Front matter (continued 3)

VII Let others sing of Knights and Paladines In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines, Which well the reach of their high wit records: But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes Authentic shall my verse in time to come; When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies! Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb! These are the arcs, the trophies I erect, That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the Dark, and Time's consuming rage. Though th' error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

Mark Alexander Boyd. 1563-1601

114. Sonet

FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie; Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree, Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.

Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin, Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie; The next a wife ingenrit of the sea, And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.

Unhappy is the man for evermair That tills the sand and sawis in the air; But twice unhappier is he, I lairn, That feidis in his hairt a mad desire, And follows on a woman throw the fire, Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.

Joshua Sylvester. 1563-1618

115. Ubique

WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the Sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am,—below, or else above you— Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631

116. To His Coy Love

I PRAY thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite— Was ever man thus served? Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved?

Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631

117. The Parting

SINCE there 's no help, come let us kiss and part— Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, —Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631

118. Sirena

NEAR to the silver Trent SIRENA dwelleth; She to whom Nature lent All that excelleth; By which the Muses late And the neat Graces Have for their greater state Taken their places; Twisting an anadem Wherewith to crown her, As it belong'd to them Most to renown her. On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus Are to thee debtor, Nor for their gold to us Are they the better: Henceforth of all the rest Be thou the River Which, as the daintiest, Puts them down ever. For as my precious one O'er thee doth travel, She to pearl paragon Turneth thy gravel. On thy bank…

Our mournful Philomel, That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complain From the thick cover, Redoubling every strain Over and over: For when my Love too long Her chamber keepeth, As though it suffer'd wrong, The Morning weepeth. On thy bank…

Oft have I seen the Sun, To do her honour, Fix himself at his noon To look upon her; And hath gilt every grove, Every hill near her, With his flames from above Striving to cheer her: And when she from his sight Hath herself turned, He, as it had been night, In clouds hath mourned. On thy bank…

The verdant meads are seen, When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant green Straight to renew them; And every little grass Broad itself spreadeth, Proud that this bonny lass Upon it treadeth: Nor flower is so sweet In this large cincture, But it upon her feet Leaveth some tincture. On thy bank…

The fishes in the flood, When she doth angle, For the hook strive a-good Them to entangle; And leaping on the land, From the clear water, Their scales upon the sand Lavishly scatter; Therewith to pave the mould Whereon she passes, So herself to behold As in her glasses. On thy bank…

When she looks out by night, The stars stand gazing, Like comets to our sight Fearfully blazing; As wond'ring at her eyes With their much brightness, Which so amaze the skies, Dimming their lightness. The raging tempests are calm When she speaketh, Such most delightsome balm From her lips breaketh. On thy bank…

In all our Brittany There 's not a fairer, Nor can you fit any Should you compare her. Angels her eyelids keep, All hearts surprising; Which look whilst she doth sleep Like the sun's rising: She alone of her kind Knoweth true measure, And her unmatched mind Is heaven's treasure. On thy bank…

Fair Dove and Darwen clear, Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here Yet pay your duties: My Love was higher born Tow'rds the full fountains, Yet she doth moorland scorn And the Peak mountains; Nor would she none should dream Where she abideth, Humble as is the stream Which by her slideth. On thy bank…

Yet my pour rustic Muse Nothing can move her, Nor the means I can use, Though her true lover: Many a long winter's night Have I waked for her, Yet this my piteous plight Nothing can stir her. All thy sands, silver Trent, Down to the Humber, The sighs that I have spent Never can number. On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her.

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631

119. Agincourt

FAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnish'd in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopp'd his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power.

Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him sending; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, 'Though they to one be ten Be not amazed: Yet have we well begun; Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised.

'And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be: England ne'er mourn for me Nor more esteem me: Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.

'Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell: No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopp'd the French lilies.'

The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there; O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake: Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went— Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet.

Gloster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631

120. To the Virginian Voyage

YOU brave heroic minds Worthy your country's name, That honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame.

Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretch'd sail With vows as strong As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer, West and by south forth keep! Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals When Eolus scowls You need not fear; So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea Success you still entice To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia, Earth's only paradise.

Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitfull'st soil Without your toil Three harvests more, All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine, And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age Still nature's laws doth give, No other cares attend, But them to defend From winter's rage, That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land Above the seas that flows The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our North.

And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere— Apollo's sacred tree— You it may see A poet's brows To crown, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend, Industrious Hakluyt, Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after times thy wit.

Christopher Marlowe. 1564-93

121. The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1564-93

122. Her Reply (WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH)

IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields: A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,— All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

123. Silvia

WHO is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

124. The Blossom

ON a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiop were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

125. Spring and Winter i

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

126. Spring and Winter ii

WHEN icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

keel] skim.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

127. Fairy Land i

OVER hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moone's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

128. Fairy Land ii

YOU spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

129. Fairy Land iii

COME unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,— The wild waves whist,— Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

130. Fairy Land iv

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

131. Fairy Land v

FULL fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them— Ding-dong, bell!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

132. Love

TELL me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancy's knell: I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

133. Sweet-and-Twenty

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear! your true love 's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What 's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty! Youth 's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

134. Dirge

COME away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave To weep there!

cypres] crape.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

135. Under the Greenwood Tree

Amiens sings: UNDER the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Jaques replies: If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdamè, ducdamè: Here shall he see Gross fools as he, An if he will come to me.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

136. Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

137. It was a Lover and his Lass

IT was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that life was but a flower In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

And, therefore, take the present time With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crown`d with the prime In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

138. Take, O take those Lips away

TAKE, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn! But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, Seal'd in vain!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

139. Aubade

HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

140. Fidele

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

141. Bridal Song ? or John Fletcher.

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks, of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, firstborn child of Ver; Merry springtime's harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks'-heels trim;

All dear Nature's children sweet Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pye, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

142. Dirge of the Three Queens ? or John Fletcher.

URNS and odours bring away! Vapours, sighs, darken the day! Our dole more deadly looks than dying; Balms and gums and heavy cheers, Sacred vials fill'd with tears, And clamours through the wild air flying!

Come, all sad and solemn shows, That are quick-eyed Pleasure's foes! We convent naught else but woes.

dole] lamentation. convent] summon.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

143. Orpheus ? or John Fletcher.

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

144. The Phoenix and the Turtle

LET the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing Save the eagle, feather'd king: Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:— Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence.

So they loved, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none; Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix' sight; Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appall'd, That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was call'd.

Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither; Simple were so well compounded,

That it cried, 'How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none If what parts can so remain.'

Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS

BEAUTY, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclosed in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix' nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

can] knows.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

145. Sonnets i

SHALL I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

146. Sonnets ii

WHEN, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising— Haply I think on thee: and then my state, Like to the Lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with Kings.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

147. Sonnets iii

WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

148. Sonnets iv

THY bosom is endeared with all hearts Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead: And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead!—which now appear But things removed that hidden in thee lie. Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give: —That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I loved I view in thee, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

149. Sonnets v

WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear; And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

foison] plenty.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

150. Sonnets vi

O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But—for their virtue only is their show— They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

151. Sonnets vii

BEING your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those! So true a fool is love, that in your Will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

152. Sonnets viii

THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold— Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang, In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after Sunset fadeth in the West, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

153. Sonnets ix

FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

154. Sonnets x

THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after loss: Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

155. Sonnets xi

THEY that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow— They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the Lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die; But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

156. Sonnets xii

HOW like a Winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime Like widow'd wombs after their Lord's decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute: Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter 's near.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

157. Sonnets xiii

FROM you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

158. Sonnets xiv

MY love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

159. Sonnets xv

TO me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

160. Sonnets xvi

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

161. Sonnets xvii

O NEVER say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify! As easy might I from myself depart, As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so prepost'rously be stain'd, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide Universe I call, Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

162. Sonnets xviii

LET me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom:— If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

163. Sonnets xix

TH' expense of Spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

164. Sonnets xx

POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth— My sinful earth these rebel powers array— Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; And Death once dead, there 's no more dying then.

Richard Rowlands. 1565-1630?

165. Lullaby

UPON my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meantime his love maintains my life And gives my sense her rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would; Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thyself Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601

166. Spring

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601

167. In Time of Pestilence 1593

ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss! This world uncertain is: Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade; All things to end are made; The plague full swift goes by; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen's eye; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hector brave; Swords may not fight with fate; Earth still holds ope her gate; Come, come! the bells do cry; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness; Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree To welcome destiny; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

168. Cherry-Ripe

THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning 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. 1567?-1619

169. Laura

ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow From concent divinely framed: Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing Discords need for helps to grace them; Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord;

But still moves delight, Like clear springs renew'd by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

170. Devotion i

FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! Though here thou liv'st disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth! That so have scorched thee As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black so brightness turneth.

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still, since so thy fates ordained! The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,— The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

171. Devotion ii

FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!

All that I sung still to her praise did tend; Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

172. Vobiscum est Iope

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

173. A Hymn in Praise of Neptune

OF Neptune's empire let us sing, At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay, Down the high mountains sliding: To whom the scaly nation yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell: And every sea-dog pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell To deck great Neptune's diadem.

The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The water with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the sirens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make ev'ry echoing rock reply Unto their gentle murmuring noise The praise of Neptune's empery.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

174. Winter Nights

NOW winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

175. Integer Vitae

THE man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence:

He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

176. O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

John Reynolds. 16th Cent.

177. A Nosegay

SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil, With Violet blue; Since you have seen the beauty of my saint, And eke her view; Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill, With sweet delight Of goddess' grace and angels' sacred teint In fine, most bright?

Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair, With Pink most fine; Since you beheld the visage of my dear, And eyes divine; Did not her globy front, and glistering hair, With cheeks most sweet, So gloriously like damask flowers appear, The gods to greet?

Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower, With Daisy gay; Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire, In her array; Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus' bower, With heavenly glee, A Juno's grace, conjure you to require Her face to see?

Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue, With Primrose fair, Since ye have seen my nymph's sweet dainty face And gesture rare, Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view (White Lily) shine— (Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace Like stars divine?

teint] tint, hue.

Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639

178. Elizabeth of Bohemia

YOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639

179. The Character of a Happy Life

HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend;

—This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639

180. Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife

HE first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died.

Sir John Davies. 1569-1626

181. Man

I KNOW my soul hath power to know all things, Yet she is blind and ignorant in all: I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life 's a pain and but a span; I know my sense is mock'd in everything; And, to conclude, I know myself a Man— Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638

182. To His Forsaken Mistress

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd stands Arm'd with her briers, how sweet she smells! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwells: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638

183. To an Inconstant One

I LOVED thee once; I'll love no more— Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall That it thou might elsewhere enthral: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquer'd thee And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so: Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice— Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

184. Hymn to Diana

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night— Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

185. To Celia

DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

186. Simplex Munditiis

STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

187. The Shadow

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even, shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

188. The Triumph

SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier, Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

189. An Elegy

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay so gone Throughout your form as, though that move And draw and conquer all men's love, This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet—because 'Tis of your flesh, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws.

But who should less expect from you? In whom alone Love lives again: By whom he is restored to men, And kept and bred and brought up true.

His falling temples you have rear'd, The wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:

And on them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty's expense, As Love to acquit such excellence Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he—the deity To whom all lovers are design'd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I—

Who as an off'ring at your shrine Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you What I in her am grieved to want!

allay] alloy.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

190. A Farewell to the World

FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple years Thou didst abuse and then betray; Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears, When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts professed be, And pride and ignorance the schools;

Where nothing is examined, weigh'd, But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed; Where every freedom is betray'd, And every goodness tax'd or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear: Our frail condition it is such That what to all may happen here, If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake To harbour a divided thought From all my kind—that, for my sake, There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I do know that I was born To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear these with that scorn As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far, As wanderers do, that still do roam; But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bosom, and at home.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

191. The Noble Balm

HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal; And doubtful days, which were named critical, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'd in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply, You are unkind.

Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd, Must now be rein'd. True valour doth her own renown command In one full action; nor have you now more To do, than be a husband of that store. Think but how dear you bought This fame which you have caught: Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. 'Tis wisdom, and that high, For men to use their fortune reverently, Even in youth.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

192. On Elizabeth L. H. Epitaphs: i

WOULDST thou hear what Man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much Beauty as could die: Which in life did harbour give To more Virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, The other, let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died, to tell Than that it lived at all. Farewell.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

193. On Salathiel Pavy A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Epitaphs: ii

WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When Fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, As sooth the Parcae thought him one, He play'd so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But, viewing him since, alas, too late! They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

194. A Part of an Ode to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison

IT is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think—nay, know—thy Morison 's not dead. He leap'd the present age, Possest with holy rage To see that bright eternal Day Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memory—and Ben

Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or tast a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest In this bright Asterism Where it were friendship's schism— Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry— To separate these twy Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in Heav'n, this light on earth must shine.

And shine as you exalted are! Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union: and those not by chance Made, or indenture, or leased out to advance The profits for a time. No pleasures vain did chime Of rimes or riots at your feasts, Orgies of drink or feign'd protests; But simple love of greatness and of good, That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

This made you first to know the Why You liked, then after, to apply That liking, and approach so one the t'other Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styled by his end The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the Virtue—nothing perfect done But as a CARY or a MORISON.

And such the force the fair example had As they that saw The good, and durst not practise it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind, Where they might read and find FRIENDSHIP indeed was written, not in words, And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, Whose lines her rules were and records: Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin, Had sow'd these fruits, and got the harvest in.

John Donne. 1573-1631

195. Daybreak

STAY, O sweet and do not rise! The light that shines comes from thine eyes; The day breaks not: it is my heart, Because that you and I must part. Stay! or else my joys will die And perish in their infancy.

John Donne. 1573-1631

196. Song

GO and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne. 1573-1631

197. That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation Against thy strength, Distance and length: Do what thou canst for alteration, For hearts of truest mettle Absence doth join and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality, His mind hath found Affection's ground Beyond time, place, and all mortality. To hearts that cannot vary Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win, Redoubled by her secret notion: Like rich men that take pleasure In hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain: There I embrace and kiss her, And so enjoy her and none miss her.

John Donne. 1573-1631

198. The Ecstasy

WHERE, like a pillow on a bed, A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best.

Our hands were firmly cemented By a fast balm which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one; And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.

As 'twixt two equal armies Fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls—which to advance their state Were gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay; All day the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day.

John Donne. 1573-1631

199. The Dream

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths and fables histories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream, let 's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; Yet I thought thee— For thou lov'st truth—an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee thee, But rising makes me doubt that now Thou art not thou. That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit pure and brave If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have. Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me. Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come: then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

John Donne. 1573-1631

200. The Funeral

WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do 't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came. As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

John Donne. 1573-1631

201. A Hymn to God the Father

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more.

John Donne. 1573-1631

202. Death

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go— Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

Richard Barnefield. 1574-1627

203. Philomel

AS it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tereu, Tereu! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.

Thomas Dekker. 1575-1641

204. Sweet Content

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd To add to golden numbers golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!

Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650

205. Matin Song

PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! To give my Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! Sing, birds, in every furrow! And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, You pretty elves, among yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow! Sing, birds, in every furrow!

stare] starling.

Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650

206. The Message

YE little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: —Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

207. Sleep

COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

208. Bridal Song

CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee We obey. Joy to this great company! And no day Come to steal this night away Till the rites of love are ended, And the lusty bridegroom say, Welcome, light, of all befriended!

Pace out, you watery powers below; Let your feet, Like the galleys when they row, Even beat; Let your unknown measures, set To the still winds, tell to all That gods are come, immortal, great, To honour this great nuptial!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

209. Aspatia's Song

LAY a garland on my herse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

210. Hymn to Pan

SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm. Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke From that place the morn is broke To that place day doth unyoke!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

211. Away, Delights

AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling, For I must die. Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling Lie after lie. For ever let me rest now from thy smarts; Alas, for pity go And fire their hearts That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me, For I will die; And all those griefs that think to overgrow me Shall be as I: For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry— 'Alas, for pity stay, And let us die With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.'

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

212. Love's Emblems

NOW the lusty spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view: Everywhere on every green Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull, Lilies whiter than the snow, Woodbines of sweet honey full: All love's emblems, and all cry, 'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'

Yet the lusty spring hath stay'd; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman, every maid: Cherries kissing as they grow, And inviting men to taste, Apples even ripe below, Winding gently to the waist: All love's emblems, and all cry, 'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

213. Hear, ye Ladies

HEAR, ye ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise: Fair Callisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan; Danae, in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy, What the mighty Love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy: The chaste Moon he makes to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire.

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

214. God Lyaeus

GOD Lyaeus, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine: God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear.

mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

215. Beauty Clear and Fair

BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:

Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss— Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all! Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

216. Melancholy

HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There 's naught in this life sweet, If men were wise to see't, But only melancholy— O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sight that piercing mortifies, A look that 's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan— These are the sounds we feed upon: Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

217. Weep no more

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that 's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

John Webster. ?-1630?

218. A Dirge

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

dole] lamentation.

John Webster. ?-1630?

219. The Shrouding of the Duchess of Malfi

HARK! Now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay 's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

And—the foul fiend more to check— A crucifix let bless your neck: 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away.

John Webster. ?-1630?

220. Vanitas Vanitatum

ALL the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying; These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time: Survey our progress from our birth— We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites! Sweetest breath and clearest eye Like perfumes go out and die; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.

William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. 1580?-1640

221. Aurora

O HAPPY Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap, And valuest thy wealth, as I my want, Then need'st thou not—which ah! I grieve to grant— Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap: That golden shower in which he did repose— One dewy drop it stains Which thy Aurora rains Upon the rural plains, When from thy bed she passionately goes.

Then, waken'd with the music of the merles, She not remembers Memnon when she mourns: That faithful flame which in her bosom burns From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls: Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed, She so her grief delates. —O favour'd by the fates Above the happiest states, Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!

Phineas Fletcher. 1580-1650

222. A Litany

DROP, drop, slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from Heaven The news and Prince of Peace: Cease not, wet eyes, His mercy to entreat; To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease. In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let His eye See sin, but through my tears.

Sir John Beaumont. 1583-1627

223. Of his Dear Son, Gervase

DEAR Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature or his tender age; Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage: Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to be In that frail body which was part of me, Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show How to this port at every step I go.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

224. Invocation

PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy career may with roses spread; The nightingales thy coming each-where sing; Make an eternal spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn, That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray), Which, only white, deserves A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring into this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair King, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise: Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your stormy chiding stay; Let zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are; And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: Here is the pleasant place— And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

225. Madrigal

LIKE the Idalian queen, Her hair about her eyne, With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The Graces naked danced about the place, The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed, The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand.

paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

226. Spring Bereaved 1

THAT zephyr every year So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green Meads were so early seen, That in the saddest months oft sung the merles, It was for her; for her trees dropp'd forth pearls. That proud and stately courts Did envy those our shades and calm resorts, It was for her; and she is gone, O woe! Woods cut again do grow, Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done; But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

227. Spring Bereaved 2

SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, Is gone—nor gold nor gems her can restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

228. Spring Bereaved 3

ALEXIS, here she stay'd; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. She set her by these musked eglantines, —The happy place the print seems yet to bear: Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face; Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, And I first got a pledge of promised grace: But ah! what served it to be happy so? Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

229. Her Passing

THE beauty and the life Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon —O tears! O grief!—hung at a feeble thread To which pale Atropos had set her knife; The soul with many a groan Had left each outward part, And now did take his last leave of the heart: Naught else did want, save death, ev'n to be dead; When the afflicted band about her bed, Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, Cried, 'Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?'

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

230. Inexorable

MY thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft 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.

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

231. Change should breed Change

NEW doth the sun appear, The mountains' snows decay, Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year. My soul, time posts away; And thou yet in that frost Which flower and fruit hath lost, As if all here immortal were, dost stay. For shame! thy powers awake, Look to that Heaven which never night makes black, And there at that immortal sun's bright rays, Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!

William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649

232. Saint John Baptist

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. His food was locusts, and what young doth spring With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: 'All ye, whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!' —Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their marble caves 'Repent! Repent!'

Giles Fletcher. 158?-1623

233. Wooing Song

LOVE is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows: Love doth make the Heav'ns to move, And the Sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild: Love no med'cine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas: Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!