Poems, by that most famous wit, William Drummond of Hawthornden

To the Author.

Parthenius.

WHile thou dost praise the Roses, Lillies, Gold, Which in a dangling Tresse, and Face appeare, Still stands the Sun in Skies thy Songs to heare, A Silence sweet each whispering Wind doth hold: Sleep in Pasithea's Lap his Eyes doth fold, The Sword falls from the God of the fift Spheare, The Heards to feed, the Birds to sing forbeare, Each Plant breaths Love, each Floud and Fountain cold. And hence it is, that that once Nymph, now Tree, Who did th' Amphrisian Shepheards Sighs disdaine, And scorn'd his Layes, mov'd by a sweeter Vaine, Is become pitifull, and follows Thee, Thee loves, and van••eth that she hath the Grace, A Garland for thy Locks to enterlace.

Alexis.

THe Love Alexis did to Damon beare, Shall witness'd be to all the Woods and Plaines, As singular renown'd by neighbouring Swaines, That to our Relicts Time may Trophees reare. Those Madrigals we sung amidst our Flocks, With Garlands guarded from Apollos Beames, On Ochelles, whiles neare Bodottias Streames, The Ecchoes did resound them from the Rocks: Of forraine Shepheards bent to try the States Though I (Worlds Guest) a Vagabond do stray, Thou may that Store which I esteem Survey, As best acquainted with my Soules Conceits. What ever Fate Heavens have for me design'd, I trust thee with the Treasure of my Mind.

Clorus.

SWan which so sweetly sings, By Aska's Bankes, and pitifully plains, That old Meander never heard such Straines, Eternall Fame, thou to thy Country brings: And now our Calidon Is by thy Songs made a new Helicon. Her Mountaines, Woods, and Springs, While Mountains, Woods, Springs be, shall sound thy praise, And though fierce Boreas oft make pale her Bayes, And kill those Mirtills with enraged Breath, Which should thy Brows enwreath; Her Flouds have Pearles, Seas Amber do send forth, Her Heaven hath golden Stars to crown thy Worth.

Moeris.

THe sister Nymphs which haunt the Thespian springs, More liberally their Gifts ne're did bequeath To them who on their Hils suckt sacred Breath, Then unto thee, by which thou sweetly sings. Ne're did Apollo raise on Pegase Wings A Muse more neare Himselfe, more far from Earth, Than thine; whether thou weep thy Ladies Death, Or sing those sweet-sowre Pangs that Passion brings. To write our Thoughts in Verse doth merit Praise, But thus the Verse to gild in Fictions Ore, Bright, rich, delightfull, doth deserve much more, As thou hast done these thy melodious Layes: No doubt thy Muses faire Morne doth bewray The swift Approach of a more glistring Day.