A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:—A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distractión,—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.
A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:—A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distractión,—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.
R. Herrick
2
Whenas in silks my Julia goesThen, 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!
Whenas in silks my Julia goesThen, 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!
R. Herrick
3
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on:But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are on:But Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.
Anon.
That which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind:No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my loveDid all within this circle move.A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
That which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind:No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my loveDid all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
E. Waller
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,Where in a greater current they conjoin:So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;No need for either to renew a suit,For I was flax and he was flames of fire:Our firm-united souls did more than twine;So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.If all those glittering Monarchs that commandThe servile quarters of this earthly ball,Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,I would not change my fortunes for them all:Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:The world's but theirs; but my Belovéd's mine.
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,Where in a greater current they conjoin:So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.
E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,E'en so we join'd; we both became entire;No need for either to renew a suit,For I was flax and he was flames of fire:Our firm-united souls did more than twine;So I my Best-Belovéd's am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs that commandThe servile quarters of this earthly ball,Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,I would not change my fortunes for them all:Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:The world's but theirs; but my Belovéd's mine.
F. Quarles
Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be:Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And 't shall do so for thee.Bid me to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en Death, to die for thee.Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.
Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be:Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en Death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.
R. Herrick
Love not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for my constant heart,—For those may fail, or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep therefore a true woman's eye,And love me still, but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!
Love not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for my constant heart,—For those may fail, or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep therefore a true woman's eye,And love me still, but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!
Anon.
Not, Celia, that I juster amOr better than the rest;For I would change each hour, like them,Were not my heart at rest,But I am tied to very theeBy every thought I have;Thy face I only care to see,Thy heart I only crave.All that in woman is adoredIn thy dear self I find—For the whole sex can but affordThe handsome and the kind.Why then should I seek further store,And still make love anew?When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true.
Not, Celia, that I juster amOr better than the rest;For I would change each hour, like them,Were not my heart at rest,
But I am tied to very theeBy every thought I have;Thy face I only care to see,Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is adoredIn thy dear self I find—For the whole sex can but affordThe handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek further store,And still make love anew?When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true.
Sir C. Sedley
When Love with unconfinéd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fetter'd to her eye,The Gods that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.When, (like committed linnets), IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majestyAnd glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage;If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
When Love with unconfinéd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fetter'd to her eye,The Gods that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.
When, (like committed linnets), IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majestyAnd glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage;If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
Colonel Lovelace
If to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that when I am goneYou or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.But I'll not sigh one blast or galeTo swell my sail,Or pay a tear to 'suageThe foaming blue-god's rage;For whether he will let me passOr no, I'm still as happy as I was.Though seas and land betwixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meetUnseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.So then we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
If to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that when I am goneYou or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or galeTo swell my sail,Or pay a tear to 'suageThe foaming blue-god's rage;For whether he will let me passOr no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and land betwixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meetUnseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.
So then we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
Colonel Lovelace
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prythee, why so pale?Will, if looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prythee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do't?Prythee, why so mute?Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The D—l take her!
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prythee, why so pale?Will, if looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prythee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do't?Prythee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The D—l take her!
Sir J. Suckling
Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.Hark, how the strings awake!And, though the moving hand approach not near,Themselves with awful fearA kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try;Now all thy charms apply;Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.Weak Lyre! thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak too wilt thou proveMy passion to remove;Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!For thou canst never tell my humble taleIn sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake!And, though the moving hand approach not near,Themselves with awful fearA kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try;Now all thy charms apply;Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak too wilt thou proveMy passion to remove;Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!For thou canst never tell my humble taleIn sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
A. Cowley
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the dayOr the flowery meads in May—If she think not well of meWhat care I how fair she be?Shall my silly heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind;Or a well disposed natureJoinéd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to meWhat care I how kind she be?Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget mine own?Be she with, that goodness blestWhich may merit name of Best;If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?She that bears a noble mindIf not outward helps she find,Thinks what with them he would doWho without them dares her woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?Great or good, or kind or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the dayOr the flowery meads in May—If she think not well of meWhat care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind;Or a well disposed natureJoinéd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to meWhat care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget mine own?Be she with, that goodness blestWhich may merit name of Best;If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?She that bears a noble mindIf not outward helps she find,Thinks what with them he would doWho without them dares her woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
G. Wither
Hence, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly:There's nought in this life sweetIf man were wise to see't,But only melancholy,O sweetest Melancholy!Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,A sigh 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.
Hence, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly:There's nought in this life sweetIf man were wise to see't,But only melancholy,O sweetest Melancholy!Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,A sigh 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.
J. Fletcher
O waly waly up the bank,And waly waly down the brae,And waly waly yon burn-sideWhere I and my Love wont to gae!I leant my back unto an aik,I thought it was a trusty tree;But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true Love did lichtly me.O waly waly, but love be bonnyA little time while it is new;But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauldAnd fades awa' like morning dew.O wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook,And says he'll never loe me mair.Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,Since my true Love has forsaken me.Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blawAnd shake the green leaves aff the tree?O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearíe.'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow townWe were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvét,And I mysell in cramasie.But had I wist, before I kist,That love had been sae ill to win;I had lockt my heart in a case of gowdAnd pinn'd it with a siller pin.And, O! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysell were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
O waly waly up the bank,And waly waly down the brae,And waly waly yon burn-sideWhere I and my Love wont to gae!I leant my back unto an aik,I thought it was a trusty tree;But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonnyA little time while it is new;But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauldAnd fades awa' like morning dew.O wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook,And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,Since my true Love has forsaken me.Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blawAnd shake the green leaves aff the tree?O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearíe.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow townWe were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvét,And I mysell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,That love had been sae ill to win;I had lockt my heart in a case of gowdAnd pinn'd it with a siller pin.And, O! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysell were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
Anon.
Upon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would,Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Upon my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would,Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thy selfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Anon.
I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen liesOn fair Kirconnell lea!Curst be the heart that thought the thought,And curst the hand that fired the shot,When in my arms burd Helen dropt,And died to succour me!O think na but my heart was sairWhen my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!I laid her down wi' meikle careOn fair Kirconnell lea.As I went down the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;I lighted down my sword to draw,I hackéd him in pieces sma',I hackéd him in pieces sma',For her sake that died for me.O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I die.O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise,Says, 'Haste and come to me!'O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy restOn fair Kirconnell lea.I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,Since my Love died for me.
I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen liesOn fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,And curst the hand that fired the shot,When in my arms burd Helen dropt,And died to succour me!
O think na but my heart was sairWhen my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!I laid her down wi' meikle careOn fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,I hackéd him in pieces sma',I hackéd him in pieces sma',For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I die.
O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise,Says, 'Haste and come to me!'
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy restOn fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,Since my Love died for me.
Anon.
As I was walking all alaneI heard twa corbies making a mane;The tane unto the t'other say,'Where sall we gang and dine today?''—In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.'His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet.'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek our nest when it grows bare.'Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane;O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
As I was walking all alaneI heard twa corbies making a mane;The tane unto the t'other say,'Where sall we gang and dine today?'
'—In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
'His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet.
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane;O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
Anon.
It was a dismal and a fearful night,—Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,By something liker death possest.My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,And on my soul hung the dull weightOf some intolerable fate.What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?O thou hast left me all alone!Thy soul and body, when death's agonyBesieged around thy noble heart,Did not with more reluctance partThan I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,Have ye not seen us walking every day?Was there a tree about which did not knowThe love betwixt us two?Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,Or your sad branches thicker join,And into darksome shades combine,Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'erSubmitted to inform a body here;High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,But low and humble as his grave;So high that all the virtues there did comeAs to the chiefest seatConspicuous, and great;So low that for me too it made a room.Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,As if for him knowledge had rather sought;Nor did more learning ever crowded lieIn such a short mortality.Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,Still did the notions throngAbout his eloquent tongue;Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,Yet never did his God or friends forget.And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,Retired, and gave to them their due.For the rich help of books he always took,Though his own searching mind beforeWas so with notions written o'er,As if wise Nature had made that her book.With as much zeal, devotion, piety,He always lived, as other saints do die.Still with his soul severe account he kept,Weeping all debts out ere he slept.Then down in peace and innocence he lay,Like the sun's laborious light,Which still in water sets at night,Unsullied with his journey of the day.
It was a dismal and a fearful night,—Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,By something liker death possest.My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,And on my soul hung the dull weightOf some intolerable fate.What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!
My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?O thou hast left me all alone!Thy soul and body, when death's agonyBesieged around thy noble heart,Did not with more reluctance partThan I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,Have ye not seen us walking every day?Was there a tree about which did not knowThe love betwixt us two?Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,Or your sad branches thicker join,And into darksome shades combine,Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.
Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'erSubmitted to inform a body here;High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,But low and humble as his grave;So high that all the virtues there did comeAs to the chiefest seatConspicuous, and great;So low that for me too it made a room.
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,As if for him knowledge had rather sought;Nor did more learning ever crowded lieIn such a short mortality.Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,Still did the notions throngAbout his eloquent tongue;Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,Yet never did his God or friends forget.And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,Retired, and gave to them their due.For the rich help of books he always took,Though his own searching mind beforeWas so with notions written o'er,As if wise Nature had made that her book.
With as much zeal, devotion, piety,He always lived, as other saints do die.Still with his soul severe account he kept,Weeping all debts out ere he slept.Then down in peace and innocence he lay,Like the sun's laborious light,Which still in water sets at night,Unsullied with his journey of the day.
A. Cowley
They are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear:—It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the sun's remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,To kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,Shining no where, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may knowAt first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep;So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
They are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear:—
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me,To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,Shining no where, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may knowAt first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep;So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
H. Vaughan
Fair pledges 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.
Fair pledges 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.
R. Herrick
Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon:As yet the early-rising SunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd 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 dryAwayLike to the Summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dewNe'er to be found again.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon:As yet the early-rising SunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd 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 dryAwayLike to the Summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dewNe'er to be found again.
R. Herrick
With sweetest milk and sugar firstI it at my own fingers nursed;And as it grew, so every dayIt wax'd more white and sweet than they—It had so sweet a breath! and oftI blush'd to see its foot more softAnd white,—shall I say,—than my hand?Nay, any lady's of the land!It is a wondrous thing how fleet'Twas on those little silver feet:With what a pretty skipping graceIt oft would challenge me the race:—And when 't had left me far away'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:For it was nimbler much than hinds,And trod as if on the four winds.I have a garden of my own,But so with roses overgrownAnd lilies, that you would it guessTo be a little wilderness:And all the spring-time of the yearIt only lovéd to be there.Among the beds of lilies IHave sought it oft, where it should lie;Yet could not, till itself would rise,Find it, although before mine eyes:—For in the flaxen lilies' shadeIt like a bank of lilies laid.Upon the roses it would feed,Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those roses on my lip.But all its chief delight was stillOn roses thus itself to fill,And its pure virgin limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of lilies cold:—Had it lived long, it would have beenLilies without—roses within.
With sweetest milk and sugar firstI it at my own fingers nursed;And as it grew, so every dayIt wax'd more white and sweet than they—It had so sweet a breath! and oftI blush'd to see its foot more softAnd white,—shall I say,—than my hand?Nay, any lady's of the land!
It is a wondrous thing how fleet'Twas on those little silver feet:With what a pretty skipping graceIt oft would challenge me the race:—And when 't had left me far away'Twould stay, and run again, and stay:For it was nimbler much than hinds,And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,But so with roses overgrownAnd lilies, that you would it guessTo be a little wilderness:And all the spring-time of the yearIt only lovéd to be there.Among the beds of lilies IHave sought it oft, where it should lie;Yet could not, till itself would rise,Find it, although before mine eyes:—For in the flaxen lilies' shadeIt like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed:And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those roses on my lip.But all its chief delight was stillOn roses thus itself to fill,And its pure virgin limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of lilies cold:—Had it lived long, it would have beenLilies without—roses within.
A. Marvell
How vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown'd from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergéd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of Repose.Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear!Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas, they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.When we have run our passions' heatLove hither makes his best retreat:The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
How vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown'd from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergéd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of Repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear!Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas, they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions' heatLove hither makes his best retreat:The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
A. Marvell