IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Her eyes like angels watch them still; 

 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 

 All that attempt with eye or hand 

 Those sacred cherries to come nigh 

 Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 



THOMAS CAMPION. 



Love in the Garden 



See'st not, my love, with what a grace 

 The Spring resembles thy sweet face? 

 Here let us sit, and in these bowers 

 Receive the odours of the flowers, 

 For Flora, by thy beauty woo'd conspires thy 

 good. 



See how she sends her fragrant sweet, 



And doth this homage to thy feet, 



Bending so low her stooping head 



To kiss the ground where thou dost tread, 



And all her flowers proudly meet, to kiss thy feet. 



[76] 



