Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/301

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WILLIAM BROWNE

  Fear not your ships,Nor any to oppose you save our lips;  But come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,  Where never storms arise,Exchange, and be awhile our guests:  For stars gaze on our eyes.The compass Love shall hourly sing,And as he goes about the ring,  We will not missTo tell each point he nameth with a kiss.  —Then come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
250
The Rose
AROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne’er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWater’d the root and kiss’d her pretty shade.But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray. God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

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