.
Just half-way down the slope we sit,—
When, suddenly, the sky is lit—
Look, look! as through a sliding panel

Ye wakeful stars, to you I never breathed it,
To thee, all-seeing sun, no whisper came:
About my heart in silence I enwreathed it,
That fairest flower of all things fair—her name.

Yet one star to another repeats my story,
When darkling night sheds down her welcome boon:
And lo, the great sun, when he sinks in glory,
Murmurs my secret to the silver moon.

The shady hills and joyful meadows know it,
'Tis told bYevery tree to every flower:
The birds fly past me singing: ‘Gloomy poet,
At length thou feelest love's enchanting power.’

Hsün-yang on the Yangtze, seeing off a guest at night;
maple leaves, reed flowers, autumn somber and sad:
the host had dismounted, the guest already aboard the boat,
we raised our wine, prepared to drink, though we lacked flutes and strings.
But drunkenness brought no pleasure, we grieved at the imminent parting;
at parting time, vague and vast, the river lay drenched in moonlight.
Suddenly we heard the sound of a lute out on the water;
the host forgot about going home, the guest failed to start on his way.

Her hair is yellow as sulphur, and her gaze
As brimstone burning blue and odorous:
I know not how her eyes came to be thus
But I do think her soul must be ablaze:
Their pupils wane or wax to blame or praise;
As a cat watches mice, she watches us;
And I am sure her claws are murderous,
So feline are her velvet coaxing ways.
She purrs like a young leopard soothed and pleased
At flattery; so too turns and snarls when teased,
And pats her love like a beast of prey.
I fancy too that over wine and food
Her saffron hair turns tawny and grand her mood—