Ye have been fresh and green,Ye have been fill'd with flowers;And ye the walks have beenWhere maids have spent their hours.You have beheld how theyWith wicker arks did come,To kiss and bear awayThe 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 silvery feet did treadAnd with dishevell'd hairAdorn'd this smoother mead.Like unthrifts, having spentYour stock, and needy grownYou're left here to lamentYour poor estates alone.
Am I despised, because you say;And I dare swear, that I am gray?Know, Lady, you have but your day!And time will come when you shall wearSuch frost and snow upon your hair;And when, though long, it comes to pass,You question with your looking-glass,And in that sincere crystal seekBut find no rose-bud in your cheek,Nor any bed to give the shewWhere such a rare carnation grew:-Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping,It will be toldThat you are old,—By those true tears you're weeping.
Be not proud, but now inclineYour soft ear to discipline;You have changes in your life,Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife;You have ebbs of face and flows,As your health or comes or goes;You have hopes, and doubts, and fears,Numberless as are your hairs;You have pulses that do beatHigh, and passions less of heat;You are young, but must be old:—And, to these, ye must be told,Time, ere long, will come and plowLoathed furrows in your brow:And the dimness of your eyeWill no other thing imply,But you must dieAs well as I.
Sweet Amarillis, by a spring'sSoft and soul-melting murmurings,Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flewA Robin-red-breast; who at view,Not seeing her at all to stir,Brought leaves and moss to cover her:But while he, perking, there did pryAbout the arch of either eye,The lid began to let out day,—At which poor Robin flew away;And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved,He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.
No fault in women, to refuseThe offer which they most would chuse.—No fault: in women, to confessHow tedious they are in their dress;—No fault in women, to lay onThe tincture of vermilion;And there to give the cheek a dyeOf white, where Nature doth deny.—No fault in women, to make showOf largeness, when they're nothing so;When, true it is, the outside swellsWith inward buckram, little else.—No fault in women, though they beBut seldom from suspicion free;—No fault in womankind at all,If they but slip, and never fall.
About the sweet bag of a beeTwo Cupids fell at odds;And whose the pretty prize should beThey vow'd to ask the Gods.Which Venus hearing, thither came,And for their boldness stript them;And taking thence from each his flame,With rods of myrtle whipt them.Which done, to still their wanton cries,When quiet grown she'd seen them,She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes,And gave the bag between them.
Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee,And say thou bring'st this honey-bag from me;When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed,Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste;If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum,Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.
Reach with your whiter hands to meSome crystal of the spring;And I about the cup shall seeFresh lilies flourishing.Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this—To th' glass your lips incline;And I shall see by that one kissThe water turn'd to wine.
These springs were maidens once that loved,But lost to that they most approved:My story tells, by Love they wereTurn'd to these springs which we see here:The pretty whimpering that they make,When of the banks their leave they take,Tells ye but this, they are the same,In nothing changed but in their name.
As is your name, so is your comely faceTouch'd every where with such diffused grace,As that in all that admirable round,There is not one least solecism found;And as that part, so every portion elseKeeps line for line with beauty's parallels.
When I love, as some have toldLove I shall, when I am old,O ye Graces! make me fitFor the welcoming of it!Clean my rooms, as temples be,To entertain that deity;Give me words wherewith to woo,Suppling and successful too;Winning postures; and withal,Manners each way musical;Sweetness to allay my sourAnd unsmooth behaviour:For I know you have the skillVines to prune, though not to kill;And of any wood ye see,You can make a Mercury.
I will confessWith cheerfulness,Love is a thing so likes me,That, let her layOn me all day,I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.I will not, I,Now blubb'ring cry,It, ah! too late repents meThat I did fallTo love at all—Since love so much contents me.No, no, I'll beIn fetters free;While others they sit wringingTheir hands for pain,I'll entertainThe wounds of love with singing.With flowers and wine,And cakes divine,To strike me I will tempt thee;Which done, no moreI'll come beforeThee and thine altars empty.
I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Like, and dislike ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Love will be-fool ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Heat ye, to cool ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Love, gifts will send ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Stock ye, to spend ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Love will fulfil ye.I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do?ANS. Kiss ye, to kill ye.
A Gyges ring they bear about them still,To be, and not seen when and where they will;They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,They fall like dew, and make no noise at all:So silently they one to th' other come,As colours steal into the pear or plum,And air-like, leave no pression to be seenWhere'er they met, or parting place has been.
1 Among thy fancies, tell me this,What is the thing we call a kiss?2 I shall resolve ye what it is:—It is a creature born and bredBetween the lips, all cherry-red,By love and warm desires fed,—CHOR. And makes more soft the bridal bed.2 It is an active flame, that fliesFirst to the babies of the eyes,And charms them there with lullabies,—CHOR. And stills the bride, too, when she cries.2 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,It frisks and flies, now here, now there:'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,—CHOR. And here, and there, and every where.1 Has it a speaking virtue? 2 Yes.1 How speaks it, say? 2 Do you but this,—Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss;CHOR. And this Love's sweetest language is.1 Has it a body? 2 Ay, and wings,With thousand rare encolourings;And as it flies, it gently sings—CHOR. Love honey yields, but never stings.
What needs complaints,When she a placeHas with the raceOf saints?In endless mirth,She thinks not onWhat's said or doneIn earth:She sees no tears,Or any toneOf thy deep groanShe hears;Nor does she mind,Or think on't now,That ever thouWast kind:—But changed above,She likes not there,As she did here,Thy love.—Forbear, therefore,And lull asleepThy woes, and weepNo more.
Orpheus he went, as poets tell,To fetch Eurydice from hell;And had her, but it was uponThis short, but strict condition;Backward he should not look, while heLed her through hell's obscurity.But ah! it happen'd, as he madeHis passage through that dreadful shade,Revolve he did his loving eye,For gentle fear or jealousy;And looking back, that look did severHim and Eurydice for ever.
Ponder my words, if so that any beKnown guilty here of incivility;Let what is graceless, discomposed, and rude,With sweetness, smoothness, softness be endued:Teach it to blush, to curtsey, lisp, and showDemure, but yet full of temptation, too.Numbers ne'er tickle, or but lightly please,Unless they have some wanton carriages:—This if ye do, each piece will here be goodAnd graceful made by your neat sisterhood.
Sea-born goddess, let me beBy thy son thus graced, and thee,That whene'er I woo, I findVirgins coy, but not unkind.Let me, when I kiss a maid,Taste her lips, so overlaidWith love's sirop, that I mayIn your temple, when I pray,Kiss the altar, and confessThere's in love no bitterness.
Whither dost thou hurry me,Bacchus, being full of thee?This way, that way, that way, this,—Here and there a fresh Love is;That doth like me, this doth please;—Thus a thousand mistressesI have now: yet I alone,Having all, enjoy not one!
Bacchus, let me drink no more!Wild are seas that want a shore!When our drinking has no stint,There is no one pleasure in't.I have drank up for to pleaseThee, that great cup, Hercules.Urge no more; and there shall beDaffadils giv'n up to thee.
Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,And we will sit all mute;By listening to thy lyre,That sets all ears on fire.Hark, hark! the God does play!And as he leads the wayThrough heaven, the very spheres,As men, turn all to ears!
Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere,On this sick youth work your enchantments here!Bind up his senses with your numbers, soAs to entrance his pain, or cure his woe.Fall gently, gently, and a-while him keepLost in the civil wilderness of sleep:That done, then let him, dispossess'd of pain,Like to a slumbering bride, awake again.
Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell,That strik'st a stillness into hell;Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms, that rise,With thy soul-melting lullabies;Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheresTo charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.
The mellow touch of music most doth woundThe soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.
Begin to charm, and as thou strok'st mine earsWith thine enchantment, melt me into tears.Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre,And make my spirits frantic with the fire;That done, sink down into a silvery strain,And make me smooth as balm and oil again.
Rare is the voice itself: but when we singTo th' lute or viol, then 'tis ravishing.
Charm me asleep, and melt me soWith thy delicious numbers;That being ravish'd, hence I goAway in easy slumbers.Ease my sick head,And make my bed,Thou Power that canst severFrom me this ill;—And quickly still,Though thou not killMy fever.Thou sweetly canst convert the sameFrom a consuming fire,Into a gentle-licking flame,And make it thus expire.Then make me weepMy pains asleep,And give me such reposes,That I, poor I,May think, thereby,I live and die'Mongst roses.Fall on me like a silent dew,Or like those maiden showers,Which, by the peep of day, do strewA baptism o'er the flowers.Melt, melt my painsWith thy soft strains;That having ease me given,With full delight,I leave this light,And take my flightFor Heaven.
Lord, thou hast given me a cell,Wherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate;Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by th' poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hallAnd kitchen's small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead;Some brittle sticks of thorn or briarMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess too, when I dine,The pulse is thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land,And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one;Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day;Besides, my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year;The while the conduits of my kineRun cream, for wine:All these, and better, thou dost sendMe, to this end,—That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resign,As wholly thine;—But the acceptance, that must be,My Christ, by Thee.
When with the virgin morning thou dost rise,Crossing thyself come thus to sacrifice;First wash thy heart in innocence; then bringPure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing.Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thenceGive up thy soul in clouds of frankincense.Thy golden censers fill'd with odours sweetShall make thy actions with their ends to meet.
In all thy need, be thou possestStill with a well prepared breast;Nor let the shackles make thee sad;Thou canst but have what others had.And this for comfort thou must know,Times that are ill won't still be so:Clouds will not ever pour down rain;A sullen day will clear again.First, peals of thunder we must hear;When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.
First offer incense; then, thy field and meadsShall smile and smell the better by thy beads.The spangling dew dredged o'er the grass shall beTurn'd all to mell and manna there for thee.Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil,Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil.Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould?—Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold.
Along the dark and silent night,With my lantern and my lightAnd the tinkling of my bell,Thus I walk, and this I tell:—Death and dreadfulness call onTo the general session;To whose dismal bar, we thereAll accounts must come to clear:Scores of sins we've made here many;Wiped out few, God knows, if any.Rise, ye debtors, then, and fallTo make payment, while I call:Ponder this, when I am gone:—By the clock 'tis almost One.
Time was uponThe wing, to fly away;And I call'd onHim but awhile to stay;But he'd be gone,For aught that I could say.He held out thenA writing, as he went,And ask'd me, whenFalse man would be contentTo pay againWhat God and Nature lent.An hour-glass,In which were sands but few,As he did pass,He shew'd,—and told me tooMine end near was;—And so away he flew.
That flow of gallants which approachTo kiss thy hand from out the coach;That fleet of lackeys which do runBefore thy swift postilion;Those strong-hoof'd mules, which we beholdRein'd in with purple, pearl, and gold,And shed with silver, prove to beThe drawers of the axle-tree;Thy wife, thy children, and the stateOf Persian looms and antique plate:—All these, and more, shall then affordNo joy to thee, their sickly lord.
Life is the body's light; which, once declining,Those crimson clouds i' th' cheeks and lips leave shining:-Those counter-changed tabbies in the air,The sun once set, all of one colour are:So, when death comes, fresh tinctures lose their place,And dismal darkness then doth smutch the face.
Why, Madam, will ye longer weep,Whenas your baby's lull'd asleep?And, pretty child, feels now no moreThose pains it lately felt before.All now is silent; groans are fled;Your child lies still, yet is not dead,But rather like a flower hid here,To spring again another year.
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 stirThe earth, that lightly covers her.
Here a pretty baby liesSung asleep with lullabies;Pray be silent, and not stirTh' easy earth that covers her.
Virgins promised when I died,That they would each primrose-tideDuly, morn and evening, come,And with flowers dress my tomb.—Having promised, pay your debtsMaids, and here strew violets.
Here a solemn fast we keep,While all beauty lies asleep;Hush'd be all things, no noise hereBut the toning of a tear;Or a sigh of such as bringCowslips for her covering.
Here she lies, in bed of spice,Fair as Eve in paradise;For her beauty, it was such,Poets could not praise too much.Virgins come, and in a ringHer supremest REQUIEM sing;Then depart, but see ye treadLightly, lightly o'er the dead.
O thou, the wonder of all days!O paragon, and pearl of praise!O Virgin-martyr, ever blestAbove the restOf all the maiden-train! We come,And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.Thus, thus, and thus, we compass roundThy harmless and unhaunted ground;And as we sing thy dirge, we willThe daffadil,And other flowers, lay uponThe altar of our love, thy stone.Thou wonder of all maids, liest here,Of daughters all, the dearest dear;The eye of virgins; nay, the queenOf this smooth green,And all sweet meads, from whence we getThe primrose and the violet.Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,By thy sad loss, our liberty;His was the bond and cov'nant, yetThou paid'st the debt;Lamented Maid! he won the day:But for the conquest thou didst pay.Thy father brought with him alongThe olive branch and victor's song;He slew the Ammonites, we know,But to thy woe;And in the purchase of our peace,The cure was worse than the disease.For which obedient zeal of thine,We offer here, before thy shrine,Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;And to make fineAnd fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will hereFour times bestrew thee every year.Receive, for this thy praise, our tears;Receive this offering of our hairs;Receive these crystal vials, fill'dWith tears, distill'dFrom teeming eyes; to these we bring,Each maid, her silver filleting,To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,These laces, ribbons, and these falls,These veils, wherewith we use to hideThe bashful bride,When we conduct her to her groom;All, all we lay upon thy tomb.No more, no more, since thou art dead,Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;No more, at yearly festivals,We, cowslip balls,Or chains of columbines shall make,For this or that occasion's sake.No, no; our maiden pleasures beWrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;Or if we haveOne seed of life left, 'tis to keepA Lent for thee, to fast and weep.Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,And make this place all paradise;May sweets grow here, and smoke from henceFat frankincense;Let balm and cassia send their scentFrom out thy maiden-monument.May no wolf howl, or screech owl stirA wing about thy sepulchre!No boisterous winds or storms come hither,To starve or witherThy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,Love keep it ever flourishing.May all shy maids, at wonted hours,Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers;May virgins, when they come to mourn,Male-incense burnUpon thine altar; then return,And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
Come pity us, all ye who seeOur harps hung on the willow-tree;Come pity us, ye passers-by,Who see or hear poor widows' cry;Come pity us, and bring your earsAnd eyes to pity widows' tears.CHOR. And when you are come hither,Then we will keepA fast, and weepOur eyes out all together,For Tabitha; who dead lies here,Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier.O modest matrons, weep and wail!For now the corn and wine must fail;The basket and the bin of bread,Wherewith so many souls were fed,CHOR. Stand empty here for ever;And ah! the poor,At thy worn door,Shall be relieved never.Woe worth the time, woe worth the day,That reft us of thee, Tabitha!For we have lost, with thee, the meal,The bits, the morsels, and the dealOf gentle paste and yielding dough,That thou on widows did bestow.CHOR. All's gone, and death hath takenAway from usOur maundy; thusThy widows stand forsaken.Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieuWe bid the cruise and pannier too;Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish,Doled to us in that lordly dish.We take our leaves now of the loomFrom whence the housewives' cloth did come;CHOR. The web affords now nothing;Thou being dead,The worsted threadIs cut, that made us clothing.Farewell the flax and reaming wool,With which thy house was plentiful;Farewell the coats, the garments, andThe sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;Farewell thy fire and thy light,That ne'er went out by day or night:—CHOR. No, or thy zeal so speedy,That found a way,By peep of day,To feed and clothe the needy.But ah, alas! the almond-boughAnd olive-branch is wither'd now;The wine-press now is ta'en from us,The saffron and the calamus;The spice and spikenard hence is gone,The storax and the cinnamon;CHOR. The carol of our gladnessHas taken wing;And our late springOf mirth is turn'd to sadness.How wise wast thou in all thy ways!How worthy of respect and praise!How matron-like didst thou go drest!How soberly above the restOf those that prank it with their plumes,And jet it with their choice perfumes!CHOR. Thy vestures were not flowing;Nor did the streetAccuse thy feetOf mincing in their going.And though thou here liest dead, we seeA deal of beauty yet in thee.How sweetly shews thy smiling face,Thy lips with all diffused grace!Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless, white,And comely as the chrysolite.CHOR. Thy belly like a hill is,Or as a neatClean heap of wheat,All set about with lilies.Sleep with thy beauties here, while weWill shew these garments made by thee;These were the coats; in these are readThe monuments of Dorcas dead:These were thy acts, and thou shalt haveThese hung as honours o'er thy grave:—CHOR. And after us, distressed,Should fame be dumb,Thy very tombWould cry out, Thou art blessed.
First, for effusions due unto the dead,My solemn vows have here accomplished;Next, how I love thee, that my grief must tell,Wherein thou liv'st for ever.—Dear, farewell!
When I consider, dearest, thou dost stayBut here awhile, to languish and decay;Like to these garden glories, which here beThe flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!
I'll write no more of love, but now repentOf all those times that I in it have spent.I'll write no more of life, but wish 'twas ended,And that my dust was to the earth commended.
Give me a cellTo dwell,Where no foot hathA path;There will I spend,And end,My wearied yearsIn tears.
O earth! earth! earth! hear thou my voice, and beLoving and gentle for to cover me!Banish'd from thee I live;—ne'er to return,Unless thou giv'st my small remains an urn.