The sea hath many thousand sands,The sun hath motes as many;The sky is full of stars, and LoveAs full of woes as any:Believe me, that do know the elf,And make no trial by thyself!It is in truth a pretty toyFor babes to play withal:—But O! the honeys of our youthAre oft our age's gall!Self-proof in time will make thee knowHe was a prophet told thee so;A prophet that, Cassandra-like,Tells truth without belief;For headstrong Youth will run his race,Although his goal be grief:—Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
The sea hath many thousand sands,The sun hath motes as many;The sky is full of stars, and LoveAs full of woes as any:Believe me, that do know the elf,And make no trial by thyself!
It is in truth a pretty toyFor babes to play withal:—But O! the honeys of our youthAre oft our age's gall!Self-proof in time will make thee knowHe was a prophet told thee so;
A prophet that, Cassandra-like,Tells truth without belief;For headstrong Youth will run his race,Although his goal be grief:—Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,Proves Care's Confessor at the last.
Anon.
Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,For all those rosy ornaments in thee,—Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,Nor fair, nor sweet—unless thou pity me!I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt proveThat beauty is no beauty without love.—Yet love not me, nor seek not to allureMy thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:—Now show it, if thou be a woman right—Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!
Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,For all those rosy ornaments in thee,—Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,Nor fair, nor sweet—unless thou pity me!I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt proveThat beauty is no beauty without love.
—Yet love not me, nor seek not to allureMy thoughts with beauty, were it more divine:Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,I'll not be wrapp'd up in those arms of thine:—Now show it, if thou be a woman right—Embrace and kiss and love me in despite!
T. Campion
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keenBecause thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh ho! the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh ho! the holly!This life is most jolly.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keenBecause thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh ho! the holly!This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh ho! the holly!This life is most jolly.
W. Shakespeare
Come little babe, come silly soul,Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,Born as I doubt to all our dole,And to thy self unhappy chief:Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.Thou little think'st and less dost know,The cause of this thy mother's moan,Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,And I myself am all alone:Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.Come little wretch, ah silly heart,Mine only joy, what can I more?If there be any wrong thy smartThat may the destinies implore:'Twas I, I say, against my will,I wail the time, but be thou still.And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!Would God Himself He might thee see,No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,I know right well, for thee and me:But come to mother, babe, and play,For father false is fled away.Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,Thy father home again to send,If death do strike me with his lance,Yet mayst thou me to him commend:If any ask thy mother's name,Tell how by love she purchased blame.Then will his gentle heart soon yield,I know him of a noble mind,Although a Lion in the field,A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,Although in woe I seem to moan,Thy father is no rascal lad,A noble youth of blood and bone:His glancing looks, if he once smile,Right honest women may beguile.Come, little boy, and rock asleep,Sing lullaby and be thou still,I that can do nought else but weep;Will sit by thee and wail my fill:God bless my babe, and lullabyFrom this thy father's quality!
Come little babe, come silly soul,Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,Born as I doubt to all our dole,And to thy self unhappy chief:Sing Lullaby and lap it warm,Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think'st and less dost know,The cause of this thy mother's moan,Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,And I myself am all alone:Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
Come little wretch, ah silly heart,Mine only joy, what can I more?If there be any wrong thy smartThat may the destinies implore:'Twas I, I say, against my will,I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile, oh thy sweet face!Would God Himself He might thee see,No doubt thou would'st soon purchase grace,I know right well, for thee and me:But come to mother, babe, and play,For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance,Thy father home again to send,If death do strike me with his lance,Yet mayst thou me to him commend:If any ask thy mother's name,Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield,I know him of a noble mind,Although a Lion in the field,A Lamb in town thou shalt him find:Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,Although in woe I seem to moan,Thy father is no rascal lad,A noble youth of blood and bone:His glancing looks, if he once smile,Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock asleep,Sing lullaby and be thou still,I that can do nought else but weep;Will sit by thee and wail my fill:God bless my babe, and lullabyFrom this thy father's quality!
Anon.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What, may it be that e'en in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries!Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What, may it be that e'en in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?Are beauties there as proud as here they be?Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?
Sir P. Sidney
When thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admired guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iopé, 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!
When thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admired guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iopé, 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!
T. Campion
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.Mother's wag, pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe,Fortune changed made him so,When he left his pretty boyLast his sorrow, first his joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another's place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow'd, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bless,For he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.Mother's wag, pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy;When thy father first did seeSuch a boy by him and me,He was glad, I was woe,Fortune changed made him so,When he left his pretty boyLast his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl drops from a flint,Fell by course from his eyes,That one another's place supplies;Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,When he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.The wanton smiled, father wept,Mother cried, baby leapt;More he crow'd, more we cried,Nature could not sorrow hide:He must go, he must kissChild and mother, baby bless,For he left his pretty boy,Father's sorrow, father's joy.Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
R. Greene
My thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchize:—But he, grim grinning King,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
My thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchize:—But he, grim grinning King,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
W. Drummond
Come away, come away, Death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover never find my grave,To weep there.
Come away, come away, Death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover never find my grave,To weep there.
W. Shakespeare
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,What art thou but a harbinger of woe?Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;For which be silent as in woods before:Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.
W. Drummond
Fear no more the heat o' the sunNor the furious winter's rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.Fear no more the frown o' the great,Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flashNor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.
Fear no more the heat o' the sunNor the furious winter's rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flashNor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.
W. Shakespeare
Full fathom five thy father lies:Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Hark! now I hear them,—Ding, dong, bell.
Full fathom five thy father lies:Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Hark! now I hear them,—Ding, dong, bell.
W. Shakespeare
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o'er shady groves they hoverAnd 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 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.
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o'er shady groves they hoverAnd 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 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.
J. Webster
If Thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhymeExceeded by the height of happier men.O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought—'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:But since he died, and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
If Thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhymeExceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought—'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
W. Shakespeare
No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world, that I am fledFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it; for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgotIf thinking on me then should make you woe.O if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.
No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world, that I am fledFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it; for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgotIf thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.
W. Shakespeare
Tell me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart, or in the head?How begot, how nourishéd?Reply, reply.It is engender'd in the eyes;With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies:Let us all ring Fancy's knell;I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.—Ding, dong, bell.
Tell me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart, or in the head?How begot, how nourishéd?Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes;With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies:Let us all ring Fancy's knell;I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.—Ding, dong, bell.
W. Shakespeare
Lady, when I behold the roses sproutingWhich clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,My eyes present me with a double doubting:For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposesWhether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
Lady, when I behold the roses sproutingWhich clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours,My eyes present me with a double doubting:For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposesWhether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.
Anon.
Love in my bosom, like a bee,Doth suck his sweet;Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, will ye?Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence;I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;I'll make you fast it for your sin;I'll count your power not worth a pin;—Alas! what hereby shall I win,If he gainsay me?What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee,And let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,O Cupid! so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
Love in my bosom, like a bee,Doth suck his sweet;Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mine eyes he makes his nest,His bed amidst my tender breast;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet he robs me of my rest:Ah! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;He music plays if so I sing;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:Whist, wanton, will ye?
Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,And bind you, when you long to play,For your offence;I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;I'll make you fast it for your sin;I'll count your power not worth a pin;—Alas! what hereby shall I win,If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a rod?He will repay me with annoy,Because a god.Then sit thou safely on my knee,And let thy bower my bosom be;Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,O Cupid! so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!
T. Lodge
Cupid and my Campaspe play'dAt cards for kisses; Cupid paid:He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on's cheek (but none knows how);With these, the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple on his chin;All these did my Campaspe win:And last he set her both his eyes—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love! has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?
Cupid and my Campaspe play'dAt cards for kisses; Cupid paid:He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on's cheek (but none knows how);With these, the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple on his chin;All these did my Campaspe win:And last he set her both his eyes—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love! has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?
J. Lylye
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 mindNotes 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 both I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,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 yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!
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 mindNotes 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 both I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,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 yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing, birds, in every furrow!
T. Heywood
Calm was the day, and through the trembling airSweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play—A gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;When I, (whom sullen care,Through discontent of my long fruitless stayIn princes' court, and expectation vainOf idle hopes, which still do fly awayLike empty shadows, did afflict my brain)Walk'd forth to ease my painAlong the shore of silver-streaming Thames;Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,Was painted all with variable flowers,And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gemsFit to deck maidens' bowers,And crown their paramoursAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.There in a meadow by the river's sideA flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,With goodly greenish locks all loose untiedAs each had been a bride;And each one had a little wicker basketMade of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously.In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,And with fine fingers cropt full feateouslyThe tender stalks on high.Of every sort which in that meadow grewThey gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,The little daisy that at evening closes,The virgin lily and the primrose true,With store of vermeil roses,To deck their bridegrooms' posiesAgainst the bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.With that I saw two Swans of goodly hueCome softly swimming down along the Lee;Two fairer birds I yet did never see;The snow which doth the top of Pindus strowDid never whiter show,Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would beFor love of Leda, whiter did appear;Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;So purely white they wereThat even the gentle stream, the which them bare,Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spareTo wet their silken feathers, lest they mightSoil their fair plumes with water not so fair,And mar their beauties brightThat shone as Heaven's lightAgainst their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver broodAs they came floating on the crystal flood;Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd stillTheir wondering eyes to fill;Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fairOf fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deemThem heavenly born, or to be that same pairWhich through the sky draw Venus' silver team;For sure they did not seemTo be begot of any earthly seed,But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,In sweetest season, when each flower and weedThe earth did fresh array;So fresh they seem'd as day,Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,All which upon those goodly birds they threwAnd all the waves did strew,That like old Peneus' waters they did seemWhen down along by pleasant Tempe's shoreScatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,Like a bride's chamber-floor.Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands boundOf freshest flowers which in that mead they found,The which presenting all in trim array,Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;Whilst one did sing this layPrepared against that day,Against their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hourDoth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,Joy may you have, and gentle heart's contentOf your love's couplement;And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to removeAll love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guileFor ever to assoil.Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,That fruitful issue may to you affordWhich may your foes confound,And make your joys redoundUpon your bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said their bridal day should not be long:And gentle Echo from the neighbour groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those joyous birds did pass alongAdown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;Yet did by signs his glad affection show,Making his stream run slow.And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell'Gan flock about these twain, that did excelThe rest, so far as Cynthia doth shendThe lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,Did on those two attend,And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.At length they all to merry London came,To merry London, my most kindly nurse,That to me gave this life's first native source,Though from another place I take my name,An house of ancient fame:There when they came whereas those bricky towersThe which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,Till they decay'd through pride;Next whereunto there stands a stately place,Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly graceOf that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;But ah! here fits not wellOld woes, but joys to tellAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,And Hercules' two pillars standing nearDid make to quake and fear:Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!That fillest England with thy triumphs' fameJoy have thou of thy noble victory,And endless happiness of thine own nameThat promiseth the same;That through thy prowess and victorious armsThy country may be freed from foreign harms,And great Elisa's glorious name may ringThrough all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,Which some brave Muse may singTo ages following:Upon the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.From those high towers this noble lord issúingLike radiant Hesper, when his golden hairIn th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,Descended to the river's open viewingWith a great train ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to be seenTwo gentle knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of any queen,With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,Fit for so goodly stature,That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sightWhich deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;They two, forth pacing to the river's side,Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;Which, at th' appointed tide,Each one did make his brideAgainst their bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Calm was the day, and through the trembling airSweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play—A gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;When I, (whom sullen care,Through discontent of my long fruitless stayIn princes' court, and expectation vainOf idle hopes, which still do fly awayLike empty shadows, did afflict my brain)Walk'd forth to ease my painAlong the shore of silver-streaming Thames;Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,Was painted all with variable flowers,And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gemsFit to deck maidens' bowers,And crown their paramoursAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
There in a meadow by the river's sideA flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,With goodly greenish locks all loose untiedAs each had been a bride;And each one had a little wicker basketMade of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously.In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,And with fine fingers cropt full feateouslyThe tender stalks on high.Of every sort which in that meadow grewThey gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,The little daisy that at evening closes,The virgin lily and the primrose true,With store of vermeil roses,To deck their bridegrooms' posiesAgainst the bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two Swans of goodly hueCome softly swimming down along the Lee;Two fairer birds I yet did never see;The snow which doth the top of Pindus strowDid never whiter show,Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would beFor love of Leda, whiter did appear;Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;So purely white they wereThat even the gentle stream, the which them bare,Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spareTo wet their silken feathers, lest they mightSoil their fair plumes with water not so fair,And mar their beauties brightThat shone as Heaven's lightAgainst their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver broodAs they came floating on the crystal flood;Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd stillTheir wondering eyes to fill;Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fairOf fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deemThem heavenly born, or to be that same pairWhich through the sky draw Venus' silver team;For sure they did not seemTo be begot of any earthly seed,But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed;Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,In sweetest season, when each flower and weedThe earth did fresh array;So fresh they seem'd as day,Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,All which upon those goodly birds they threwAnd all the waves did strew,That like old Peneus' waters they did seemWhen down along by pleasant Tempe's shoreScatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,Like a bride's chamber-floor.Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands boundOf freshest flowers which in that mead they found,The which presenting all in trim array,Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd;Whilst one did sing this layPrepared against that day,Against their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
'Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hourDoth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,Joy may you have, and gentle heart's contentOf your love's couplement;And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to removeAll love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guileFor ever to assoil.Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,That fruitful issue may to you affordWhich may your foes confound,And make your joys redoundUpon your bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.'
So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said their bridal day should not be long:And gentle Echo from the neighbour groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those joyous birds did pass alongAdown the Lee that to them murmur'd low,As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue;Yet did by signs his glad affection show,Making his stream run slow.And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell'Gan flock about these twain, that did excelThe rest, so far as Cynthia doth shendThe lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,Did on those two attend,And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
At length they all to merry London came,To merry London, my most kindly nurse,That to me gave this life's first native source,Though from another place I take my name,An house of ancient fame:There when they came whereas those bricky towersThe which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,Till they decay'd through pride;Next whereunto there stands a stately place,Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly graceOf that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;But ah! here fits not wellOld woes, but joys to tellAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,And Hercules' two pillars standing nearDid make to quake and fear:Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!That fillest England with thy triumphs' fameJoy have thou of thy noble victory,And endless happiness of thine own nameThat promiseth the same;That through thy prowess and victorious armsThy country may be freed from foreign harms,And great Elisa's glorious name may ringThrough all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms,Which some brave Muse may singTo ages following:Upon the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issúingLike radiant Hesper, when his golden hairIn th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,Descended to the river's open viewingWith a great train ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to be seenTwo gentle knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of any queen,With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,Fit for so goodly stature,That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sightWhich deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;They two, forth pacing to the river's side,Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;Which, at th' appointed tide,Each one did make his brideAgainst their bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
E. Spenser
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 crispéd 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!
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 crispéd 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!
T. Dekker
Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;For while thou view'st me with thy fading lightPart of my life doth still depart with thee,And I still onward haste to my last night:Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly—So every day we live a day we die.But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,How are my days deprived of life in youWhen heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,By feignéd death life sweetly to renew!Part of my life, in that, you life deny:So every day we live, a day we die.
Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;For while thou view'st me with thy fading lightPart of my life doth still depart with thee,And I still onward haste to my last night:Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly—So every day we live a day we die.
But O ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest,How are my days deprived of life in youWhen heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,By feignéd death life sweetly to renew!Part of my life, in that, you life deny:So every day we live, a day we die.
T. Campion
This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhereAnd strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.—But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhereAnd strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.—But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
W. Drummond
Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,[Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:—So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,[Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:—
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
W. Shakespeare