For what doth serve all that this world contains,Sith she for whom those once to me were dear,No part of them can have now with me here?
"What doth it Serve?"
The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King,Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he than man more harmless found and mild.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
My thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchise:— But he, grim-grinning King,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it every whereDrummond, William, Of Hawthornden
Of this fair volume which we World do nameIf we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,We clear might read the art and wisdom rare.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
God never had a church but there, men say,The Devil a chapel hath raised by some wyles.I doubted of this saw, till on a dayI westward spied great Edinburgh’s Saint Gyles.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
What doth it serve to see sun's burning face,And skies enamelled with both the Indies' gold?Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd,And all the glory of that starry place?Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
Make an eternal spring;Give life to this dark world which lieth dead.Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy love, to hear and recompense my love.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world; doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love.Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden
Here is the pleasant place,And nothing wanted is, save She, alas!Drummond, William, Of Hawthornden