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Morning

Is not she a saint then, say,
Thoughts of whom keep sin away?

Rise, Madam! rise and give me light,
Whom darkness still will cover,
And ignorance, darker than night,
Till thou smile on thy lover.
All want day till thy beauty rise;

For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.

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Nathaniel Field [1587-1633]

THE NIGHT-PIECE: TO JULIA

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,

The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber:
What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light.

Like tapers clear without number..

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour unto thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674)

MORNING

THE lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings,
He takes your window for the east,
And to implore your light, he sings;

Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes;
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

William D'Avenant [1606-1668]

MATIN-SONG

From "The Rape of Lucrece "

PACK, clouds, away, and welcome, day,
With night we banish sorrow.

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft
To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill

Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]

THE ROSE

SWEET, serene, sky-like flower,

Haste to adorn the bower;
From thy long-cloudy bed,
Shoot forth thy damask head.

Mary Morison

New-startled blush of Flora,
The grief of pale Aurora

(Who will contest no more),
Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Love's couch's coverled,

Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus
And jolly, plump Silenus,
Haste, haste to deck the hair
Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower,

Her floor is all this flower

Her bed a rosy nest

By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses,

Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I fear,-

Because her cheeks are near.

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Richard Lovelace (1618-1658]

SONG

SEE, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes!

And now the sun begins to rise;

Less glorious is the morn that breaks

From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give;

But different fates ere night fulfil;

How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!

William Congreve [1670-1729]

MARY MORISON

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor: 1

How blithely wad I bide the stour
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye arena Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wiltna gie,
At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

WAKE, LADY!

UP! quit thy bower! late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower;

O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee,

And the wild kid sports merrily.

The sun is bright, the sky is clear:
Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air!
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam.

Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay;
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!

Up! Time will tell the morning bell
Its service-sound has chimèd well;

"The Young May Moon

The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool and gay:

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Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

Joanna Baillie [1762-1851]

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile-
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:

-And now,

how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:

And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]

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'THE YOUNG MAY MOON"

THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love;
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear;

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

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