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There's not a grove that wond'reth not my woe,
Refound my grief through every hill and dale; The birds and beasts yet in their fimple kind 71 Lament for me, no pity elfe that find.
None else there is gives comfort to my grief,
When on an old tree, under which ere now
His well tun'd bag-pipe carelessly he hung : And by the fame his fheep-hook, once of price, That had been carv'd with many a rare device.
He call'd his dog, (that fome time had the praise) Whitefoot, well known to all that keep the 86
many a wolf had worried in his days, A better cur there never followed fwain; Which, though as he his master's forrows knew, Wag'd his cut tail, his wretched plight to rue. 90
Poor cur, quoth he, and him therewith did stroke Go to your cote, and there thyfelf repose, Thou with thine age, my heart with forrow broke.
Be gone, ere death my restless eyes do close ; The time is come thou must thy mafter leave, 95 Whom the vile world fhall never more deceive.
With folded arms thus hanging down his head,
Before his breath was fully him bereft : The faithful fwain here laftly made an end, Whom all good shepherds ever shall defend.
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
WHEN fortie winters shall befeige thy brow,
And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field, Thy youthes proud liuery, fo gaz'd on now,
Will be a totter'd weed of smal worth held : Then, being afkt, where all thy beautie lies, Where all the treasure of thy lufty daies; To say within thine owne deepe-funken eyes, 'Were' an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise. How much more praise deseru'd thy beauties vfe,
If thou couldst answere, this faire child of mine Shall fum my count, and make my old excufe! Proouing his beautie by fucceffion thine. This were to be new made when thou art ould, And fee thy blood warme when thou feel'st it could.
Born 1564; dyed 1616.
V. 8. where.
You meaner beauties of the night,
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Natures lays,
By your weak accents, what's your praise
You violets, that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
As if the fpring were all your own,
* Born 1568; dyed 1639.
So, when my
Miftrifs fhall be feen
In form and beauty of her mind,
UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT MORTON'S WIFE.
BY THE SAME.
He first deceas'd; she for a little tri'd