GEORGE WITHER

Thus I fondly fear'd, till Fate

(Which I must confess in that

Did a greater favour to me

Than the world can malice do me)

Show'd to me that matchless flower,

Subject for this song of our ;

Whose perfection having eyed,

Reason instantly espied

That Desire, which ranged abroad,

There would find a period :

And no marvel if it might,

For it there hath all delight,

And in her hath nature placed

What each several fair one graced.

Let who list, for me, advance The admired flowers of France, Let who will praise and behold The reserved Marigold ; Let the sweet-breath'd Violet now Unto whom she pleaseth bow ; And the fairest Lily spread Where she will her golden head ; I have such a flower to wear That for those I do not care.

��Let the young and happy swains Playing on the Britain plains Court unblamed their shepherdesses, And with their gold curled tresses Toy uncensured, until I Grudge at their prosperity.

�� �