Themorn’s my constant mistress,And the lovely owl my marrow;The naming drake,And the night-crow, makeMe music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo;For oft when he lies sleeping,I behold the starsAt mortal wars,And the rounded welkin weeping.
The moon embraces her shepherd,And the Queen of Love her warrior;While the first does hornThe stars of the morn,And the next the heavenly farrier.
With a heart of furious fancies,Whereof I am commander:With a burning spear,And a horse of air,To the wilderness I wander;
With a Knight of ghosts and shadows,I summoned am to Tourney:Ten leagues beyondThe wide world’s end;Methinks it is no journey.
Kindare her answers,But her performance keeps no day;Breaks time, as dancersFrom their own music when they stray.All her free favours and smooth wordsWing my hopes in vain.O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign?Can true love yield such delay,Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedomWhen we submit to women so:Why do we need ’emWhen, in their best, they work our woe?There is no wisdomCan alter ends by fate prefixt.O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?Never were days yet called twoBut one night went betwixt.
Rose-cheekedLaura, 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 renewed by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in them-Selves eternal.
Whereshe her sacred bower adornsThe rivers clearly flow,The groves and meadows swell with flowers,The winds all gently blow.Her sun-like beauty shines so fair,Her spring can never fade.Who then can blame the life that strivesTo harbour in her shade?
Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;Her love though I obtain,No time, no toil, no vow, no faithHer wished grace can gain.Yet truth can tell my heart is hersAnd her will I adore;And from that love when I departLet heaven view me no more!
Her roses with my prayers shall spring;And when her trees I praise,Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruitShall straw her pleasant ways.The words of hearty zeal have powerHigh wonders to effect;O, why should then her princely earMy words or zeal neglect?
If she my faith misdeems, or worth,Woe worth my hapless fate!For though time can my truth reveal,That time will come too late.And who can glory in the worthThat cannot yield him grace?Content in everything is not,Nor joy in every place.
But from her Bower of Joy since IMust now excluded be,And she will not relieve my cares,Which none can help but she;My comfort in her love shall dwell,Her love lodge in my breast,And though not in her bower, yet IShall in her temple rest.
Followthy 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 live disgracedAnd she in heaven is placed;Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.
Follow those pure beams whose beauty burnethThat so have scorched theeAs thou still black must be,Till her kind beams thy black to 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 proved, the shadow still disdained.
Whenthou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admired guest,The beauteous spirits do engird thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finished love,From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masks and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauties’ sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.
Thepeaceful western windThe winter storms hath tamed,And nature in each kindThe kind heat hath inflamed:The forward buds so sweetly breatheOut of their earthly bowers,That heav’n, which views their pomp beneath,Would fain be decked with flowers.
See how the morning smilesOn her bright eastern hill,And with soft steps beguilesThem that lie slumbering still!The music-loving birds are comeFrom cliffs and rocks unknown,To see the trees and briars bloomThat late were overflown.
What Saturn did destroy,Love’s Queen revives again;And now her naked boyDoth in the fields remain,Where he such pleasing change doth viewIn every living thing,As if the world were born anewTo gratify the Spring.
If all things life present,Why die my comforts then?Why suffers my content?Am I the worst of men?O beauty, be not thou accus’dToo justly in this case!Unkindly if true love be used,’Twill yield thee little grace.
Followyour saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapped 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 sang 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.
Thereis a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rosebuds filled with snow:Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till 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 approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
The palm and may make country-houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.Spring, the sweet Spring!
Dearlove, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream;It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy.Therefore thou wak’dst me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok’st not but continu’dst it:Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee sufficeTo make dreams truth, 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, then 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 showed 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 brave,If 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, goest to come: then IWill dream that hope again, but else would die.
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 soul’s 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 well,And 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.
WiltThou 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 and wallowed 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.
Whoevercomes 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 heaven being gone,Will leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every part,Can tie those parts and make me one of all;The 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 are manacled when they’re condemned to die.
Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me;For since I amLove’s martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into others’ hands these relics came.As ’twas humilityTo afford to it all that a soul can do,So ’twas some braveryThat since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
Asit 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 forlorn,Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Teru, teru, 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 lapped in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
Seethe 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 enamoured 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, she is brightAs love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her!And from her arched 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 touched it?Have you marked but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutched it?Have you felt the wool of the beaver,Or swan’s down ever?Or have smelled 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!
Wretchedand foolish jealousy,How cam’st thou thus to enter me?I ne’er was of thy kind:Nor have I yet the narrow mindTo vent that poor desire,That others should not warm them at my fire:I wish the sun should shineOn all men’s fruits and flowers as well as mine.
But under the disguise of love,Thou say’st thou only cam’st to proveWhat my affections were.Think’st thou that love is helped by fear?Go, get thee quickly forth,Love’s sickness and his noted want of worth,Seek doubting men to please.I ne’er will owe my health to a disease.
Wouldstthou hear what many 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!
Queenand Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chairState 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!
Herelies to each her parent’s ruth,Mary, the daughter of their youth:Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,It makes the father less to rue.At six months’ end she parted henceWith safety of her innocence;Whose soul Heaven’s Queen (whose name she bears),In comfort of her mother’s tears,Hath placed among her virgin train:Where, while that severed doth remain,This grave partakes the fleshly birth,Which cover lightly, gentle earth.
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;List to the heavy part the music bears;Woe weeps out her division when she sings.Droop herbs and flowers;Fall grief in showers,Our beauties are not ours;O, I could still,Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.
Weepwith me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath’s self is sorry.It was a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seemed to striveWhich owned the creature.Years he numbered scarce thirteenWhen fates turned cruel,Yet three filled zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one—He played so truly.So by error to his fateThey all consented,But viewing him since, alas, too lateThey have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But being much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
Care-charmingSleep, thou easer of all woes,Brother to Death, sweetly thyself disposeOn this afflicted prince; fall like a cloudIn gentle showers; give nothing that is loudOr painful to his slumbers;—easy, sweet,And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,Pass by his troubled senses; sing his painLike hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;Into this prince gently, oh, gently slideAnd kiss him into slumbers like a bride!
God Lyæus, ever young,Ever honoured, ever sung;Stained with blood of lusty grapesIn a thousand lusty shapes;Dance upon the mazer’s brim,In the crimson liquor swim;From thy plenteous hand divine,Let a river run with wine:God of Youth, let this day hereEnter neither care nor fear.
Hark, now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrillCall 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 disturbed your mind,Here your perfect peace is signed.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.
Allthe 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’re set, we grow, we turn to earth,Courts adieu, and all delights,All bewitching appetites!Sweetest breath and clearest eye,Like perfumes, go out and die;And consequently this is 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.
Callfor 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 moleTo rear him hillocks that shall keep him warmAnd (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm;But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
Phœbus, arise!And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red:Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bedThat she thy càreer may with roses spread:The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:Make an eternal Spring!Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair:Chase hence the ugly nightWhich serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,That day, long-wished dayOf all my life so dark(If cruel stars have not my ruin swornAnd fates not hope betray),Which, purely white, deservesAn everlasting diamond should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.Fair king, who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Peneus’ streamsDid once thy heart surprise.Nay, suns, which shine as clearAs thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear.Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:If that ye winds would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion’s lyre,Your stormy chiding stay;Let Zephyr only breathe,And with her tresses play,Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.—The winds all silent are,And Phœbus in his chairEnsaffroning sea and airMakes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;Here is the pleasant place—And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
Sleep, Silence’ child, sweet father of soft rest,Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing thingsLie slumb’ring, with forgetfulness possessed,And yet o’er me to spread thy drowsy wingsThou sparest, alas! who cannot be thy guest.Since I am thine, O come, but with that faceTo inward light which thou art wont to show;With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath:I long to kiss the image of my death.
Dearchorister, who from these shadows sends,Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,Who ne’er, not in a dream, did taste delight,May thee importune who like care pretends,And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled skyNow smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?The bird, as if my question did her move,With trembling wings sobbed forth, ‘I love! I love!’
Likethe Idalian queen,Her hair about her eyne,With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen,At first glance of the morn,In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flowersWhich of her blood were born,I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.The graces naked danced about the place,The winds and trees amazedWith silence on her gazed;The flowers did smile, like those upon her face,And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,That she might read my caseA hyacinth I wished me in her hand.
Thebeauty and the lifeOf life’s and beauty’s fairest paragon,O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble threadTo which pale Atropos had set her knife;The soul with many a groanHad left each outward part,And now did take its last leave of the heart;Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead;When the afflicted band about her bed,Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,Cried, ‘Ah! and can death enter paradise?’
Laya garland on my hearseOf the dismal yew;Maidens willow branches bear;Say, I die true.
My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth.Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth.
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,Who 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 seedThat the earth did e’er suck inSince the first man died for sin:Here the bones of birth have cried,‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’Here are sands, ignoble things,Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:Here’s a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.
Donot conceal those radiant eyes,The starlight of serenest skies;Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,They turn to chaos’ endless night!
Do not conceal those tresses fair,The silken snares of thy curled hairLest, finding neither gold nor ore,The curious silk-worm work no more.
Do not conceal those breasts of thine,More snow-white than the Apennine;Lest, if there be like cold and frost,The lily be for ever lost.
Do not conceal that fragrant scent,Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lentPerfumes; lest, it being supprest,No spices grow in all the rest.
Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;Lest, music hearing no such thing,The nightingale forget to sing.
Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;Lest that the seas cease to bring forthGems which from thee have all thy worth.
Do not conceal no beauty, grace,That’s either in thy mind or face;Lest virtue overcome by viceMake men believe no Paradise.
Rise, Lady Mistress, rise!The night hath tedious been;No sleep hath fallen into mine eyesNor slumbers made me sin.Is not she a saint then, say,Thoughts of whom keep sin away?
Rise, Madam! rise and give me light,Whom darkness still will cover,And ignorance, darker than night,Till thou smile on thy lover.All want day till thy beauty rise;For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes.
Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear,What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,To hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy father dear,His holy Spouse thy mother too.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,A sacred bathing thou hast had;And though thy birth unclean hath been,A blameless babe thou now art made.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine Eldest Brother is a king,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;For whosoever thee offendsBy thy protector threaten’d are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes He took delight;Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in His sight.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He;And strength in weakness then was laidUpon His Virgin Mother’s knee,That power to thee might be convey’d.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this thy frailty and thy needHe friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when He was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By Him such dressings were not worn,Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,Where oxen lay and asses fed:Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;And by His torments and His painThy rest and ease secured be.My baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Askme 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 strayThe 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;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more if east or westThe phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies!
Whenthou, poor ExcommunicateFrom all the joys of Love, shalt seeThe full reward and glorious fateWhich my strong faith shall purchase me,Then curse thine own Inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cureThat heart which thy false oaths did wound;And to my soul a soul more pureThan thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complainTo Love, as I did once to thee:When all thy tears shall be as vainAs mine were then: for thou shalt beDamned for thy false Apostacy.
Groom.—Tellme, my Love, since Hymen tiedThe holy knot, hast thou not feltA new-infused spirit slideInto thy breast, whilst mine did melt?
Bride.—First tell me, Sweet, whose words were those?For though your voice the air did break,Yet did my soul the sense compose,And through your lips my heart did speak.
Groom.—Then I perceive, when from the flameOf love my scorched soul did retire,Your frozen heart in that place came,And sweetly melted in that fire.
Bride.—’Tis true, for when that mutual changeOf souls was made, with equal gain,I straight might feel diffused a strangeBut gentle heat through every vein.
Bride.—Thy bosom then I’ll make my nest,Since there my willing soul doth perch.Groom.—And for my heart, in thy chaste breast,I’ll make an everlasting search.
O blest disunion, that doth soOur bodies from our souls divide;As two to one, and one four grow,Each by contraction multiplied.
Know, Celia (since thou art so proud),’Twas I that gave thee thy renown!Thou hadst in the forgotten crowdOf common beauties lived unknown,Had not my verse exhaled thy name,And with it imped the wings of fame.
That killing power is none of thine;I gave it to thy voice and eyes;Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;Then dart not from thy borrowed sphereLightning on him that fixed thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,Lest what I made I uncreate!Let fools thy mystic forms adore;I’ll know thee in thy mortal state.Wise poets, that wrapped the truth in tales,Knew her themselves through all her veils.
Goldenslumbers kiss your eyes,Smiles awake you when you rise.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby.Bock them, rock a lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,You are care, and care must keep you.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby.Rock them, rock a lullaby.
Artthou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?O sweet content!Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?O punishment!Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexedTo 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!Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?O punishment!Then he that patiently want’s burden bearsNo 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!
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks 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-morrow,Notes from them both I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast,Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,Sing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyesWhich star-like sparkle in their skies;Nor be you proud, that you can seeAll hearts your captives; yours yet free.Be you not proud of that rich hairWhich wantons with the love-sick air;Whenas that ruby which you wear,Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,Will last to be a precious stoneWhen all your world of beauty’s gone.
Yehave been fresh and green,Ye have been filled with flowers;And ye the walks have beenWhere maids have spent their hours.
Ye have beheld how theyWith wicker arks did comeTo 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 crowned.
But now we see none hereWhose silvery feet did tread,And with dishevelled hairAdorned this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spentYour stock, and needy grown,You’re left here to lamentYour poor estates alone.
Fairpledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here awhileTo blush and gently smile,And go at last.
What, were ye born to beAn hour or half’s delight,And so to bid good-night?’Twas pity Nature brought ye forthMerely to show your worth,And lose you quite!
But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne’er so brave:And after they have shown their prideLike you, awhile, they glideInto the grave.
FairDaffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon:As yet the early-rising SunHas not attained his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having prayed together, weWill go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a Spring;As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or any thing.We die,As your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the Summer’s rain,Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,Ne’er to be found again.
Welcome, Maids of Honour!You do bringIn the Spring,And wait upon her.
She has Virgins many,Fresh and fair;Yet you areMore sweet than any.
Ye are the Maiden Posies,And so gracedTo be placed’Fore damask roses.
But, though thus respected,By and byYe do lie,Poor girls, neglected.
Whydo ye weep, sweet babes? can tearsSpeak grief in you,Who were but bornJust as the modest mornTeemed her refreshing dew?Alas, you have not known that showerThat mars a flower;Nor felt th’ unkindBreath of a blasting wind;Nor are ye worn with years;Or warped as we,Who think it strange to seeSuch pretty flowers, like to orphans young,To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make knownThe reason, whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep?Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that sweetheart to this?No, no, this sorrow shownBy your tears shed,Would have this lecture read,That things of greatest, so of meanest, worth,Conceived with care are, and with tears brought forth.
Shutnot so soon; the dull-eyed nightHath not as yet begunTo make a seizure on the light,Or to seal up the sun.
No marigolds yet closed are,No shadows great appear;Nor doth the early shepherd’s starShine like a spangle here.
Stay but till my Julia closeHer life-begetting eye,And let the whole world then disposeItself to live or die.
Gatherye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-dayTo-morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,The higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
Asweetdisorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:—A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction,—An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals the crimson stomacher,—A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibbands to flow confusedly,—A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat,—A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility,—Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.
Whenasin silks my Julia goes,Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flowsThat liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free;O how that glittering taketh me!
Getup, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn.See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air!Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew bespangling herb and tree.Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east,Above an hour since; yet you not drest—Nay! not so much as out of bed,When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns: ’tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in—Whenas a thousand virgins on this daySpring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night:And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come! and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a parkMade green, and trimmed with trees: see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch: each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the streetAnd open fields, and we not see’t?Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obeyThe proclamation made for May:And sin no more, as we have done, by staying:But, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.
There’s not a budding boy or girl, this day,But is got up, and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth, ere this, is comeBack, and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatched their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted trothAnd chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given;Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance, too, has been sentFrom out the eye, Love’s firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks picked:—Yet we’re not a-Maying.
Come! let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short; and our days runAs fast away as does the sun:And as a vapour, or a drop of rainOnce lost, can ne’er be found again;So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delightLies drowned with us in endless night.Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.
Here, a little child, I stand,Heaving up my either hand:Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on our all. Amen.
Ah, Ben!Say how, or when,Shall we thy guestsMeet at those lyric feastsMade at the Sun,The Dog, the Triple Tun?Where we such clusters hadAs made us nobly wild, not mad;And yet each verse of thineOut-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!Or come againOr send to usThy wit’s great over-plus;But teach us yetWisely to husband it,Lest we that talent spend:And having once brought to an endThat precious stock, the storeOf such a wit, the world should have no more.
Since, Lord, to TheeA narrow way and little gateIs all the passage, on my infancyThou didst lay hold, and antedateMy faith in me.
O, let me stillWrite Thee ‘great God,’ and me ‘a child’;Let me be soft and supple to Thy will,Small to myself, to others mild,Behither ill.
Although by stealthMy flesh get on; yet let her sister,My soul, bid nothing but preserve her wealth:The growth of flesh is but a blister;Childhood is health.
Sweetday, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky,The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
Lord, make me coy and tender to offend:In friendship, first I think if that agreeWhich I intendUnto my friend’s intent and end;I would not use a friend as I use Thee.
If any touch my friend or his good name,It is my honour and my love-to freeHis blasted fameFrom the least spot or thought of blame;I could not use a friend as I use Thee.
My friend may spit upon my curious floor;Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;But let the poor,And Thee within them, starve at door;I cannot use a friend as I use Thee.
When that my friend pretendeth to a place,I quit my interest, and leave it free;But when Thy graceSues for my heart, I Thee displace;Nor would I use a friend as I use Thee.
Yet can a friend what Thou hast done fulfil?O, write in brass, ‘My God upon a treeHis blood did spill,Only to purchase my good-will’;Yet use I not my foes as I use Thee.
Lovebade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slackFrom my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioningIf I lacked anything.
‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here’:Love said, ‘You shall be he.’‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear!I cannot look on thee.’Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,‘Who made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shameGo where it doth deserve.’‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?‘My dear, then I will serve.’‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’So I did sit and eat.
WhenGod at first made man,Having a glass of blessings standing by,‘Let us,’ said He, ‘pour on him all we can;Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,Contract into a span.’
So strength first made a way,Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour pleasure;When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,Rest in the bottom lay.
‘For if I should,’ said He,‘Bestow this jewel also on My creature,He would adore My gifts instead of Me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.
‘Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness;Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to My breast.’
Istruckthe board, and cried, ‘No more;I will abroad.What, shall I ever sigh and pine?My lines and life are free; free as the road,Loose as the wind, as large as store.Shall I be still in suit?Have I no harvest but a thornTo let me blood, and not restoreWhat I have lost with cordial fruit?Sure there was wineBefore my sighs did dry it; there was cornBefore my tears did drown it;Is the year only lost to me?Have I no bays to crown it,No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,All wasted?Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,And thou hast hands.Recover all thy sigh-blown ageOn double pleasures; leave thy cold disputeOf what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,Thy rope of sands,Which petty thoughts have made; and made to theeGood cable, to enforce and draw,And be thy law,While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.Away! take heed;I will abroad.Call in thy death’s-head there, tie-up thy fears;He that forbearsTo suit and serve his needDeserves his load.’But as I raved and grew more fierce and wildAt every word,Methought I heard one calling, ‘Child’;And I replied, ‘My Lord.’