Tixall Poetry.
127
Since thou delightest to behold
In silver streames thy lockes of gold,
Why dost thou scorn to looke on me,
When from my eyes such streames there be?
In silver streames thy lockes of gold,
Why dost thou scorn to looke on me,
When from my eyes such streames there be?
XV.
The Dying Lover.
Walking among thicke shades alone,
I heard a dying voice,
Which sighing said, now she is gone,
He make no other choice.
I lookt, and saw it was a swaine,
Who to the flying wind,
Did of some neighboring nimph complaine,
To faire, and to unkind.
I heard a dying voice,
Which sighing said, now she is gone,
He make no other choice.
I lookt, and saw it was a swaine,
Who to the flying wind,
Did of some neighboring nimph complaine,
To faire, and to unkind.
