William Drummond

To The Nightingale

Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, (Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers) To rocks, to springs, to

To His Lute

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. Since

This Life Which Seems So Fair

This Life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children’s breath, Who chase it everywhere And strive who can most motion it bequeath. And though it

Summons To Love

Phoebus, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed That she may thy career with roses spread: The nightingales thy coming each-where sing: Make

A Lament

My thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize: But he, grim grinning King, Who

Doth Then The World Go Thus?

Doth then the world go thus? doth all thus move? Is this the justice which on earth we find? Is this that firm decree which all doth bind? Are these your influences, Powers above?