Must, bid the Morn awake! Sad Winter now declines, Each bird doth choose a mate; This day's Saint Valentine's. For that good bishop's sake Get up and let us see What beauty it shall be That Fortune us assigns.
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And when the Salmon seeks a fresher stream to find; (Which hither from the sea comes, yearly, by his kind,) As he towards season grows; and stems the watry tract Where Tivy, falling down, makes an high cataract, Forc'd by the rising rocks that there her course oppose, As tho' within her bounds they meant her to inclose; Here when the labouring fish does at the foot arrive, And finds that by his strength he does but vainly strive; His tail takes in his mouth, and, bending like a bow That's to full compass drawn, aloft himself doth throw, Then springing at his height, as doth a little wand That bended end to end, and started from man's hand, Far off itself doth cast, so does that Salmon vault; And if, at first, he fail, his second summersault He instantly essays, and, from his nimble ring Still yerking, never leaves until himself he fling Above the opposing stream.
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Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.
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But when the bowels of the earth were sought, And men her golden entrails did espy,...
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Thus when we fondly flatter our desires, Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.
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No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast, Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring,...
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Before my face it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death,
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