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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.
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Posthumous Poems. III.
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Posthumous Poems. IV.
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Poems of Doubtful Authenticity.

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Son. [xli]

[Is't not enough (aye mee) mee thus to see]

Is't not enough (aye mee) mee thus to see
Like some Heauen-banish'd Ghost still wailing goe?
A Shadow which your Rayes doe only show,
To vexe mee more, vnlesse yee bid mee die?
What could yee worse allotte vnto your Foe?
But die will I, so yee will not denie
That Grace to mee which mortall Foes euen trie,
To chuse what sort of Death should ende my Woe.
One Time I found when as yee did mee kisse,
Yee gaue my panting Soule so sweet a Touch,
That halfe I sown'd in midst of all my Blisse,
I doe but craue my Deaths Wound may bee such:
For though by Griefe I die not and Annoy,
Is't not enough to die through too much Ioy?
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