Chapter VI: Preface (6)

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!

See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity! Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heav'n that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

Francis Beaumont. 1586-1616

234. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.' Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried-- 'Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

John Ford. 1586-1639

235. Dawn

FLY hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep! Tho' the eyes be overtaken, Yet the heart doth ever waken Thoughts chain'd up in busy snares Of continual woes and cares: Love and griefs are so exprest As they rather sigh than rest. Fly hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep!

George Wither. 1588-1667

236. I loved a Lass

I LOVED a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she 's left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister,
Which pass'd all others far;
She would me honey call,
She'd--O she'd kiss me too!
But now, alas! she 's left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she 's left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she 's left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she 's left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

To maidens' vows and swearing
Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing,
But never them believe;
They are as false as fair,
Unconstant, frail, untrue:
For mine, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo!

George Wither. 1588-1667

237. The Lover's Resolution

SHALL 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 flow'ry 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? 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 my 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 find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

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. 1588-1667

238. The Choice

ME so oft my fancy drew Here and there, that I ne'er knew Where to place desire before So that range it might no more; But as he that passeth by Where, in all her jollity, Flora's riches in a row Do in seemly order grow, And a thousand flowers stand Bending as to kiss his hand; Out of which delightful store One he may take and no more; Long he pausing doubteth whether Of those fair ones he should gather.

First the Primrose courts his eyes, Then the Cowslip he espies; Next the Pansy seems to woo him, Then Carnations bow unto him; Which whilst that enamour'd swain From the stalk intends to strain, (As half-fearing to be seen) Prettily her leaves between Peeps the Violet, pale to see That her virtues slighted be; Which so much his liking wins That to seize her he begins.

Yet before he stoop'd so low He his wanton eye did throw On a stem that grew more high, And the Rose did there espy. Who, beside her previous scent, To procure his eyes content Did display her goodly breast, Where he found at full exprest All the good that Nature showers On a thousand other flowers; Wherewith he affected takes it, His beloved flower he makes it, And without desire of more Walks through all he saw before.

So I wand'ring but erewhile Through the garden of this Isle, Saw rich beauties, I confess, And in number numberless. Yea, so differing lovely too, That I had a world to do Ere I could set up my rest, Where to choose and choose the best.

Thus I fondly fear'd, till Fate (Which I must confess in that Did a greater favour to me Than the world can malice do me) Show'd to me that matchless flower, Subject for this song of our; Whose perfection having eyed, Reason instantly espied That Desire, which ranged abroad, There would find a period: And no marvel if it might, For it there hath all delight, And in her hath nature placed What each several fair one graced.

Let who list, for me, advance The admired flowers of France, Let who will praise and behold The reserved Marigold; Let the sweet-breath'd Violet now Unto whom she pleaseth bow; And the fairest Lily spread Where she will her golden head; I have such a flower to wear That for those I do not care.

Let the young and happy swains Playing on the Britain plains Court unblamed their shepherdesses, And with their gold curled tresses Toy uncensured, until I Grudge at their prosperity.

Let all times, both present, past, And the age that shall be last, Vaunt the beauties they bring forth. I have found in one such worth, That content I neither care What the best before me were; Nor desire to live and see Who shall fair hereafter be; For I know the hand of Nature Will not make a fairer creature.

George Wither. 1588-1667

239. A Widow's Hymn

HOW near me came the hand of Death,
When at my side he struck my dear,
And took away the precious breath
Which quicken'd my beloved peer!
How helpless am I thereby made!
By day how grieved, by night how sad!
And now my life's delight is gone,
--Alas! how am I left alone!

The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day;
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen;
But what I once enjoy'd in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

Lord! keep me faithful to the trust
Which my dear spouse reposed in me:
To him now dead preserve me just
In all that should performed be!
For though our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,
Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.

peer] companion.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

240. A Welcome

WELCOME, welcome! do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

He that to the voice is near
Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, then...

He that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then...

He that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome, then...

He to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields
Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, then...

He that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then...

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

241. The Sirens' Song

STEER, hither steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners! Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers-- Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. --Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

242. The Rose

A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray. God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

243. Song

FOR her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.

Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

244. Memory

SO shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; 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, that 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.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

245. In Obitum M.S. Xo Maij, 1614 Epitaphs

MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
Mine only died.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

246. On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke Epitaphs

UNDERNEATH this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learn'd and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

247. Corinna's going a-Maying

GET up, get up for shame! The blooming 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,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

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,
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!

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.

beads] prayers. green-gown] tumble on the grass.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

248. To the Virgins, to make much of Time

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.

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. 1591-1674

249. To the Western Wind

SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna's lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me,
And all beset with flowers.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

250. To Electra

I DARE not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

251. To Violets

WELCOME, maids of honour!
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her.

She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair;
Yet you are
More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies,
And so graced
To be placed
'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected,
By-and-by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

252. To Daffodils

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
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 anything.
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. 1591-1674

253. To Blossoms

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Twas pity Nature brought you forth
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

254. The Primrose

ASK me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears:-- The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending (yet it doth not break)? I will answer:--These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

255. The Funeral Rites of the Rose

THE Rose was sick and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood: Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept: The holy sisters, some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung. But ah! what sweet smelt everywhere, As Heaven had spent all perfumes there. At last, when prayers for the dead And rites were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb.

trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

256. Cherry-Ripe

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There Where my Julia's lips do smile; There 's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

257. A Meditation for his Mistress

YOU are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosed well In amber or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

258. Delight in Disorder

A 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 Herrick. 1591-1674

259. Upon Julia's Clothes

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, --O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

260. The Bracelet: To Julia

WHY I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason is 't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bond-slave is my heart: 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me: --I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

261. To Daisies, not to shut so soon

SHUT 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 shepherd's star
Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close
Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live or die.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

262. The Night-piece: To Julia

HER eyes 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 or 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.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

263. To Music, to becalm his Fever

CHARM me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptim o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

264. To Dianeme

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

265. To Oenone

WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline
To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why, yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

266. To Anthea, who may command him Anything

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 will I 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 Herrick. 1591-1674

267. To the Willow-tree

THOU art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow-garlands 'bout the head
Bedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane,
Poor maids rewarded be
For their love lost, their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and love-sick maid
Come to weep out the night.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

268. The Mad Maid's Song

GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,
Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He 's soft and tender (pray take heed);
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home--but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

269. Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love

WHAT needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints?

In endless mirth She thinks not on What 's said or done In Earth.

She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears:

Nor does she mind Or think on 't now That ever thou Wast kind;

But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here, Thy love.

Forbear therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep No more.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

270. To Meadows

YE have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill'd 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 crown'd.

But now we see none here
Whose silv'ry feet did tread
And with dishevell'd hair
Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock and needy grown,
You're left here to lament
Your poor estates, alone.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

271. A Child's Grace

HERE a little child I stand Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all. Amen.

paddocks] frogs.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

272. Epitaph upon a Child that died

HERE she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

273. Another

HERE a pretty baby lies Sung asleep with lullabies: Pray be silent and not stir Th' easy earth that covers her.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

274. His Winding-sheet

COME thou, who are the wine and wit
Of all I've writ:
The grace, the glory, and the best
Piece of the rest.
Thou art of what I did intend
The all and end;
And what was made, was made to meet
Thee, thee, my sheet.
Come then and be to my chaste side
Both bed and bride:
We two, as reliques left, will have
Once rest, one grave:
And hugging close, we will not fear
Lust entering here:
Where all desires are dead and cold
As is the mould;
And all affections are forgot,
Or trouble not.
Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be
From shackles free:
And weeping widows long oppress'd
Do here find rest.
The wronged client ends his laws
Here, and his cause.
Here those long suits of Chancery lie
Quiet, or die:
And all Star-Chamber bills do cease
Or hold their peace.
Here needs no Court for our Request
Where all are best,
All wise, all equal, and all just
Alike i' th' dust.
Nor need we here to fear the frown
Of court or crown:
Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,
There all are kings.
In this securer place we'll keep
As lull'd asleep;
Or for a little time we'll lie
As robes laid by;
To be another day re-worn,
Turn'd, but not torn:
Or like old testaments engross'd,
Lock'd up, not lost.
And for a while lie here conceal'd,
To be reveal'd
Next at the great Platonick year,
And then meet here.

Platonick year] the perfect or cyclic year, when the sun, moon, and five planets end their revolutions together and start anew. See Timaeus, p. 39.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

275. Litany to the Holy Spirit

IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drown'd in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing bell doth toll, And the Furies in a shoal Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue, And the comforters are few, And that number more than true, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath pray'd, And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decay'd, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I'm toss'd about Either with despair or doubt; Yet before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!