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The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden

With "A Cypresse Grove": Edited by L. E. Kastner
Drummond, William (1585-1649)

expand sectionI. 
Volume the First
collapse sectionII. 
Volume the Second
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FLOWRES OF SION:
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A CYPRESSE GROVE:
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The Entertainment of King Charles.
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TO THE EXEQUIES OF THE HONOVRABLE, Sr. Antonye Alexander, KNIGHT, &c.
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Madrigals, etc.
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Commendatory Verses.
collapse sectionI. 
Posthumous Poems. I.
 i. 
i.
 ii. 
ii.
 iii. 
iii.
 iv. 
iv. A Replye.
 v. 
v. Beauties Frailtye.
 vi. 
vi. To a swallow, building neare the statue of Medea.
 vii. 
vii. Venus armed.
 viii. 
viii. The Boares head.
 ix. 
ix. To an Owle.
 x. 
x. Daphnè.
 xi. 
xi. The Beare of loue.
 xii. 
xii. Galateas Sonnets.
 xiii. 
xiii. On the Death of a Margarite.
 xiv. 
xiv.
 xv. 
xv. Epitaph.
 xvi. 
xvi. The oister.
 xvii. 
xvii. All Changeth.
 xviii. 
xviii. Silenus to King Midas.
 xix. 
xix. To his amorous Thoughts.
 xx. 
xx. Verses of the late Earl of Pembroke
 xxi. 
xxi. A Replye.
 xxii. 
xxii. A Translation.
 xxiii. 
xxiii. To the Memory of [John, Earl of Lauderdale.]
 xxiv. 
xxiv. To the Memorie of the excellent ladye Isabell, Countesse of Lawderdale.
 xxv. 
xxv.
 xxvi. 
xxvi.
 xxvii. 
xxvii. Madrigal.
 xxviii. 
xxviii. On the death of a nobleman in Scotland, buried at Aithen.
 xxix. 
xxix. Epitaph.
 xxx. 
xxx.
 xxxi. 
xxxi.
 xxxii. 
xxxii.
 xxxiii. 
xxxiii.
 xxxiv. 
xxxiv.
 xxxv. 
xxxv. Rose.
 xxxvi. 
xxxvi.
 xxxvii. 
xxxvii.
expand sectionii. 
Posthumous Poems. II.
expand sectionIII. 
Posthumous Poems. III.
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Posthumous Poems. IV.
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Poems of Doubtful Authenticity.

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29

[xx] [The Court of True Honour.]

Why (worldlings) do ye trust fraile honours dreams?
And leane to guilted Glories which decay?
Why doe yee toyle to registrate your Names
On ycie Pillars, which soone melt away?
True Honour is not heere, that place it clames,
Where blacke-brow'd Night doth not exile the Day,
Nor no farre-shining Lamp diues in the Sea,
But an eternall Sunne spreades lasting Beames:
There it attendeth you, where spotlesse Bands
Of Spirits, stand gazing on their Soueraigne Blisse,
Where yeeres not hold it in their canckring hands,
But who once noble, euer noble is.
Looke home, lest hee your weakned Wit make thrall,
Who Edens foolish Gardner earst made fall.
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