Mortality, behold and fearWhat 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 seal'd 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 ruin'd sides of kings:Here's a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.
Mortality, behold and fearWhat 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 seal'd 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 ruin'd sides of kings:Here's a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.
F. Beaumont
Victorious men of earth, no moreProclaim how wide your empires are;Though you bind-in every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as farAs night or day,Yet you, proud monarchs, must obeyAnd mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to the crowd of common men.Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,Death's servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
Victorious men of earth, no moreProclaim how wide your empires are;Though you bind-in every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as farAs night or day,Yet you, proud monarchs, must obeyAnd mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,Death's servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
J. Shirley
The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
J. Shirley
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,If deed of honour did thee ever please,Guard them, and him within protect from harms.He can requite thee; for he knows the charmsThat call fame on such gentle acts as these,And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground: and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,If deed of honour did thee ever please,Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee; for he knows the charmsThat call fame on such gentle acts as these,And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground: and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
J. Milton
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He returning chide,—Doth God exact day labour, light denied?I fondly ask:—But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies; God doth not needEither man's work, or His own gifts: who bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His stateIs kingly; thousands at His bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:—They also serve who only stand and wait.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He returning chide,—Doth God exact day labour, light denied?I fondly ask:—But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies; God doth not needEither man's work, or His own gifts: who bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:—They also serve who only stand and wait.
J. Milton
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill!Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Untied unto the world by careOf public fame, or private breath;Who envies none that chance doth raiseNor vice; Who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good:Who hath his life from rumours freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;Who God doth late and early prayMore of His grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a religious book or friend;—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Untied unto the world by careOf public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raiseNor vice; Who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early prayMore of His grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a religious book or friend;
—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir H. Wotton
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night—It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night—It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
B. Jonson
When God 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 disperséd lie,Contract into a span.So strength first made a way;Then beauty flow'd, 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.
When God 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 disperséd lie,Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way;Then beauty flow'd, 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.
G. Herbert
Happy those early days, when IShined in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white, celestial thought;When yet I had not walk'd aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back, at that short spaceCould see a glimpse of His bright face;When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to woundMy conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to every sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th' enlighten'd spirit seesThat shady City of palm trees!But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way:—Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
Happy those early days, when IShined in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white, celestial thought;When yet I had not walk'd aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back, at that short spaceCould see a glimpse of His bright face;When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to woundMy conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to every sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th' enlighten'd spirit seesThat shady City of palm trees!But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way:—Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
H. Vaughan
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp waste a sullen day, what may be wonFrom the hard season gaining? Time will runOn smoother, till Favonius re-inspireThe frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attireThe lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may riseTo hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will runOn smoother, till Favonius re-inspireThe frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attireThe lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may riseTo hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice.
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
J. Milton
Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal benchOf British Themis, with no mean applausePronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,Which others at their bar so often wrench;To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting draws;Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.To measure life learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,And disapproves that care, though wise in show,That with superfluous burden loads the day,And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal benchOf British Themis, with no mean applausePronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting draws;Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,That with superfluous burden loads the day,And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
J. Milton
Of Neptune's empire let us sing,At whose command the waves obey;To whom the rivers tribute pay,Down the high mountains sliding;To whom the scaly nation yieldsHomage for the crystal fieldsWherein they dwell;And every sea-god pays a gemYearly out of his watery cell,To deck great Neptune's diadem.The Tritons dancing in a ring,Before his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,And the Syrens taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make every echoing rock reply,Unto their gentle murmuring noise,The praise of Neptune's empery.
Of Neptune's empire let us sing,At whose command the waves obey;To whom the rivers tribute pay,Down the high mountains sliding;To whom the scaly nation yieldsHomage for the crystal fieldsWherein they dwell;And every sea-god pays a gemYearly out of his watery cell,To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring,Before his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,And the Syrens taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make every echoing rock reply,Unto their gentle murmuring noise,The praise of Neptune's empery.
T. Campion
Queen and 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 wishéd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd 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!
Queen and 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 wishéd sight,Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd 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!
B. Jonson
Whoe'er she be,That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me;Where'er she lie,Lock'd up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny:Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps tread our earth;Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine:—Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.I wish her beautyThat owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.A face that's bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest:A face made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature's white hand sets ope.Sidneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter's head with flowers.Whate'er delightCan make day's forehead brightOr give down to the wings of night.Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.Days, that need borrowNo part of their good morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow:Days, that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind are day all night.Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.'I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish——no more.Now, if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows;Her that dares beWhat these lines wish to see:I seek no further, it is She.'Tis She, and hereLo! I unclothe and clearMy wishes' cloudy character.Such worth as this isShall fix my flying wishes,And determine them to kisses.Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions:—but her story.
Whoe'er she be,That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me;
Where'er she lie,Lock'd up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps tread our earth;
Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine:
—Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
I wish her beautyThat owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A face that's bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest:
A face made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature's white hand sets ope.
Sidneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Whate'er delightCan make day's forehead brightOr give down to the wings of night.
Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Days, that need borrowNo part of their good morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow:
Days, that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind are day all night.
Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.'
I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish——no more.
Now, if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows;
Her that dares beWhat these lines wish to see:I seek no further, it is She.
'Tis She, and hereLo! I unclothe and clearMy wishes' cloudy character.
Such worth as this isShall fix my flying wishes,And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions:—but her story.
R. Crashaw
Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey;Over rocks that are steepestLove will find out the way.Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie;Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay;If love come, he will enterAnd soon find out his way.You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward from his flight;But if she whom love doth honourBe conceal'd from the day,Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.Some think to lose himBy having him confined;And some do suppose him,Poor thing, to be blind;But if ne'er so close ye wall him,Do the best that you may,Blind love, if so ye call him,Will find out his way.You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe phoenix of the east;The lioness, ye may move herTo give o'er her prey;But you'll ne'er stop a lover:He will find out his way.
Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey;Over rocks that are steepestLove will find out the way.
Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie;Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay;If love come, he will enterAnd soon find out his way.
You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward from his flight;But if she whom love doth honourBe conceal'd from the day,Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose himBy having him confined;And some do suppose him,Poor thing, to be blind;But if ne'er so close ye wall him,Do the best that you may,Blind love, if so ye call him,Will find out his way.
You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe phoenix of the east;The lioness, ye may move herTo give o'er her prey;But you'll ne'er stop a lover:He will find out his way.
Anon.
See with what simplicityThis nymph begins her golden days!In the green grass she loves to lie,And there with her fair aspect tamesThe wilder flowers, and gives them names;But only with the roses plays,And them does tellWhat colours best become them, and what smell.Who can foretell for what high causeThis darling of the Gods was born?Yet this is she whose chaster lawsThe wanton Love shall one day fear,And, under her command severe,See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man!O then let me in time compoundAnd parley with those conquering eyes,Ere they have tried their force to wound;Ere with their glancing wheels they driveIn triumph over hearts that strive,And them that yield but more despise:Let me be laid,Where I may see the glories from some shade.Mean time, whilst every verdant thingItself does at thy beauty charm,Reform the errors of the Spring;Make that the tulips may have shareOf sweetness, seeing they are fair,And roses of their thorns disarm;But most procureThat violets may a longer age endure.But O young beauty of the woods,Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;LestFlora, angry at thy crimeTo kill her infants in their prime,Should quickly make th' example yours;And ere we see—Nip in the blossom—all our hopes and thee.
See with what simplicityThis nymph begins her golden days!In the green grass she loves to lie,And there with her fair aspect tamesThe wilder flowers, and gives them names;But only with the roses plays,And them does tellWhat colours best become them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high causeThis darling of the Gods was born?Yet this is she whose chaster lawsThe wanton Love shall one day fear,And, under her command severe,See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man!
O then let me in time compoundAnd parley with those conquering eyes,Ere they have tried their force to wound;Ere with their glancing wheels they driveIn triumph over hearts that strive,And them that yield but more despise:Let me be laid,Where I may see the glories from some shade.
Mean time, whilst every verdant thingItself does at thy beauty charm,Reform the errors of the Spring;Make that the tulips may have shareOf sweetness, seeing they are fair,And roses of their thorns disarm;But most procureThat violets may a longer age endure.
But O young beauty of the woods,Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;LestFlora, angry at thy crimeTo kill her infants in their prime,Should quickly make th' example yours;And ere we see—Nip in the blossom—all our hopes and thee.
A. Marvell
Ah, Chloris! could I now but sitAs unconcern'd as whenYour infant beauty could begetNo happiness or pain!When I the dawn used to admire,And praised the coming day,I little thought the rising fireWould take my rest away.Your charms in harmless childhood layLike metals in a mine;Age from no face takes more awayThan youth conceal'd in thine.But as your charms insensiblyTo their perfection prest,So love as unperceived did fly,And center'd in my breast.My passion with your beauty grew,While Cupid at my heart,Still as his mother favour'd you,Threw a new flaming dart:Each gloried in their wanton part;To make a lover, heEmploy'd the utmost of his art—To make a beauty, she.
Ah, Chloris! could I now but sitAs unconcern'd as whenYour infant beauty could begetNo happiness or pain!When I the dawn used to admire,And praised the coming day,I little thought the rising fireWould take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood layLike metals in a mine;Age from no face takes more awayThan youth conceal'd in thine.But as your charms insensiblyTo their perfection prest,So love as unperceived did fly,And center'd in my breast.
My passion with your beauty grew,While Cupid at my heart,Still as his mother favour'd you,Threw a new flaming dart:Each gloried in their wanton part;To make a lover, heEmploy'd the utmost of his art—To make a beauty, she.
Sir C. Sedley
I cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn,Since that poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born;No, Phyllis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try,—And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on, and die.When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall,That welcome hour that ends his smartWill then begin your pain,For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.
I cannot change, as others do,Though you unjustly scorn,Since that poor swain that sighs for you,For you alone was born;No, Phyllis, no, your heart to moveA surer way I'll try,—And to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on, and die.
When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall,That welcome hour that ends his smartWill then begin your pain,For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.
J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,The higher he's a-gettingThe 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.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,The higher he's a-gettingThe 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.
R. Herrick
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkindThat from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honour more.
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkindThat from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honour more.
Colonel Lovelace
You meaner beauties of the night,That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common people of the skies,What are you, when the Moon shall rise?You curious chanters of the woodThat warble forth dame Nature's lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what's your praiseWhen Philomel her voice doth raise?You violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own,—What are you, when the Rose is blown?So when my Mistress shall be seenIn form and beauty of her mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design'dTh' eclipse and glory of her kind?
You meaner beauties of the night,That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common people of the skies,What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the woodThat warble forth dame Nature's lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what's your praiseWhen Philomel her voice doth raise?
You violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own,—What are you, when the Rose is blown?
So when my Mistress shall be seenIn form and beauty of her mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design'dTh' eclipse and glory of her kind?
Sir H. Wotton
Daughter to that good Earl, once PresidentOf England's Council and her Treasury,Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,Till the sad breaking of that ParliamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty,Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;—Though later born than to have known the daysWherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,Madam, methinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble virtues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
Daughter to that good Earl, once PresidentOf England's Council and her Treasury,Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that ParliamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty,Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;—
Though later born than to have known the daysWherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
J. Milton
He that loves a rosy cheekOr a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires;As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires:—Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
He that loves a rosy cheekOr a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires;As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires:—Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
T. Carew
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike 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 lovesick 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.
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike 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 lovesick 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.
R. Herrick.
Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;Old Time will make thee colder,And though each morning new ariseYet we each day grow older.Thou as Heaven art fair and young,Thine eyes like twin stars shining;But ere another day be sprungAll these will be declining.Then winter comes with all his fears,And all thy sweets shall borrow;Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,—And I too late shall sorrow!
Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise;Old Time will make thee colder,And though each morning new ariseYet we each day grow older.Thou as Heaven art fair and young,Thine eyes like twin stars shining;But ere another day be sprungAll these will be declining.Then winter comes with all his fears,And all thy sweets shall borrow;Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,—And I too late shall sorrow!
Anon.
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's youngAnd shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee:How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's youngAnd shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee:How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
E. Waller
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!
Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!
B. Jonson
There is 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 rose-buds fill'd 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!
There is 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 rose-buds fill'd 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!
Anon.
Get up, 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 bow'd 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 day,Spring, 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 trimm'd 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 street,And 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 despatch'd their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,And 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 pick'd:—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 drown'd with us in endless night.Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.
Get up, 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 bow'd 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 day,Spring, 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 trimm'd 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 street,And 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 despatch'd their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,And 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 pick'd:—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 drown'd with us in endless night.Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.
R. Herrick
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