Chapter 5

Strength stoops unto the grave,Worms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come, come! the bells do cry;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death's bitterness;Hell's executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degreeTo welcome destiny;Heaven is our heritage,Earth but a player's stage.Mount we unto the sky;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

168. Cherry-Ripe

THERE is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:There cherries grow which none may buyTill 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;Yet them nor peer nor prince can buyTill 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat'ning with piercing frowns to killAll that attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nigh,Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

169. Laura

ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come;Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty'sSilent music, either otherSweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flowFrom concent divinely framed:Heaven is music, and thy beauty'sBirth is heavenly.

These dull notes we singDiscords need for helps to grace them;Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord;

But still moves delight,Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in them-selves eternal.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

170. Devotion i

FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as night,And she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv'st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!That so have scorched theeAs thou still black must be,Till her kind beams thy black so brightness turneth.

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still, since so thy fates ordained!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

171. Devotion ii

FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!

All that I sung still to her praise did tend;Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

172. Vobiscum est Iope

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admired guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finish'd loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

173. A Hymn in Praise of Neptune

OF Neptune's empire let us sing,At whose command the waves obey;To whom the rivers tribute pay,Down the high mountains sliding:To whom the scaly nation yieldsHomage for the crystal fieldsWherein they dwell:And every sea-dog pays a gemYearly out of his wat'ry cellTo deck great Neptune's diadem.

The Tritons dancing in a ringBefore his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,And the sirens, taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make ev'ry echoing rock replyUnto their gentle murmuring noiseThe praise of Neptune's empery.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

174. Winter Nights

NOW winter nights enlargeThe number of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon the airy towers.Let now the chimneys blazeAnd cups o'erflow with wine;Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Now yellow waxen lightsShall wait on honey love,While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sightsSleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispenseWith lovers' long discourse;Much speech hath some defence,Though beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joys,And winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

175. Integer Vitae

THE man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:

He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.

Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619

176. O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise,Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see:O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

John Reynolds. 16th Cent.

177. A Nosegay

SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,With Violet blue;Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,And eke her view;Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,With sweet delightOf goddess' grace and angels' sacred teintIn fine, most bright?

Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,With Pink most fine;Since you beheld the visage of my dear,And eyes divine;Did not her globy front, and glistering hair,With cheeks most sweet,So gloriously like damask flowers appear,The gods to greet?

Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,With Daisy gay;Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,In her array;Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus' bower,With heavenly glee,A Juno's grace, conjure you to requireHer face to see?

Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,With Primrose fair,Since ye have seen my nymph's sweet dainty faceAnd gesture rare,Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view(White Lily) shine—(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a graceLike stars divine?

teint] tint, hue.

Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639

178. Elizabeth of Bohemia

YOU meaner beauties of the night,That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common people of the skies;What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what 's your praiseWhen Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own;What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seenIn form and beauty of her mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design'dTh' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639

179. The Character of a Happy Life

HOW happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are;Whose soul is still prepared for death,Untied unto the world by careOf public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,Nor vice; who never understoodHow 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,Nor ruin make oppressors 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;

—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. 1568-1639

180. Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife

HE first deceased; she for a little triedTo live without him, liked it not, and died.

Sir John Davies. 1569-1626

181. Man

I KNOW my soul hath power to know all things,Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life 's a pain and but a span;I know my sense is mock'd in everything;And, to conclude, I know myself a Man—Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638

182. To His Forsaken Mistress

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the windThat kisseth everything it meets:And since thou canst with more than one,Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd standsArm'd with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells:But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betideWhen thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to be thrown aside;And I shall sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love to every oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.

Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638

183. To an Inconstant One

I LOVED thee once; I'll love no more—Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrownIf thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recallThat it thou might elsewhere enthral:And then how could I but disdainA captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquer'd theeAnd changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so:Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice—Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost:The height of my disdain shall beTo laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging at a beggar's door.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

184. Hymn to Diana

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night—Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

185. To Celia

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

186. Simplex Munditiis

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder'd, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art's hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a faceThat makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th' adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

187. The Shadow

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even, shades are longest;At noon they are or short or none:So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they're not known.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

188. The Triumph

SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my Lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour'd do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love's world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love's star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead's smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch'd brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch'd it?Have you mark'd but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch'd it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan's down ever?Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

189. An Elegy

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,And yours of whom I sing be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay so goneThroughout your form as, though that moveAnd draw and conquer all men's love,This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet—because'Tis of your flesh, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith or honour's laws.

But who should less expect from you?In whom alone Love lives again:By whom he is restored to men,And kept and bred and brought up true.

His falling temples you have rear'd,The wither'd garlands ta'en away;His altars kept from that decayThat envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:

And on them burn so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty's expense,As Love to acquit such excellenceIs gone himself into your name.

And you are he—the deityTo whom all lovers are design'dThat would their better objects find;Among which faithful troop am I—

Who as an off'ring at your shrineHave sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view;Yet give me leave to adore in youWhat I in her am grieved to want!

allay] alloy.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

190. A Farewell to the World

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.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted meWhere breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professed be,And pride and ignorance the schools;

Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed;Where every freedom is betray'd,And every goodness tax'd or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is suchThat what to all may happen here,If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistakeTo harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind—that, for my sake,There should a miracle be wrought.

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

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

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

191. The Noble Balm

HIGH-SPIRITED friend,I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound:Your fate hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal;And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mindWrapp'd in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapply,You are unkind.

Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd,Must now be rein'd.True valour doth her own renown commandIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do, than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis fame which you have caught:Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.'Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

192. On Elizabeth L. H. Epitaphs: i

WOULDST thou hear what Man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much Beauty as could die:Which in life did harbour giveTo more Virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died, to tellThan that it lived at all. Farewell.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

193. On Salathiel Pavy A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Epitaphs: ii

WEEP with me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath's self is sorry.'Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seem'd to striveWhich own'd the creature.Years he number'd scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn'd cruel,Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he beenThe stage's jewel;And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,As sooth the Parcae thought him one,He play'd so truly.So, by error, to his fateThey all consented;But, viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

194. A Part of an Ode to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison

IT is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine:Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think—nay, know—thy Morison 's not dead.He leap'd the present age,Possest with holy rageTo see that bright eternal DayOf which we Priests and Poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men;And there he lives with memory—and Ben

Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he wentHimself to rest,Or tast a part of that full joy he meantTo have exprestIn this bright AsterismWhere it were friendship's schism—Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry—To separate these twyLights, the Dioscuri,And keep the one half from his Harry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in Heav'n, this light on earth must shine.

And shine as you exalted are!Two names of friendship, but one star:Of hearts the union: and those not by chanceMade, or indenture, or leased out to advanceThe profits for a time.No pleasures vain did chimeOf rimes or riots at your feasts,Orgies of drink or feign'd protests;But simple love of greatness and of good,That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

This made you first to know the WhyYou liked, then after, to applyThat liking, and approach so one the t'otherTill either grew a portion of the other:Each styled by his endThe copy of his friend.You lived to be the great surnamesAnd titles by which all made claimsUnto the Virtue—nothing perfect doneBut as a CARY or a MORISON.

And such the force the fair example hadAs they that sawThe good, and durst not practise it, were gladThat such a lawWas left yet to mankind,Where they might read and findFRIENDSHIP indeed was written, not in words,And with the heart, not pen,Of two so early men,Whose lines her rules were and records:Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,Had sow'd these fruits, and got the harvest in.

John Donne. 1573-1631

195. Daybreak

STAY, O sweet and do not rise!The light that shines comes from thine eyes;The day breaks not: it is my heart,Because that you and I must part.Stay! or else my joys will dieAnd perish in their infancy.

John Donne. 1573-1631

196. Song

GO and catch a falling star,Get with child a mandrake root,Tell me where all past years are,Or who cleft the Devil's foot;Teach me to hear mermaids singing,Or to keep off envy's stinging,And findWhat windServes to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nightsTill Age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNo whereLives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know;Such a pilgrimage were sweet.Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne. 1573-1631

197. That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance and length:Do what thou canst for alteration,For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection's groundBeyond time, place, and all mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motionWhich now withinReason doth win,Redoubled by her secret notion:Like rich men that take pleasureIn hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain,That I can catch herWhere none can watch her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her,And so enjoy her and none miss her.

John Donne. 1573-1631

198. The Ecstasy

WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,A pregnant bank swell'd up, to restThe violet's reclining head,Sat we two, one another's best.

Our hands were firmly cementedBy a fast balm which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did threadOur eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yetWas all the means to make us one;And pictures in our eyes to getWas all our propagation.

As 'twixt two equal armies FateSuspends uncertain victory,Our souls—which to advance their stateWere gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,We like sepulchral statues lay;All day the same our postures were,And we said nothing, all the day.

John Donne. 1573-1631

199. The Dream

DEAR love, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream;It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy.Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.Thou art so true that thoughts of thee sufficeTo make dreams truths and fables histories;Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it bestNot to dream all my dream, let 's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light,Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;Yet I thought thee—For thou lov'st truth—an angel, at first sight;But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st whenExcess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,I must confess it could not choose but beProfane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee thee,But rising makes me doubt that nowThou art not thou.That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he;'Tis not all spirit pure and braveIf mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.Perchance as torches, which must ready be,Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me.Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come: then IWill dream that hope again, but else would die.

John Donne. 1573-1631

200. The Funeral

WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;The mystery, the sign you must not touch,For 'tis my outward soul,Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone,Will leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every partCan tie those parts, and make me one of all;Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do 't: except she meant that IBy this should know my pain,As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me,For since I amLove's martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into other hands these reliques came.As 'twas humilityT' afford to it all that a soul can do,So 'tis some braveryThat, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

John Donne. 1573-1631

201. A Hymn to God the Father

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,Which was my sin, though it were done before?Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,And do run still, though still I do deplore?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallow'd in a score?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy SonShall shine as He shines now and heretofore:And having done that, Thou hast done;I fear no more.

John Donne. 1573-1631

202. Death

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;And soonest our best men with thee do go—Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally,And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

Richard Barnefield. 1574-1627

203. Philomel

AS it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLean'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 complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade 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 singCareless 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'dTo 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, aloftTo 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-morrowNotes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!Sing, birds, in every furrow!And from each bill let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,You pretty elves, among yourselvesSing 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 singAmidst the shady valleys,And see how Phillis sweetly walksWithin 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' harmonyAnd sing, I am her lover;Strain loud and sweet, that every noteWith 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 fallsInto a pretty slumber!Sing round about her rosy bedThat waking she may wonder:Say to her, 'tis her lover trueThat 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 deceivingLock me in delight awhile;Let some pleasing dreams beguileAll my fancies; that from thenceI may feel an influenceAll my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding,Let me know some little joy!We that suffer long annoyAre contented with a thoughtThrough an idle fancy wrought:O let my joys have some abiding!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

208. Bridal Song

CYNTHIA, to thy power and theeWe obey.Joy to this great company!And no dayCome to steal this night awayTill 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, setTo the still winds, tell to allThat gods are come, immortal, great,To honour this great nuptial!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

209. Aspatia's Song

LAY a garland on my herseOf the dismal yew;Maidens, willow branches bear;Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth.Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth!

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

210. Hymn to Pan

SING his praises that doth keepOur flocks from harm.Pan, the father of our sheep;And arm in armTread we softly in a round,Whilst the hollow neighbouring groundFills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to theeThus do we sing!Thou who keep'st us chaste and freeAs the young spring:Ever be thy honour spokeFrom that place the morn is brokeTo 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 tellingLie after lie.For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;Alas, for pity goAnd fire their heartsThat 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 meShall be as I:For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—'Alas, for pity stay,And let us dieWith 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 greenRoses 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 whiteDaintily to love inviteEvery 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 despiseWhat the mighty Love has done;Fear examples and be wise:Fair Callisto was a nun;Leda, sailing on the streamTo 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, higherHe 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 shapesDance upon the mazer's brim,In the crimson liquor swim;From thy plenteous hand divineLet a river run with wine:God of youth, let this day hereEnter 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 airRather like a perfume dwells;Where the violet and the roseTheir blue veins and blush disclose,And come to honour nothing else:

Where to live nearAnd planted thereIs to live, and still live new;Where to gain a favour isMore than light, perpetual bliss—Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recallTo this light,A stranger to himself and all!Both the wonder and the storyShall 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 nightsWherein 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 fowlsAre 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 rainMakes 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 coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe 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 springMeet 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 eyeLike perfumes go out and die;And consequently this is doneAs shadows wait upon the sun.Vain the ambition of kingsWho seek by trophies and dead thingsTo 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 stainsWhich thy Aurora rainsUpon 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 burnsFrom 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 fatesAbove 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 feetWhich brought from HeavenThe news and Prince of Peace:Cease not, wet eyes,His mercy to entreat;To cry for vengeanceSin doth never cease.In your deep floodsDrown all my faults and fears;Nor let His eyeSee sin, but through my tears.

Sir John Beaumont. 1583-1627

223. Of his Dear Son, Gervase

DEAR Lord, receive my son, whose winning loveTo me was like a friendship, far aboveThe course of nature or his tender age;Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to beIn that frail body which was part of me,Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to showHow to this port at every step I go.