November. The western sun withdraws the shorten'd day, In her chill progress, to the ground condensed The dusky-mantled lawn. THOMSON'S "SEASONS." Were I as high as heaven above the plain, Thomas Sylvestre. Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, November 2. Love then to us did new souls give, R. Herrick. And in those souls did plant new powers, The breath we breathe is his, not ours. William Cartwright. Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows. November 3. I love a woman's eloquence, Giles Fletcher. And then her tongue's so nicely hung, Harrison. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together. Shakespeare |