JOHN FLETCHER

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.’

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.’

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; Danaë, 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.

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.

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.

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 fixèd 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.

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 wingèd dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.