In those white Cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be;
There wants no marble for a tomb,
Whose breast hath marble been to me.
William Habington.
THOU PRETTY BIRD.
Thou pretty bird, how do I see
Thy silly state and mine agree!
For thou a prisoner art;
So is my heart.
Thou sing'st to her, and so do I address
My music to her ear that's merciless;
But herein doth the difference lie,—
That thou art graced; so am not I;
Thou singing livest, and I must singing die.
John Danyel.