XLIIIMELANCHOLY.

Where dost thou careless lie,Buried in ease and sloth?Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;And this security,It is the common moth5That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.Are all the Aonian springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius’ harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings!10Or 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:15Minds that are great and free,Should not on Fortune pause;’Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baits20Of worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.Then take in hand thy lyre,25Strike in thy proper strain,With Japhet’s line, aspireSol’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 age31Cannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a pageTo that strumpet the stage,But sing high and aloof,35Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof.Ben Jonson.

Where dost thou careless lie,Buried in ease and sloth?Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;And this security,It is the common moth5That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.

Where dost thou careless lie,

Buried in ease and sloth?

Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;

And this security,

It is the common moth5

That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius’ harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings!10Or droop they as disgraced,To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up? lies Thespia waste?

Doth Clarius’ harp want strings,

That not a nymph now sings!10

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:15Minds that are great and free,Should not on Fortune pause;’Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.

If hence thy silence be,

As ’tis too just a cause,

Let this thought quicken thee:15

Minds that are great and free,

Should not on Fortune pause;

’Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baits20Of worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

What though the greedy fry

Be taken with false baits20

Of worded balladry,

And think it poesy?

They die with their conceits,

And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre,25Strike in thy proper strain,With Japhet’s line, aspireSol’s chariot for new fire,To give the world again:Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove’s brain.

Then take in hand thy lyre,25

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 age31Cannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a pageTo that strumpet the stage,But sing high and aloof,35Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof.Ben Jonson.

And since our dainty age31

Cannot endure reproof,

Make not thyself a page

To that strumpet the stage,

But sing high and aloof,35

Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof.

Ben Jonson.

Hence, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There’s nought in this life sweet,If man were wise to see’t,5But only melancholy,Oh, sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,A sigh that piercing mortifies,A look that’s fastened to the ground,10A tongue chained up without a sound!Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed, save bats and owls!15A 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.Beaumont and Fletcher.

Hence, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!

There’s nought in this life sweet,

If man were wise to see’t,5

But only melancholy,

Oh, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that’s fastened to the ground,10

A tongue chained 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!15

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.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lureOf mortal worths, not worth so worthy love;All beauty’s base, all graces are impure,That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun,5All grace to God, from whom all graces run.If picture move, more should the pattern please;No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,But silly signs of God’s high beauty are.10Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,Sith reap thou may’st whole harvests of delight;Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears,15Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight:God’s love alone doth end with endless ease,Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.Let not the luring train of fancies trap,Or gracious features, proofs of Nature’s skill,20Lull Reason’s force asleep in Error’s lap,Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell;A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty’s bait,25In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook;Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait,A lock it proves, that first was but a look:The fish with ease into the net doth glide,But to get out the way is not so wide.30So long the fly doth dally with the flame,Until his singèd wings do force his fall;So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game,Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail,35But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light;The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust,The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right;40In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell;In which to live is death, to die is hell.Robert Southwell.

Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lure

Of mortal worths, not worth so worthy love;

All beauty’s base, all graces are impure,

That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.

Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun,5

All grace to God, from whom all graces run.

If picture move, more should the pattern please;No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,But silly signs of God’s high beauty are.10Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.

If picture move, more should the pattern please;

No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,

And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,

But silly signs of God’s high beauty are.10

Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;

True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.

Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,Sith reap thou may’st whole harvests of delight;Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears,15Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight:God’s love alone doth end with endless ease,Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.

Glean not in barren soil these offal ears,

Sith reap thou may’st whole harvests of delight;

Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears,15

Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight:

God’s love alone doth end with endless ease,

Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.

Let not the luring train of fancies trap,Or gracious features, proofs of Nature’s skill,20Lull Reason’s force asleep in Error’s lap,Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell;A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.

Let not the luring train of fancies trap,

Or gracious features, proofs of Nature’s skill,20

Lull Reason’s force asleep in Error’s lap,

Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will.

The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell;

A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.

Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty’s bait,25In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook;Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait,A lock it proves, that first was but a look:The fish with ease into the net doth glide,But to get out the way is not so wide.30

Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty’s bait,25

In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook;

Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait,

A lock it proves, that first was but a look:

The fish with ease into the net doth glide,

But to get out the way is not so wide.30

So long the fly doth dally with the flame,Until his singèd wings do force his fall;So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game,Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail,35But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.

So long the fly doth dally with the flame,

Until his singèd wings do force his fall;

So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game,

Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.

Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail,35

But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.

Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light;The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust,The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right;40In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell;In which to live is death, to die is hell.Robert Southwell.

Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,

Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light;

The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust,

The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right;40

In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell;

In which to live is death, to die is hell.

Robert Southwell.

False world, good night, since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age,Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt5A spirit so resolved to treadUpon thy throat, and live exemptFrom all the nets that thou canst spread.I know thy forms are studied arts,Thy subtil ways be narrow straits;10Thy courtesy but sudden starts,And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.I know too, though thou strut and paint,Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;That only fools make thee a saint,15And all thy good is to be sold.I know thou whole art but a shopOf toys and trifles, traps and snares,To take the weak, or make them stop:Yet art thou falser than thy wares.20And, knowing this, should I yet stay,Like such as blow away their lives,And never will redeem a day,Enamoured of their golden gyves?Or having ’scaped, shall I return,25And thrust my neck into the noose,From whence so lately I did burnWith all my powers myself to loose?What bird or beast is known so dull,That fled his cage, or broke his chain,30And tasting air and freedom, wullRender his head in there again?If these who have but sense, can shunThe engines that have them annoyed;Little for me had reason done,35If I could not thy gins avoid.Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fearAs little, as I hope from thee:I know thou canst nor show, nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.40My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse, and then betray;Since stirr’dst up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.Then in a soil hast planted me,45Where breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professèd be,And pride and ignorance the schools:Where nothing is examined, weighed;But as ’tis rumoured, so believed;50Where every freedom is betrayed,And every goodness taxed or grieved.But what we’re born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is such,That what to all may happen here,55If’t chance to me, I must not grutch,Else I my state should much mistake,To harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind: that for my sakeThere should a miracle be wrought.60No! I do know that I was bornTo age, misfortune, sickness, grief:But I will bear these with that scorn,As shall not need thy false relief.Nor for my peace will I go far,65As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.Ben Jonson.

False world, good night, since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age,Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.

False world, good night, since thou hast brought

That hour upon my morn of age,

Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,

My part is ended on thy stage.

Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt5A spirit so resolved to treadUpon thy throat, and live exemptFrom all the nets that thou canst spread.

Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt5

A spirit so resolved to tread

Upon thy throat, and live exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.

I know thy forms are studied arts,Thy subtil ways be narrow straits;10Thy courtesy but sudden starts,And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.

I know thy forms are studied arts,

Thy subtil ways be narrow straits;10

Thy courtesy but sudden starts,

And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.

I know too, though thou strut and paint,Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;That only fools make thee a saint,15And all thy good is to be sold.

I know too, though thou strut and paint,

Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;

That only fools make thee a saint,15

And all thy good is to be sold.

I know thou whole art but a shopOf toys and trifles, traps and snares,To take the weak, or make them stop:Yet art thou falser than thy wares.20

I know thou whole art but a shop

Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,

To take the weak, or make them stop:

Yet art thou falser than thy wares.20

And, knowing this, should I yet stay,Like such as blow away their lives,And never will redeem a day,Enamoured of their golden gyves?

And, knowing this, should I yet stay,

Like such as blow away their lives,

And never will redeem a day,

Enamoured of their golden gyves?

Or having ’scaped, shall I return,25And thrust my neck into the noose,From whence so lately I did burnWith all my powers myself to loose?

Or having ’scaped, shall I return,25

And thrust my neck into the noose,

From whence so lately I did burn

With all my powers myself to loose?

What bird or beast is known so dull,That fled his cage, or broke his chain,30And tasting air and freedom, wullRender his head in there again?

What bird or beast is known so dull,

That fled his cage, or broke his chain,30

And tasting air and freedom, wull

Render his head in there again?

If these who have but sense, can shunThe engines that have them annoyed;Little for me had reason done,35If I could not thy gins avoid.

If these who have but sense, can shun

The engines that have them annoyed;

Little for me had reason done,35

If I could not thy gins avoid.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fearAs little, as I hope from thee:I know thou canst nor show, nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.40

Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fear

As little, as I hope from thee:

I know thou canst nor show, nor bear

More hatred than thou hast to me.40

My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse, and then betray;Since stirr’dst up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.

My tender, first, and simple years

Thou didst abuse, and then betray;

Since stirr’dst up jealousies and fears,

When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me,45Where breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professèd be,And pride and ignorance the schools:

Then in a soil hast planted me,45

Where breathe the basest of thy fools;

Where envious arts professèd be,

And pride and ignorance the schools:

Where nothing is examined, weighed;But as ’tis rumoured, so believed;50Where every freedom is betrayed,And every goodness taxed or grieved.

Where nothing is examined, weighed;

But as ’tis rumoured, so believed;50

Where every freedom is betrayed,

And every goodness taxed or grieved.

But what we’re born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is such,That what to all may happen here,55If’t chance to me, I must not grutch,

But what we’re born for, we must bear:

Our frail condition it is such,

That what to all may happen here,55

If’t chance to me, I must not grutch,

Else I my state should much mistake,To harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind: that for my sakeThere should a miracle be wrought.60

Else I my state should much mistake,

To harbour a divided thought

From all my kind: that for my sake

There should a miracle be wrought.60

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

No! I do know that I was born

To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:

But I will bear these with that scorn,

As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far,65As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.Ben Jonson.

Nor for my peace will I go far,65

As wanderers do, that still do roam;

But make my strengths, such as they are,

Here in my bosom, and at home.

Ben Jonson.

The Muses’ fairest light in no dark time,The wonder of a learnèd age; the lineWhich none can pass; the most proportioned witTo nature, the best judge of what was fit;The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;5The voice most echoed by consenting men;The soul which answered best to all well saidBy others, and which most requital made;Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,Returning all her music with his own;10In whom with nature study claimed a part,And yet who to himself owed all his art:Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will lookWith sorrow here, with wonder on his book.John Cleveland.

The Muses’ fairest light in no dark time,

The wonder of a learnèd age; the line

Which none can pass; the most proportioned wit

To nature, the best judge of what was fit;

The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;5

The voice most echoed by consenting men;

The soul which answered best to all well said

By others, and which most requital made;

Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,

Returning all her music with his own;10

In whom with nature study claimed a part,

And yet who to himself owed all his art:

Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will look

With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.

John Cleveland.

I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile;I joy not much in earthly joys;I seek not state, I seek not style;I am not fond of fancy’s toys;I rest so pleased with what I have,5I wish no more, no more I crave.I quake not at the thunder’s crack;I tremble not at noise of war;I swound not at the news of wrack;I shrink not at a blazing star;10I fear not loss, I hope not gain,I envy none, I none disdain.I see ambition never pleased;I see some Tantals starved in store;I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased;15I see e’en Midas gape for more:I neither want, nor yet abound—Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.I feign not friendship, where I hate;I fawn not on the great in show;20I prize, I praise a mean estate—Neither too lofty nor too low:This, this is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content, a conscience clear.Joshua Sylvester.

I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile;

I joy not much in earthly joys;

I seek not state, I seek not style;

I am not fond of fancy’s toys;

I rest so pleased with what I have,5

I wish no more, no more I crave.

I quake not at the thunder’s crack;I tremble not at noise of war;I swound not at the news of wrack;I shrink not at a blazing star;10I fear not loss, I hope not gain,I envy none, I none disdain.

I quake not at the thunder’s crack;

I tremble not at noise of war;

I swound not at the news of wrack;

I shrink not at a blazing star;10

I fear not loss, I hope not gain,

I envy none, I none disdain.

I see ambition never pleased;I see some Tantals starved in store;I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased;15I see e’en Midas gape for more:I neither want, nor yet abound—Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.

I see ambition never pleased;

I see some Tantals starved in store;

I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased;15

I see e’en Midas gape for more:

I neither want, nor yet abound—

Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship, where I hate;I fawn not on the great in show;20I prize, I praise a mean estate—Neither too lofty nor too low:This, this is all my choice, my cheer—A mind content, a conscience clear.Joshua Sylvester.

I feign not friendship, where I hate;

I fawn not on the great in show;20

I prize, I praise a mean estate—

Neither too lofty nor too low:

This, this is all my choice, my cheer—

A mind content, a conscience clear.

Joshua Sylvester.

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array,Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,5Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess.Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;10Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:—So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.William Shakespeare.

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array,

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,5

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess.

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;10

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:—

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;

And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

William Shakespeare.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action; and till action, lustIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoyed no sooner than despisèd straight;5Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,On purpose laid to make the taker mad:Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;10A bliss in proof—and proved, a very woe;Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream:All this the world well knows; yet none knows wellTo shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.William Shakespeare.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Enjoyed no sooner than despisèd straight;5

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad:

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;10

A bliss in proof—and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream:

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

William Shakespeare.

The loppèd tree in time may grow again;Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorriest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;Times go by turns, and chances change by course,5From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides have equal times to come and go;Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;10No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;No endless night, yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing;15The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.A chance may win that by mischance was lost;That net that holds no great, takes little fish;20In some things all, in all things none are crossed;Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,Who least hath some, who most hath never all.Robert Southwell.

The loppèd tree in time may grow again;

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;

The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;

Times go by turns, and chances change by course,5

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides have equal times to come and go;Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;10No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;

Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;10

No joy so great but runneth to an end,

No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;No endless night, yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing;15The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;

No endless night, yet not eternal day;

The saddest birds a season find to sing;15

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,

That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;That net that holds no great, takes little fish;20In some things all, in all things none are crossed;Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,Who least hath some, who most hath never all.Robert Southwell.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;

That net that holds no great, takes little fish;20

In some things all, in all things none are crossed;

Few all they need, but none have all they wish;

Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,

Who least hath some, who most hath never all.

Robert Southwell.

This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the air,By sporting children’s breath,Who chase it everywhere,And strive who can most motion it bequeath;5And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fixed there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.But in that pomp it doth not long appear;10For when ’tis most admirèd, in a thought,Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.William Drummond.

This Life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air,

By sporting children’s breath,

Who chase it everywhere,

And strive who can most motion it bequeath;5

And though it sometimes seem of its own might

Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,

And firm to hover in that empty height,

That only is because it is so light.

But in that pomp it doth not long appear;10

For when ’tis most admirèd, in a thought,

Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

William Drummond.

Like as the damask rose you see,Or like the blossom on the tree,Or like the dainty flower in May,Or like the morning of the day,Or like the sun, or like the shade,5Or like the gourd which Jonas had—E’en such is man; whose thread is spun,Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;The flower fades; the morning hasteth;10The sun sets, the shadow flies;The gourd consumes; and man he dies!Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,Or like a tale that’s new begun,Or like the bird that’s here to day,15Or like the pearlèd dew of May,Or like an hour, or like a span,Or like the singing of a swan—E’en such is man; who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life, and death.20The grass withers, the tale is ended;The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended;The hour is short, the span is long;The swan’s near death; man’s life is done!Simon Wastell.

Like as the damask rose you see,

Or like the blossom on the tree,

Or like the dainty flower in May,

Or like the morning of the day,

Or like the sun, or like the shade,5

Or like the gourd which Jonas had—

E’en such is man; whose thread is spun,

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.

The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;

The flower fades; the morning hasteth;10

The sun sets, the shadow flies;

The gourd consumes; and man he dies!

Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,Or like a tale that’s new begun,Or like the bird that’s here to day,15Or like the pearlèd dew of May,Or like an hour, or like a span,Or like the singing of a swan—E’en such is man; who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life, and death.20The grass withers, the tale is ended;The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended;The hour is short, the span is long;The swan’s near death; man’s life is done!Simon Wastell.

Like to the grass that’s newly sprung,

Or like a tale that’s new begun,

Or like the bird that’s here to day,15

Or like the pearlèd dew of May,

Or like an hour, or like a span,

Or like the singing of a swan—

E’en such is man; who lives by breath,

Is here, now there, in life, and death.20

The grass withers, the tale is ended;

The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended;

The hour is short, the span is long;

The swan’s near death; man’s life is done!

Simon Wastell.

Can I, who have for others oft compiledThe songs of death, forget my sweetest child,Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead,And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,Expecting with clear hope to live anew,5Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?We have this sign of joy, that many days,While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,The name of Jesus in his mouth containsHis only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.10Oh! may that sound be rooted in my mind,Of which in him such strong effect I find.Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning loveTo me was like a friendship, far aboveThe course of nature, or his tender age;15Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to beIn 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.20Sir John Beaumont.

Can I, who have for others oft compiled

The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,

Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead,

And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,

Expecting with clear hope to live anew,5

Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?

We have this sign of joy, that many days,

While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,

The name of Jesus in his mouth contains

His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.10

Oh! may that sound be rooted in my mind,

Of which in him such strong effect I find.

Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love

To me was like a friendship, far above

The course of nature, or his tender age;15

Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;

Let his pure soul, ordained 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.20

Sir John Beaumont.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,5As 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:10The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;15Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!20Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownèd be thy grave!William Shakespeare.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,5

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:10The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and 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:10

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;15Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;15

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!20Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownèd be thy grave!William Shakespeare.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!20

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renownèd be thy grave!

William Shakespeare.

Mortality, behold and fear!What a change of flesh is here!Think how many royal bonesSleep within these heaps of stones;Here they lie, had realms and lands,5Who now want strength to stir their hands,Where from their pulpits sealed with dustThey preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’Here’s an acre sown indeedWith the richest royallest seed10That 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,15Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:Here’s a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.Francis Beaumont.

Mortality, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;

Here they lie, had realms and lands,5

Who now want strength to stir their hands,

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust

They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’

Here’s an acre sown indeed

With the richest royallest seed10

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,15

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:

Here’s a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Francis Beaumont.

Victorious men of earth, no moreProclaim how wide your empires are;Though you bind-in every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as farAs night or day,5Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,And mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to the crowd of common men.Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,10Death’s servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,15Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.James Shirley.

Victorious men of earth, no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind-in every shore

And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,5

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,10Death’s servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,15Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.James Shirley.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,10

Death’s servile emissaries are;

Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill;

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,15

Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

James Shirley.

The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and crown5Must tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crookèd scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:10But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath15When they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death’s purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:20Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.James Shirley.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown5

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:10But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath15When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:10

But their strong nerves at last must yield;

They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath15

When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death’s purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:20Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.James Shirley.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death’s purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:20

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;My crop of corn is but a field of tares;And all my good is but vain hope of gain:The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;5And now I live, and now my life is done!The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:10My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;And now I live, and now my life is done!I sought my death, and found it in my womb;I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;15And now I die, and now I am but made:The glass is full, and now my glass is run;And now I live, and now my life is done!Chidiock Tychborn.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares;

And all my good is but vain hope of gain:

The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;5

And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:10My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:10

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;

And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;15And now I die, and now I am but made:The glass is full, and now my glass is run;And now I live, and now my life is done!Chidiock Tychborn.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;

I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;15

And now I die, and now I am but made:

The glass is full, and now my glass is run;

And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tychborn.

E’en such is time; which takes on trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Which in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,5Shuts up the story of our days:But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.Sir Walter Raleigh.

E’en such is time; which takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,

And pays us but with earth and dust;

Which in the dark and silent grave,

When we have wandered all our ways,5

Shuts up the story of our days:

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,

My God shall raise me up, I trust.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this dayDidst make thy triumph over death and sin,And, having harrowed hell, didst bring awayCaptivity thence captive, us to win;This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,5And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,May live for ever in felicity:And that thy love we weighing worthily,May likewise love Thee for the same again;10And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,With love may one another entertain.So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.Edmund Spenser.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day

Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,

And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away

Captivity thence captive, us to win;

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,5

And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,

Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,

May live for ever in felicity:

And that thy love we weighing worthily,

May likewise love Thee for the same again;10

And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,

With love may one another entertain.

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;

Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Edmund Spenser.

Jerusalem, my happy home,When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end,Thy joys when shall I see?O happy harbour of the saints!5O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow may be found,No grief, no care, no toil.In thee no sickness may be seen,Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore;10There is no death, nor ugly dole,But Life for evermore.There lust and lucre cannot dwell,There envy bears no sway;There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,15But pleasure every way.Thy walls are made of precious stones,Thy bulwarks diamonds square;Thy gates are of right orient pearl,Exceeding rich and rare.20Thy turrets and thy pinnaclesWith carbuncles do shine;Thy very streets are paved with gold,Surpassing clear and fine.Thy houses are of ivory,25Thy windows crystal clear;Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;—O God, that I were there!Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,Would God I were in thee!30Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!Thy saints are crowned with glory great;They see God face to face;They triumph still, they still rejoice,35Most happy is their case.We that are here in banishmentContinually do moan,We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,Perpetually we groan.40Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,Our pleasure is but pain,Our joys scarce last the looking on,Our sorrows still remain.But there they live in such delight,45Such pleasure and such play,As that to them a thousand yearsDoth seem as yesterday.Thy gardens and thy gallant walksContinually are green;50There grow such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.Quite through the streets, with silver sound,The flood of Life doth flow;Upon whose banks on every side55The wood of Life doth grow.There trees for evermore bear fruit,And evermore do spring;There evermore the angels sit,And evermore do sing.60Jerusalem, my happy home,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!Anon.

Jerusalem, my happy home,When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end,Thy joys when shall I see?

Jerusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,

Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the saints!5O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow may be found,No grief, no care, no toil.

O happy harbour of the saints!5

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In thee no sorrow may be found,

No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness may be seen,Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore;10There is no death, nor ugly dole,But Life for evermore.

In thee no sickness may be seen,

Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore;10

There is no death, nor ugly dole,

But Life for evermore.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,There envy bears no sway;There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,15But pleasure every way.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,

There envy bears no sway;

There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,15

But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones,Thy bulwarks diamonds square;Thy gates are of right orient pearl,Exceeding rich and rare.20

Thy walls are made of precious stones,

Thy bulwarks diamonds square;

Thy gates are of right orient pearl,

Exceeding rich and rare.20

Thy turrets and thy pinnaclesWith carbuncles do shine;Thy very streets are paved with gold,Surpassing clear and fine.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles

With carbuncles do shine;

Thy very streets are paved with gold,

Surpassing clear and fine.

Thy houses are of ivory,25Thy windows crystal clear;Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;—O God, that I were there!

Thy houses are of ivory,25

Thy windows crystal clear;

Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;—

O God, that I were there!

Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,Would God I were in thee!30Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!

Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,

Would God I were in thee!30

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

Thy saints are crowned with glory great;They see God face to face;They triumph still, they still rejoice,35Most happy is their case.

Thy saints are crowned with glory great;

They see God face to face;

They triumph still, they still rejoice,35

Most happy is their case.

We that are here in banishmentContinually do moan,We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,Perpetually we groan.40

We that are here in banishment

Continually do moan,

We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,

Perpetually we groan.40

Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,Our pleasure is but pain,Our joys scarce last the looking on,Our sorrows still remain.

Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,

Our pleasure is but pain,

Our joys scarce last the looking on,

Our sorrows still remain.

But there they live in such delight,45Such pleasure and such play,As that to them a thousand yearsDoth seem as yesterday.

But there they live in such delight,45

Such pleasure and such play,

As that to them a thousand years

Doth seem as yesterday.

Thy gardens and thy gallant walksContinually are green;50There grow such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green;50

There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

Quite through the streets, with silver sound,The flood of Life doth flow;Upon whose banks on every side55The wood of Life doth grow.

Quite through the streets, with silver sound,

The flood of Life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side55

The wood of Life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,And evermore do spring;There evermore the angels sit,And evermore do sing.60

There trees for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring;

There evermore the angels sit,

And evermore do sing.60

Jerusalem, my happy home,Would God I were in thee!Would God my woes were at an end,Thy joys that I might see!Anon.

Jerusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

Anon.

How happy is he born and taught,That serveth not another’s will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!Whose passions not his masters are,5Whose soul is still prepared for death;Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;Who envies none that chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understood10How deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good:Who hath his life from rumours freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,15Nor ruin make accusers great;Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a religious book or friend;20—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.Sir Henry Wotton.

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

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another’s will;

Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,5Whose soul is still prepared for death;Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;

Whose passions not his masters are,5

Whose soul is still prepared for death;

Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understood10How deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood10

How deepest wounds are given by praise;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,15Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who hath his life from rumours freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,15

Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a religious book or friend;20

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend;20

—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.Sir Henry Wotton.

—This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands;

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton.

Away, let nought to love displeasing,My Winifreda, move your care,Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.What though no grants of royal donors5With pompous titles grace our blood?We’ll shine in more substantial honours,And to be noble we’ll be good.Our name, while virtue thus we tender,Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke;10And all the great ones, they shall wonderHow they respect such little folk.What though from fortune’s lavish bountyNo mighty treasures we possess,We’ll find within our pittance plenty,15And be content without excess.Still shall each returning seasonSufficient for our wishes give;For we will live a life of reason,And that’s the only life to live.20Through youth and age in love excelling,We’ll hand in hand together tread;Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.How should I love the pretty creatures,25While round my knees they fondly clung;To see them look their mother’s features,To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.And when with envy time transported,Shall think to rob us of our joys,30You’ll in your girls again be courted,And I’ll go wooing in my boys.Anon.

Away, let nought to love displeasing,My Winifreda, move your care,Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

Away, let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifreda, move your care,

Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,

Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors5With pompous titles grace our blood?We’ll shine in more substantial honours,And to be noble we’ll be good.

What though no grants of royal donors5

With pompous titles grace our blood?

We’ll shine in more substantial honours,

And to be noble we’ll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke;10And all the great ones, they shall wonderHow they respect such little folk.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,

Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke;10

And all the great ones, they shall wonder

How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune’s lavish bountyNo mighty treasures we possess,We’ll find within our pittance plenty,15And be content without excess.

What though from fortune’s lavish bounty

No mighty treasures we possess,

We’ll find within our pittance plenty,15

And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning seasonSufficient for our wishes give;For we will live a life of reason,And that’s the only life to live.20

Still shall each returning season

Sufficient for our wishes give;

For we will live a life of reason,

And that’s the only life to live.20

Through youth and age in love excelling,We’ll hand in hand together tread;Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

Through youth and age in love excelling,

We’ll hand in hand together tread;

Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,

And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,25While round my knees they fondly clung;To see them look their mother’s features,To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.

How should I love the pretty creatures,25

While round my knees they fondly clung;

To see them look their mother’s features,

To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.

And when with envy time transported,Shall think to rob us of our joys,30You’ll in your girls again be courted,And I’ll go wooing in my boys.Anon.

And when with envy time transported,

Shall think to rob us of our joys,30

You’ll in your girls again be courted,

And I’ll go wooing in my boys.

Anon.

Stand still, and I will read to theeA lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy.These three hours that we have spentWalking here, two shadows wentAlong with us, which we ourselves produced:5But, now the sun is just above our head,We do those shadows tread,And to brave clearness all things are reduced.So whilst our infant loves did grow,Disguises did and shadows flow10From us and from our cares; but now it is not so.That love hath not attained the highest degree,Which is still diligent lest others see;Except our loves at this noon stay,We shall new shadows make the other way.15As the first were made to blindOthers, these which come behindWill work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes,If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,To me thou falsely thine,20And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.The morning shadows wear away,But these grow longer all the day;But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.Love is a growing or full constant light,25And his short minute, after noon, is night.John Donne.

Stand still, and I will read to thee

A lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy.

These three hours that we have spent

Walking here, two shadows went

Along with us, which we ourselves produced:5

But, now the sun is just above our head,

We do those shadows tread,

And to brave clearness all things are reduced.

So whilst our infant loves did grow,

Disguises did and shadows flow10

From us and from our cares; but now it is not so.

That love hath not attained the highest degree,Which is still diligent lest others see;Except our loves at this noon stay,We shall new shadows make the other way.15As the first were made to blindOthers, these which come behindWill work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes,If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,To me thou falsely thine,20And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.The morning shadows wear away,But these grow longer all the day;But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.

That love hath not attained the highest degree,

Which is still diligent lest others see;

Except our loves at this noon stay,

We shall new shadows make the other way.15

As the first were made to blind

Others, these which come behind

Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes,

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,

To me thou falsely thine,20

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

The morning shadows wear away,

But these grow longer all the day;

But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing or full constant light,25And his short minute, after noon, is night.John Donne.

Love is a growing or full constant light,25

And his short minute, after noon, is night.

John Donne.

Ask 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 stray5The golden atoms of the day;For, in pure love, heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale, when May is past;10For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.Ask me no more, where those stars light,That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit, and there15Fixèd become, as in their sphere.Ask me no more, if east or west,The phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.20Thomas Carew.

Ask 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 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 stray5The golden atoms of the day;For, in pure love, heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither do stray5

The golden atoms of the day;

For, in pure love, heaven did prepare

Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale, when May is past;10For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste

The nightingale, when May is past;10

For in your sweet dividing throat

She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit, and there15Fixèd become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,

That downwards fall in dead of night;

For in your eyes they sit, and there15

Fixèd become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,The phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.20Thomas Carew.

Ask me no more, if east or west,

The phœnix builds her spicy nest;

For unto you at last she flies,

And in your fragrant bosom dies.20

Thomas Carew.

Ask me why I send you hereThis sweet Infanta of the year?Ask me why I send to youThis primrose, thus bepearled with dew?I will whisper to your ears,5The sweets of love are mixt with tears.Ask me why this flower does showSo yellow-green, and sickly too?Ask me why the stalk is weak,And bending, yet it doth not break?10I will answer, these discoverWhat fainting hopes are in a lover.Robert Herrick.

Ask me why I send you here

This sweet Infanta of the year?

Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, thus bepearled with dew?

I will whisper to your ears,5

The sweets of love are mixt 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?10

I will answer, these discover

What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick.

Back to Index Next