Carnation
From To Penshurst by Ben Jonson
chosen by Tegan
Thou art not, PENSHURST, built to envious show,
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roofe of gold:
Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;
Or stayre, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,
And these grudged at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy’st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
From Poems by Michael Drayton
chosen by Emerald
When in the North, whil’st horror yet was young,
These dangerous seasons swiftly coming on,
Whil’st o’re our heads portentious Meteors hung,
And in the Skies sterne Comets brightly shone,
Prodigious Births oft itermixt among,
Such as before in times had beene unknown,
In bloudy issues forth the Earth doth breake,
Weeping for us, whose woes it could not speake.
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