THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA BEQUEST OF Alice R. Hilgard MACMILLAN'S STANDARD LIBRARY ,an accompaniment' *qf- T 1, & Copyright, 189? By The Macmillan Company Reprinted September, 7905 April, 1906 of M852886 . . . T^^KjSG*^ .. . : : rJr-^%5 tv'.-:v> Lullaby of a Lover ..... Heart and Soul . A Dirge Stella, the only planet of my light My true-love hath my heart, and I have his . What bird so sings, yet does not wail ? Cupid and my Campaspe play'd Spring and Melancholy Rosalynd's Madrigal . Phillis .... Cupid abroad was Mated in the night . Sweet Content . Eidola . . Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night . Beauty, sweet love ! is like the morning dew Spring ....... Song of Motto and Perkin The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . Take, O take those lips away Ariel's Songs . . . . . Man and Woman iltee of >ong* Page Spring 39 Winter 41 Blow, blow, thou winter wind ..... 42 Under the greenwood tree ..... 44 Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate ringi . . 45 Fidele . 46 Sylvia 48 O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? . . .49 Song of Autolycus ..... . . 50 Come away, come away, Death . . . .52 That time of year thou mayst in me behold . . 53 Let me not to the marriage of true minds ... 54 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? . . . 56 When in the chronicle of wasted time . . .58 To Celia 60 The Sweet Neglect . . . . . .61 The Shepherds' Holiday 62 Echo's Song 64 An Ode to Himself ...... 65 The Invitation 67 Good-Morrow . . . .68 To Phyllis 70 Beauty clear and fair . . . . . .72 Invocation to Sleep . . . . 73 Hymn to Pan 74 For Summer Tune 75 The Manly Heart 77 Of Ptgc Phoebus, arise !....... 80 Trust not, Sweet Soul ! those curled waves of gold . 83 The Song of Celadyne 85 Ask me no more where Jove bestows . . . .88 To Celia Singing ....... 90 Disdain Returned . . . . . 91 Chloris in the Snow . . . . . .92 Delight in Disorder . . . . . -93 To Julia . -94 To Meadows ....... 96 To the Virgins, to make much of Time . . .98 To the Rose 100 To Daffodils 101 Corinna's Maying . . . . . . .103 To Daisies . . . . . . . . 107 To Anthea who may command him Any Thing . .108 To One saying she was Old . . . . .no Description of Castara . . . . . .112 On a Girdle , . . 1 1 5 Go, lovely Rose ! 116 To Chloris 1 1 8 Stay, Phoebus ! stay ! . . . . .119 To Flavia . . . . . . . 1 20 Whoe'er she be 122 A Ballad upon a Wedding . . . . 1 26 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? . . .132 Constancy . . . . . . . 133 W liter of Page I prithee send me back my heart . . . 134 To Althea from Prison . . . . . .136 To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas . . . .138 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars . . . .140 The Grasshopper . . . . . . .141 Cherry Ripe 143 Though you are young, and I am old . . 145 Amarillis . . . . . . . .146 Where she her sacred bower adorns . . . .148 The man of life upright . . . . . .151 The peaceful western wind . . . . 1 5 3 My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love . . . 1 5 5 Night as well as brightest day hath her delight % . 157 M Lullaby of a Lover . Heart and Soul Cupid and my Campaspe . Rosalynd's Madrigal Cupid abroad was 'lated in the night Eidola Spring The Passionate Shepherd . Ariel's Songs .... Man and Woman ... Winter ..... Under the greenwood tree . The Song of Autolycus Let me not to the union of true minds Echo's Song .... To Phyllis .... Hymn to Pan .... The Manly Heart . Trust not .... Chloris in the Snow . To Julia . . Gather ye rosebuds while ye may Corinna's Maying . On a Girdle .... Whoe'er she be I prithee send me back my heart To Althea from Prison . . Cherry Ripe .... Amarillis .... My sweetest Lesbia . opp. page 4 13 16 21 24 28 32 35 38 4 1 44 50 54 64 70 74 77 83 92 94 98 103 "5 122 134 I 3 6 '43 I 4 6 155 m Intpototon The earliest of the English poets, falling asleep in the stable as he watched the cattle at Whitby, saw a vision and heard a voice saying to him, in tones of authority, " Ccedmon, sing" So Bede tells us the secret of Caedmoris inspiration ; not foreseeing, in his delightful simplicity, that he was showing forth, as in a parable, the chief characteristics of English poetry for all time 10 Come. For the true English poet has never yet lacked the vision and the singing voice, and the charm of the song has come largely from the vision. There have been, it is true, periods which were dis- tinctly lacking in inspiration and in that natural magic which is the mysterious possession of the poet by the grace of God; but these periods have been short, and prophecies of a better time have never been wholly absent from them. In decadent times the singing tra- dition has not been without its custodians, and in those [xiii] 31tttrofcuctiott ages of precision and regularity of form which are often miscalled classical the wild woodland note has, from time to time, floated over the garden wall. The vision of the imagination has rarely been denied to English poetry, and, as a rule, the magic of the musi- cal note has come with it. The Lyric, like the Ballad, is a poetic form which goes home to the hearts and memory of people at large ; to those who are never quite at ease with the Epic, and to whom the Drama seems remote and alien. And the reason is not far to seek. The Lyric gives natural and direct expression to those emotions, expe- riences, passions, and aspirations in which men share according to temperament, sensitiveness, and fortune. Its demands in the way of natural gifts and of skill are, in the last degree, exacting ; but it is, at the same time, the most widely popular and the most deeply loved of all the forms of verse. Burns' songs are among the most nearly perfect and the best-known of modern English poems. Their perfection is beyond the reach of a man of lesser genius, and yet they are sung and recited by those who have no adequate sense of their quality, no intelligent appreciation of their magic [xivj 31ntrotiuctton of style. In the Lyric, at its best, one gets the gush of pure song ; the overflow of that invisible stream of poe- try which flows through the life of man as rivulets flow through the earth. The careless rapture of the songs which Shakspeare scatters through the plays is a quality which brings with it the freshness of unwasted emotions, of an imagination which runs almost unconsciously into a music as instinctive as the note of the bobolink or the lark, as free and buoyant as the ripple of mountain streams. And yet nothing which the poet has left us furnishes more in- dubitable evidence of his genius. The lyre is the universal instrument ; its supreme masters have been few, but all the world knows and loves it, because, more intimately than any other in- strument, it gives voice to the sorrows and joys of life. The national hymns which have touched the sources of patriotic emotion from the days of Tyrtceus to those of Korner and of " The Watch on the Rhine "/ the odes which have celebrated great occasions or given a noble setting to commanding thoughts ; the love songs of the troubadour, the trouvere, the minnesinger ; the songs of nature ; the hymns of praise ; the elegies [XV] ^Introduction Jrom Bion to Matthew Arnold ; the sonnets ; the vast volume of songs which children learn and which re- turn to their elders in quiet hours and solitary places, all these forms of verse indicate the range of the Lyric and remind us that it is closer to us and means more to most men, day by day, than any other form of poetry. To English readers it recalls the greatest names and the most ravishing verse in our literature ; it re- minds one of Shakspeare, Milton, Herrick, Carew, Cra- shaw, Burns, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson. But many as are the forms of the Lyric, it has cer- tain characteristics which everywhere mark it, and in which lie the sources of its charm,. The true Lyric presents to the imagination a single thought, feeling, situation, or experience. At its best its concentration gives it the entire power of the highest poetry ; it is like a deep, narrow stream which covers but a little surface in its flow, but has the speed of an arrow. Not a line is superfluous, not a word wasted. In the famous song in " Measure for Measure" distinct- ness of outline, condensation of emotion, imaginative suggestiveness, are combined in a perfection of form which is one of the finalities of language : [xvi] 3|ntroUuctton Take, oh take those lips away That so sweetly were foresworn ! And those eyes, like break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn. But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain. A kindred precision and imaginative freedom char- acterize Wordsworth's lines to the "Daffodils" The scene, the silence, the sentiment, are brought home in lines how few and with what simplicity of means ! Nothing could be more poetic than the material, noth- ing more free from artifice than the method. The poet had but a single picture in his mind and he has conveyed it to us as if it were the only picture in the world. Shelley s " The Cloud" and Keats' " Ode on a Grecian Urn " include a larger group of details and carry the mind over a wider surface of imagery, but every word makes the central idea more clear and deepens the single impression which the poet is striv- ing to produce. A poetic form so responsive to individual tempera- ment, so reflective of individual experience, could [xvii] introduction hardly fail to disclose the impress, in subtle no less than in obvious ways, of general intellectual and emotional conditions ; for the more highly gifted a man is, the more sensitive is he to the deeper im- pulses and tendencies of the time in which he lives. He may not move with those tendencies ; he may even oppose them; but whether in harmony with them or in antagonism to them, he will, in ways past his own knowledge, be affected by them. These formative ten- dencies are often sought in the drift of public affairs, in the stormy currents of public opinion, but they more often flow far below the surface which is stirred by these obvious movements. Indeed, so deep and hidden is the central tendency of an age that it often becomes discernible only after a long interval of time ; the men who are affected by it often fail to discover it in spite of the most eager searching. There are, more- over, in different periods, atmospheric qualities which escape contemporary attention, but which give the ex- pression of the life of a period in all forms of art a distinctive and characteristic charm. How these qualities are interposed into the atmosphere of an age and diffused by it is a question which has rarely [ xviii ] 3|ntroDuction been satisfactorily answered ; it is enough, at least for enjoyment, to recognize their presence and to feel their charm. The English Lyric has rarely lacked musical quality, but the^e is one long stretch of years during which this musical quality touched the limits of perfection and the verse fairly sings itself into our hearts. Above the tumult of Elizabeths closing years and of the Revolution, the English Lyric is heard like the song of the lark on the edges of the storm. The lyrical note of that period has the music of the human voice in it, and even the untrained ear knows that it was written to be sung, not read. Why this singing note was at the command of almost every poet of quality between the birth of Shakspeare in 1564 and the death of Herrick in 1674, no one has yet told us. It was rarely heard before the earlier, and it has rarely been heard since the later date. The greater poets of this century have not, as a rule, compelled the composers to set their songs to music. Tennyson, Swinburne, Shelley, are masters of the musical form, but they are not, primarily, singing poets. Their har- monies are perhaps more capacious than those of the [xix] later Elizabethan and Caroline poets ; but the singing note is rarely heard in them. For more than a century that note was constantly heard in English poetry. It came mysteriously and as mysteriously it went, and that is perhaps all that can be definitely said about it. Certain conditions or facts are, however, worth remembering in this connec- tion. There was still, among Shakspeares contempo- raries and immediate successors, an instinctive joy in life ; a joy which, under the stimulus of the imagi- nation, became a kind of rapture. There was a frank delight in the beauty of the world, in the charms of women, in the pursuit of honour, in pleasure of every kind. The tragic aspects of experience ivere per- haps never more deeply felt, but with this clear vision of the shadows within the circle of fate there was also deep capacity for enjoyment. There was, more- over, an almost universal knowledge and love of music. The English people were still merry, and they still sang ; perhaps these two facts bring us as near an explanation of the presence of the singing note in the poetry of the Seventeenth century as we can hope to come. This was especially true of the 31ntroDuction Elizabethan period. " Nobody could then pretend to a liberal education who had not made such progress in Musick as to be able to sing his part at sight ; and it was usual, when ladies and gentlemen met, for Madrigal books to be laid before them, and every one to sing their part." Campion, whose charming songs were largely recovered by that very intelligent editor, Mr. Bullen, from " Books of Airs" lets us into the mood if not into the practice of many of these singers when he says : "7 have chiefly aimed to couple my words and notes lovingly together." Words and notes were never far apart in those days ; poetry and mtisic had not been divorced. No poets ever differed more widely in aim, method, manner, and gift than Shakspeare, Jons on, Beaumont, Fletcher, Suckling, Lovelace, Herrick, Carew, Campion, Waller, and their con- temporaries, and yet they hold as a common posses- sion the faculty of free, natural, spontaneous song ; song which is often wild, rapturous, touched with a beauty which has appeared only at long intervals since their time ; the haunting beauty which often rests on Shakspeare's inimitable lyrics. The care- C xxi ] 31ntroDuction less rapture, the delicious freshness, the unpremedi- tated sweetness of this singing note, was not silenced by the tumult of war. It was heard in the prison from which Lovelace sent his tribtite to divine Althea, and in which he found that Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. But the long struggle brought about changes of temper and feeling which destroyed the old-time spirit of mirth, the old-time vivacity and gayety. The licentious and noisy mirth which followed the Restoration had little in common with the earlier delight in life ; it inspired some brilliant comedies, but the stuff of which true song is made was not in it. [xxii] ^Introduction The Seventeenth-century song-writers were plain spoken, and they loved pleasure, but they were not corrupt; there was too much vitality in them. The love of women, which had inexhaustible attraction for them, and which they have clothed in all man- ner of charms, is distinctly concrete in the sim- plicity and frankness with which it exalts beauty of face and form, but it does not rest in any kind of visible loveliness ; there is a touch of chivalry, of romance, of exaltation, of mysticism in it. It is frank and often sensuous, but the note of morbid passion, of diseased emotion, is absent. It is far more healthful than a great deal of verse which is more guarded in expression, because it is natu- ral, and it is, for the most part, innocent. These old poets had a wholesome love of the beauty of life, and it must be frankly said of them, that their dealing with certain forms of that beauty was far more healthful than the manner and attitude of some of their Puritan successors. They felt the rich loveli- ness of the world, but they knew also that it was fleeting. It was Herrick, whose hand was some- times far too free, who said: [ xxiii ] 3Introtmctton In this world, this Isle of Dreams, While we sit by sorrow's streams, Tears and terrors are our themes ; and it was Carew who cried out, in one of the finest outbursts of lyrical emotion: Oh, love me then, and now begin it, Let us not lose this present minute ; For time and age will work that wrack Which time nor age shall ne'er call back. It is this union of deeper feeling with gayety of spirit and vivacity of temper, which gives these masters of the singing lyric their enduring charm. They have consummate skill, and yet they seem to have caught the fresh, untaught melody of the birds. They are capable of complete abandon, and yet they never lose the instinct for order and symmetry ; they are as free from self -conscious ness as the wild woodland songsters, whose notes we hear in their songs ; they preserve for us the dewy freshness of a morning hour, all too fleet, as we look back to it from the cares and labours of the modern world. They had the magic of style because their [ xxiv ] 3dntto&uction hearts were young. In our serious time, when even the study of literature tends to become a strenuous endeavour rather than a free and joy- ous communing with the human spirit in its greatest moments and its freest moods, attention cannot be called too often to these poets of love and honour and the beauty of the world; and no apology is needed to accompany or explain a new excursion into a field already often traversed. It is worth while sometimes to sit in the woods and listen to the stir of leaves and the notes of unseen birds without any thought of botany or ornithology. It is worth while to feel again the rapture of the morning, while care and toil are forgotten. Good morrow to the day so fair. Good morrow, sir, to you ; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE. [xxv] Lullab? of a Lofcer SING lullaby, as women do With which they bring their babes to rest ; And lullaby can I sing too, As womanly as can the best. With lullaby they still the child; And if I be not much beguiled, Full many wanton babes have I Which must be stilled with lullaby. First, lullaby my youthful years; It is now time to go to bed, For crooked age and hoary hairs, Have now the haven within my head, [i] Lullaby of a ILofcer With lullaby then Youth be still, With lullaby content thy will; Since courage quails, and come behind ; Go, sleep ! and so beguile thy mind. Next, lullaby my gazing Eyes, Which wonted were to glance apace ; For every glass may now suffice To show the furrows in my face. With lullaby then wink awhile, With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face, or beauty bright, Entice you eft with vain delight. And lullaby my wanton Will, Let Reason's rule now rein my thought. Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought. With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubt appease; For trust in this, if thou be still, My body shall obey thy will. Lullabp of a Lofccr Thus lullaby my Youth, mine Eyes, My Will, my ware and all that was, I can no more delays devise, But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. With lullaby now take you leave, With lullaby your dreams deceive ; And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby. George Gascoigne. [33 ana O FAIR ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. This you hear is not my tongue, Which once said what I conceived, For it was of use bereaved, With a cruel answer strong. No ; though tongue to roof be cleaved, Fearing lest he chastised be, Heart and soul do sing in me. O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. Just accord all music makes; [4] anD In thee just accord excelleth, Where each part in such peace dwelleth, One of other, beauty takes. Since, then, truth to all minds telleth That in thee lives harmony, Heart and soul do sing in me. O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. They that heaven have known do say, That whoso that grace obtaineth, To see what fair sight there reigneth, Forced are to sing alway : So then, since that heaven remaineth In thy face I plainly see, Heart and soul do sing in me. O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. Sweet, think not I am at ease, [5] J^eart ana For because my chief part singeth ; This song from death's sorrow springeth, As to swan in last disease : For no dumbness nor death bringeth Stay to true love's melody : Heart and soul do sing in me. Sir Philip Sidney > [6] ING out your bells, let mourning shows be spread. For love is dead : All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain ; Worth, as naught worth, rejected, And faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it said That Love is dead ? [7] & Dirge His deathbed, peacock's Folly; His winding sheet is Shame ; His will, False Seeming wholly ; His sole executor, Blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress* marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, 'Her eyes were once his dart.' From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Alas, I lie ; rage hath this error bred ; Love is not dead ; Love is not dead, but sleepeth, In her unmatched mind, [8] Dirge Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us. Sir Philip Sidney. [9] TELLA, the only planet of my light, Light of my life, and life of my de- sire, Chief good whereto my hope doth only 'spire, World of my wealth, and heav'n of my delight ; Why dost thou spend the treasure of thy spite With voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre, Seeking to quench in me the noble fire Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight? And all in vain: for while thy breath most sweet With choicest words, thy words with reasons rare, Thy reasons firmly set on Virtue's feet, Labor to kill in me this killing care O think I then, what paradise of joy It is, so fair a virtue to enjoy ! Sir Philip Sidney. [io] Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sidney. 'HAT bird so sings, yet does so wail? O 'tis the ravished nightingale. "J u g> J u g> J u g> J u g> teren," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick song ! who is't now we hear ? None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark ! hark ! with what a pretty throat Poor robin redbreast tunes his note ; Hark how the jolly cuckoo sing, Cuckoo to welcome in the spring; Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! John Lyly. UPID and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of spar- rows ; Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: And last he set her both his eyes She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? John Lyly. C'3] ant) THE earth, late choked with showers, Is now arrayed in green ; Her bosom springs with flowers, The air dissolves her teen ; The heavens laugh at her glory: Yet bide I sad and sorry. The woods are decked with leaves, And trees are clothed gay ; And Flora crowned with sheaves With oaken boughs doth play, Where I am clad in black In token of my wrack. [H] auD The birds upon the trees Do sing with pleasant voices, And chant in their degrees Their loves and lucky choices ; When I, whilst they are singing, With sighs mine arms am wringing. The thrushes seek the shade, And I my fatal grave ; Their flight to heaven is made, My walk on earth I have ; They free, I thrall; they jolly, I sad and pensive wholly. Thomas Lodge. [15] LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah ! wanton, will ye ? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. [16] Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing ; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, will ye ? Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence ; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in ; I'll make you fast it for your sin ; I'll count your power not worth a pin; Alas ! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid ! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee ! Thomas Lodge. [18] OVE guards the roses of thy lips, And flies about them like a bee : If I approach he forward skips, And if I kiss he stingeth me. Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty shine; And if I look the boy will lour, And from their orbs shoots shafts divine. Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same; And if I tempt it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game. [-9] Love ! let me cull her choicest flowers, And pity me, and calm her eye ! Make soft her heart ! dissolve her lours ! Then will I praise thy deity. But if thou do not, Love ! I'll truly serve her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. Thomas Lodge. [20] UPID abroad was 'lated in the night, His wings were wet with ranging in the rain ; Harbour he sought : to me he took his flight To dry his plumes. I heard the boy complain ; I oped the door, and granted his desire ; I rose myself, and made the wag a fire. Looking more narrow, by the fire's flame, I spied his quiver hanging by his back ; Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame, I would have gone, for fear of further wrack ; But what I dread, did me, poor wretch, betide, For forth he drew an arrow from his side. [*'] abroad toatf 'latefc in tlje nigljt" He pierced the quick, and I began to start: A pleasing wound, but that it was too high ; His shaft procured a sharp, yet sugared smart. Away he flew, for why, his wings were dry ; And left the arrow sticking in my breast, That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. Robert Greene. Content WEET are the thoughts that savour of content ; The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown : Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbours quiet rest, The cottage that affords nor pride nor care, The mean that 'grees with country music best, The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare, Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : A mind content both crown and kingdom is. Robert Greene. CtDoia ARE they shadows that we see ? And can shadows pleasure give? Pleasures only shadows be, Cast by bodies we conceive, And are made the things we deem In those figures which they seem. But these pleasures vanish fast Which by shadows are exprest; Pleasures are not if they last, In their passage is their best : Glory is most bright and gay In a flash and so away. C ; 4] Feed apace then, greedy eyes, On the wonder you behold; Take it sudden as it flies, Though you take it not to hold: When your eyes have done their part, Thought must length it in the heart. Samuel Danitl, ARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent dark- ness born, Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; With dark forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow ; Never let rising Sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow: Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain. Samuel Daniel. [26] BEAUTY, sweet love! is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green, Cheers for a time, but still the sun doth show And straight is gone as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish ; Short is the glory of the blushing rose, The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose ; When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, And that in Beauty's lease expired appears, The date of age, the kalends of our dearth; But ah, no more ! this must not be foretold ; For women grieve to think they must be old. Samuel Daniel. [7] 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, put, we-o-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 Nash. of jftotto anD Motto. TELL me, thou skilful shepherd swain ! Who's yonder in the valley set? Perkin. O, it is She whose sweets do stain The lily, rose, the violet. Motto. Why doth the Sun against his kind, Stay his bright chariot in the skies ? Per kin. He pauseth almost stricken blind With gazing on her heavenly eyes. Motto. Why do the flocks forbear their food Which sometime was their chief delight? Perkin. Because they need no other good That live in presence of her sight. of ana |Berfem Motto. How come these flowers to flourish still, Not withering with sharp Winter's death ? Perkin. She hath robb'd Nature of her skill, And comforts all things with her breath. Motto. Why slide these brooks so slow away, As swift as the wild roe that were ? Perkin. O, muse not, shepherd ! that they stay, When they her heavenly voice do hear. Motto. From whence come all these goodly swains And lovely girls attired in green? Perkin. From gathering garlands on the plains To crown thy Syl ; our shepherd's Queen. The sun that lights this world below, Flocks, brooks, and flowers can witness bear, These shepherds and these nymphs do know, That Sylvia is as chaste as fair. Michael Dray ton. [31] ^aggfonate ^epljcrt) to COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. passionate to \)i& Lofee 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. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. 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. Christopher Marlowe. [33] AKE, O take those lips away That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, like 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. [34] HERE 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* [35] "Come unto fyt&t ^elloto OME unto these yellow sands, And then take hands : Courtsied 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-bow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow ! William Shakespeare. [36] fatfjom ftot eft? fet^r lit*" ULL 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 : Hark ! now I hear them, Ding, dong, bell. William Shakespeare. [37] ana anoman IGH no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no more, Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so Since summer first was leafy : Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. t William Shakespeare. [38] 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 [39] Spring 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. [40] IIT^ T&y.--;Ci LVi fclK-v^ HEN 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 nipt, and ways be foul. Then nightly sings the staring owl Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! A merry note ! While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all about the wind doth 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 Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! A merry note ! While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. William Shakespeare. [41] LOW, 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, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. " 115loto, bloto, ttiou tointej: totnu " 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. [43] NDER 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. William Shakespeare. [44] ARK! 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 May-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise. William Shakespeare. [45] tffoele EAR 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. [46] 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. William Shakespeare. [47] HO is Sylvia? 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, inhabit there. Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling : To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespeare. [48] 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. [49] Of WHEN daffodils begin to peer, With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, Why then comes in the sweet o' the year ; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. ^ong of The lark, that tirra-lyra chants, With heigh ! with heigh ! the thrush and the Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay. But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night : And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give And in the stocks avouch it. Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a : A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad, tires in a mile-a. William Shakespeare. OME away, come away. Death, And in sad cypress 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 corpse, 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. William Shakespeare [s3 HAT time of year thou mayst 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 seest 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 seest 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 nourished by : This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. William Shakespeare. C.53] ET 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 re- move : O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering 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; [54] ilet me not to tlje marriage of true Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom : If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. William Shakespeare. [55] HALL I compare thee to a summer's day ? Thou art more lovely and more tem- perate : 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, un- trimm'd. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; [56] 3d compare tfjee to a summer'* Bap 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. [57] HEN in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 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 Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; [58] in tty chronicle of toatftefc time " And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not still enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. William Shakespeart. [S9] Co Celta RINK 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 withered 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. [60] Neglect STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast : Still to be powdered, 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 the adulteries of art, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Ben Jonson. [6,] First Nymph. THUS, thus begin, the yearly rites Are due to Pan on these bright nights: His morn now riseth and invites To sport, to dances, and delights : All envious and profane, away ! This is the shepherds' holiday. Second Nympb. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground With every flower, yet not confound ; The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, Bright day's-eyes, and the lips of cows, The garden-star, the queen of May, The rose, to crown the holiday. Third Nympb. Drop, drop you violets, change your hues Now red, now pale, as lovers use, And in your death go out as well, As when you lived unto the smell : That from your odour all may say, This is the shepherds' holiday. Ben Jonson. [63] LOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears : Yet slower, yet : O faintly gentle springs : List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division, when she sings, Droop herbs and flowers, Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours ; O I could still Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil. Ben Jonson. [64] an >De to HERE dost thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth ? Knowledge, that sleep, doth die ; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and (so) destroy them both. Are all the Aonian springs Dried up ? lies Thespia waste ? Doth Clarius* harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings ? Or droop they as disgraced, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced ? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: [65] to Minds that arc great and free Should not on fortune pause ; 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? That die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre, Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet's line aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age, Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page, To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. Benjonson. [66] ,IVE with me still, and all the meas- ures Played to by the spheres I'll teach thee; Let's but thus dally, all the pleasures The moon beholds her man shall reach thee. Dwell in mine arms, aloft we'll hover, And see fields of armies fighting : Oh, part not from me ! I'll discover There all but books of fancy's writing. Be but my darling, Age to free thee From her curse shall fall a-dying; Call me thy empress, Time to see thee Shall forget his art of flying. Thomas Dtkktr. [67] ACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow ; Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, 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 both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! [68] Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow ! Thomas Htywood. [69] CO YE little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phyllis 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 by 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. Oh 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. Thomas Heywood. [71] & EAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells ; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins in 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. Beaumont and Flttchtr. [7*3 3Jtttocation to ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet, And as a purling stream, thou son of night, Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, And kiss him into slumber like a bride ! Beaumont and Fletcher. [73] to 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, While the hollow neighboring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing : Thou that 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 ! Beaumont and Fletcher. [74] ifor Rummer Cfme Now the glories of the year May be viewed at the best. And the earth doth now appear In her fairest garments drest: Sweetly smelling plants and flowers Do perfume the garden bowers ; Hill and valley, wood and field, Mixed with pleasure profits yield. Much is found where nothing was, Herds on every mountain go, In the meadows flowery grass Makes both milk and honey flow; Now each orchard banquets giveth, Every hedge with fruit relieveth ; [75] And on every shrub and tree Useful fruits or berries be. Walks and ways which winter marr'd By the winds are swept and dried ; Moorish grounds are now so hard That on them we safe may ride : Warmth enough the sun doth lend us, From his heat the shades defend us ; And thereby we share in these Safety, profit, pleasure, ease. Other blessings, many more, At this time enjoyed may be, And in this my song therefore Praise I give, O Lord ! to Thee : Grant that this my free oblation May have gracious acceptation, And that I may well employ Everything which I enjoy. George Wither. [76] HALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair ? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day Or the flowery meads in May If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be ? Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? [77] Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget mine own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best ; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be ? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind If not outward helps she finds, Thinks what with them he would do Who without them dares her woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? [78] Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George Wither. [79] arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red : Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed That she may thy career 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. [80] , artee This is that happy morn, That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark, (If cruel stars have not my rum sworn And fates my hopes betray), Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto 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. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your furious chiding stay ; Let Zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play. The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star : [81] , arise 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 with orient gold spangle their blue ; Here is the pleasant place And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! William Drummond of Hawthornden. RUST not, Sweet Soul ! those curled waves of gold With gentle tides which on your temples flow, Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow, Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enroird. Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, When first I did their burning rays be- hold; Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do show Than of the Thracian harper have been told ! Look to this dying lily, fading rose, Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice [83] not, And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes! The sweet tyrant that did kill those flowers Shall once, ay me, not spare that Spring of yours. William Drummond. [84] of MARINA'S gone and now sit I As Philomela on a thorn, Turned out of nature's livery, Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn : Only she sings not, while my sorrow can Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan, So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun ; So from the honey-suckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done ; [85] >ong of So sits the turtle -when she is but one, And so all woe, as I, since she is gone. To some few birds kind nature hath Made all the summer as one day ; Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath, As night, they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, they know not yet, The pain to be deprived, or to forget. I oft have heard men say there be Some, that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory; But could they teach forgetfulness, I'd learn, and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too. Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other body's shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me. For could I think she some idea were I still might love, forget, and have her here. [86] &ong of For such she is not ; nor would I For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before ; For then no future time might hap to know That she deserv'd, or I did love her so. Ye hours then, but as minutes be ! Though so I shall be sooner old, Till I those lovely graces see, Which but in her, can none behold. Then be an age ! That we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die. William Browne. [87] SK me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose ; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day ; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare These powers to enrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. [88] me no more totyere be0toto$" Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. Thomas Carew. [89] Co Celfa OU that think love can convey No other way, But through the eyes, into the heart, His fatal dart, Close up those casements and but hear This siren sing, And on the wing Of her sweet voice it shall appear That love can enter at the ear. Then unvail your eyes, behold The curious mould Where that voice dwells, and as we know, When the cocks crow, We freely may Gaze on the day, So may you when the music's done, Awake and see the rising sun. Thomas Carew. E that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires : Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. Thomas Carew. [9'] in t^e SAW fair Chloris walk alone When feather' d rain came softly down, Then Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower ; The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like little birds into their nest; But overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear; Then, falling down her garment hem, To deck her, froze into a gem. Thomas Carew. fn SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness : A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher, A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat, A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. Robert Her rick. [93] ER lamp the glow-worm lend thee ! The shooting stars attend thee ! And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee ! No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee ! Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ! But on ! on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee ! Let not the dark thee cumber ! What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. [94] 2flulia Then, Julia! let me woo thee Thus, thus to come unto me: And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul Til pour into thee. Robert Herrick. [95] Co YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers ; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours, You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round ; Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned. 96] But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like un thrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You're left here to lament Your poor estate alone. Robert Herrick. [97] Co t^e iv$in$, to mafee muc^ of Cfme GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying : And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former. [98] tijr Virgins, to make mucij of time Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. Robert Herrick. [99] Co mm O, happy Rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my Love Tell her too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter' d me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this, but do not so ! Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I. ^Robert Herrick. [100] Co AIR Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry ,Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick. [102] Coritma'g ET up, get up for shame ! The bloom- ing morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air : Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since ; yet you not drest, Nay ! not so much as out of bed ? When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Cormna'0 Raping Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown, or hair : Fear not ; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you : Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept : Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying. Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark How each field turns a street ; each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch : Each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; [104] Cotfnna'0 As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street, And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad : and let's obey The proclamation made for May : And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : Many a green-gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, Love's firmament : Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd : Yet we're not a Maying. '5] Corinna'tf Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ; And take the harmless folly of the time ! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short ; and our days run As fast away as does the sun : And as a vapour, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again : So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna ! come, let's go a Maying. Robert Herrick. [106] Co HUT not so soon ! the dull-eyed Night Has not as yet begun, To make a seizure on the light Or to seal up the sun. No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear, Nor doth the early shepherds' star, Shine like a spangle here. Stay but until my Julia close, Her life-begetting eye; And let the whole world then dispose, Itself to live or die. Robert Herrick. Co mat commanu Ijim BID me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be: Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree : Or bid it languish quite away, And't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see : And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en Death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. Robert Her rick. [109] Co flDne gating stye tasi >ID ELL me not Time hath played the thief Upon her beauty ! my belief Might have been mock'd, and I have been An heretic, if I had not seen, My Mistress is still fair to me, And now I all those graces see That did adorn her virgin brow : Her eye hath the same flame in's now To kill or save, the chemist's fire Equally burns, so my desire ; Not any rosebud less within Her cheek ; the same snow on her chin ; Her voice that heavenly music bears First charmed my soul, and in my ears [no] &nt toatf Did leave it trembling; her lips are The self-same lovely twins they were ; Often so many years I miss No flower in all my Paradise; Time, I despise thy rage and thee, Thieves do not always thrive, I see. James Shirley. description of Castara IKE the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade; My Castara lives unknowne, To no looser eye betray'd, For shee's to herselfe untrue^ Who delights i* th' publicke view. Such is her beauty, as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace, Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasted a glorious blood, She is noblest being good. [112] Description of Cantata Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks bond to boast her wit, In her silence eloquent. Of herself survey she takes But 'tweene men no difference makes, She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands, And so innocent that ill, She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet runne still astray, If once to ill they know the way. She sails by that rocke, the court, Where oft honour splits her mast: And retir'dnesse thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast. Vertue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthron'd for wit She holds that day's pleasure best, Where sin waits not on delight; Description of Catftara Without maske, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darknesse, whence is thrust Prayer and sleepe, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climbe, While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time Her pure thoughts to Heaven flic: All her vowes religious be, All her love she vowes to me. William Habbington. ["4] >n a dfttfile HAT which her slender waist con- fined Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer : My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round. Edmund Watter. O, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. , lofcety Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee : How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair I Edmund Waller. C7] Co SINGING A SONG OF HIS OWN COMPOSITION HLORIS, yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That like a spirit, with this spell, Of my own teaching, I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which on the shaft that made him die, Espy'd a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. Had Echo with so sweet a grace, Narcissus* loud complaints returned, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burned. Edmund Waller. [118] TAY, Phoebus! stay! The world to which you fly so fast, Conveying day. From us to them, can pay your haste With no such object nor salute your rise, With no such wonder as De Morney's eyes. Well does this prove The error of those antique books Which made you move. About the world : Her charming looks Would fix your beams, and make it ever day, Did not the rolling earth snatch her away. Edmund Waller. C"9] Co f lafoia IS not your beauty can engage My wary heart : The sun, in all his pride and rage, Has not that art ! And yet he shines as bright as you, If brightness could our souls subdue. 'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write, Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey: For that delight, The graces of a well-taught mind, In some of our own sex we find. jFlabta No, Flavia ! 'tis your love I fear ; Love's surest darts, Those which so seldom fail him, are Headed with hearts : Their very shadows make us yield; Dissemble well, and win the field ! Edmund Waller. [121] HOE'ER she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me ; Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth ; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to snine : Whoe'er stye be" Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie: Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest: A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sydnasan showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers, [1*3] be Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow : Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, ' Welcome, friend/ I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes ; and I wish - no more. " Whoe'er stye be" Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here Lo ! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye ; Be ye my fictions : but her story. Richard Crashaw* C's] I3allat) upon a TELL thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarer things have seen ; O, things without compare ! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing-Cross, hard by the way, Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs ; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs. [126] ffiallaa upon a Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger though than thine) Walked on before the rest : Our landlord looks like nothing to him : The King (God bless him) 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest. At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown. But wot you what ? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing : The parson for him stay'd : Yet by his leave (for all his haste) He did not so much wish all past (Perchance), as did the maid. The maid (and thereby hangs a tale), For such a maid no Whitsun-ale C7] # liBallaa upon a Weaning Could ever yet produce : No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on, which they did bring, It was too wide a peck : And to say truth (for out it must) It looked like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light : And O, she dances such a way ! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison, (Who sees them is undone,) For streaks of red were mingled there, [128] HBallaD upon a Such as are on a Gathering pear The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly) ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get ; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey ; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained band, Presented, and away. K [129] Bailati upon a When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife or teeth was able To stay to be entreated ? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated. The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it then denied : Passion o' me, how I run on ! There's that that would be thought upon (I trow) besides the bride. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick : And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth; And who could help it, Dick? On the sudden up they rise and dance ; Then sit again and sigh and glance : JiBallaD upon a They dance again and kiss : Thus several ways the time did pass, Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place, And every man wished his. Sir John Suckling. ['3'] J) HY so pale and wan, fond lover ? Prythee, why so pale ? Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Prythee, why so pale ? Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't ? Prythee, why so mute ? Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move. This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her : The D 1 take her! Sir John Suckling. ['3*3 Constancy UT upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love thee more, If it proves good weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. Sir John Suckling. prithee senD me uacfc mt PRITHEE setxt me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine : For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have miner Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And not yet lodge together? C'34] "31 pritftw *nta mr bacfe mp ieart O Love ! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? For love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out : For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For Til believe I have her heart As much as she has mine. -Sir John Suckling. C'35] Co aityea from prison HEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter' d to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free- Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. aitljca from When, (like committed linnets), I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage ; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace. [37] Co Lucagta, going betonti tljc F to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Jlucatftt, Like separated souls, All time and space controls : Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after-fate And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. Richard Lovelace. [39] Co HucajstSj on going to t^e ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. Richard Lovelace. H, thou that swing'st upon the waving . ear Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with some de- licious tear Dropt thee from heaven where thou wert reared: The joys of earth and air are thine en- tire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly, And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire, To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thyself, and melancholy streams. But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropped; Ceres and Bacchus bid good night; Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topped, And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. Richard LovtUtct. THERE is a Garden in her face, Where Roses and white Lilies grow; A heav'nly 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, Threatning 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. C44] HOUGH you are young, and I am old, Though your veins hot, and my blood cold, Though youth is moist, and age is dry; Yet embers live, when flames do die. The tender graft is easily broke, But who shall shake the sturdy Oak? You are more fresh and fair than I ; Yet stubs do live, when flowers do die. Thou, that thy youth dost vainly boast, Know buds arc soonest nipt with frost: Think that thy fortune still doth cry, Thou fool, to-morrow thou must die! Thomas Campion. ['45] CARE not for these Ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton country maid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go : But when we come where comfort is She never will say No. If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers : But if we love these Ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold that sell love, Give me the Nut-brown lass, 0martlU0 Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go : But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No. These Ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a Bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed ; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go : But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No ! Thomas Campion. C'47] HERE she her sacred bower adorns, The Rivers clearly flow ; The groves and meadows swell with flowers The winds all gently blow. Her Sun-like beauty shines so fair, Her Spring can never fade : Who then can blame the life that strives To harbour in her shade? Her grace I sought, her love I wooed, Her love though I obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith,- Her wished grace can gain. [148] botoer Yet truth can tell my heart is hers, And her will I adore ; And from that love when I depart, Let heav'n view me no more! Her roses with my praise shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways. The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O why should then her princely ear My words, or zeal, neglect ? If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate ! For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late. And who can glory in the worth, That cannot yield him grace ? Content, in ev'rything is not, Nor joy in ev'ry place. ['49 3 stye ijer aactea botoer afcorn* But from her bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest. Thomas Campion. HE 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 flie From thunder's violence; man of life upright He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep The terrors of the skies. Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heav'n his book, His wisdom heav'nly things; Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober Inn And quiet Pilgrimage. Thomas Campion HE peaceful western wind The winter storms hath tam'd, And nature in each kind The kind heat hath inflam'd : The forward buds so sweetly breathe Out of their earthy bowers, That heav'n which views their pomp beneath, Would fain be deckt with flowers. See how the morning smiles On her bright eastern hill, And with soft steps beguiles Them that lie slumbring still ! The music-loving birds are come From cliffs and rocks unknown, To see the trees and briers bloom That late were overflown. ['53] peaceful toe&tern tomb" What Saturn did destroy, Love's Queen revives again; And now her naked boy Doth in the fields remain, Where he such pleasing change doth view In every living thing, As if the world were born anew To gratify the Spring. If all things life present, Why die my comforts then ? Why suffers my content? Am I the worst of men ? O beauty, be not thou accus'd Too justly in this case ! Unkindly if true love be us'd, 'Twill yield thee little grace. Robert Campion. [54] Y sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love : And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not way them: heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again re- vive ; But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night. If all would lead their lives in love like me, Then bloody swords and armour should not be; No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, ['55] smmrst iirsbia, let us? lite anU lobe" Unless alar' me came from the camp of love : But fools do live, and waste their little light, And seek with pain their ever-during night. When timely death my life and fortune ends, Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends ; But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light, And crown with love my ever-during night. Robert Campion. IGHT as well as brightest day hath her delight, Let us then with mirth and music deck the night. Never did glad day such store Of joy to night bequeath : Her Stars then adore, Both in Heav'n, and here beneath. Love and beauty, mirth and music yield true joys, Though the cynics in their folly count them toys. Raise your spirits ne'er so high, They will be apt to fall: None brave thoughts envy, Who had ere brave thought at all. ['57] trap" Joy is the sweet friend of life, the nurse of blood, Patron of all health, and fountain of all good : Never may joy hence depart, But all your thoughts attend ; Nought can hurt the heart, That retains so sweet a friend. Robert Campion. C'58] l//f'l!^ ^~3k\ f&\v>\& : 2)un'62SM REC'D JUN LIBRARY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. THIS B DUE BEFORE CLOSING TIME OltlBJ$RP4jg|: STAMPED BELOW NOV5 '65 REC'D NOV 5 '65 -6PM LOAN DEPT. General Library LD 62A-50m-2 '64 University of California (E3494slO)9412A Berkeley