WOULDST thou hear what Man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much Beauty as could die:Which in life did harbour giveTo more Virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name wasElizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died, to tellThan that it lived at all. Farewell.
WOULDST thou hear what Man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much Beauty as could die:Which in life did harbour giveTo more Virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name wasElizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died, to tellThan that it lived at all. Farewell.
WOULDST thou hear what Man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much Beauty as could die:Which in life did harbour giveTo more Virtue than doth live.If at all she had a fault,Leave it buried in this vault.One name wasElizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death:Fitter, where it died, to tellThan that it lived at all. Farewell.
ii
193.
A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel
WEEP with me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath’s self is sorry.’Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seem’d to striveWhich own’d the creature.Years he number’d scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn’d cruel,Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,As sooth the Parcae thought him one,He play’d so truly.So, by error, to his fateThey all consented;But, viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
WEEP with me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath’s self is sorry.’Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seem’d to striveWhich own’d the creature.Years he number’d scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn’d cruel,Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,As sooth the Parcae thought him one,He play’d so truly.So, by error, to his fateThey all consented;But, viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
WEEP with me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath’s self is sorry.’Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seem’d to striveWhich own’d the creature.Years he number’d scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn’d cruel,Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,As sooth the Parcae thought him one,He play’d so truly.So, by error, to his fateThey all consented;But, viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
194.
to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison
IT is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.Call, nobleLucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine:Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think—nay, know—thyMorison’s not dead.He leap’d the present age,Possest with holy rageTo see that bright eternal DayOf which we Priests and Poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men;And there he lives with memory—and BenJonson: who sung this of him, ere he wentHimself to rest,Or tast a part of that full joy he meantTo have exprestIn this bright AsterismWhere it were friendship’s schism—Were not hisLuciuslong with us to tarry—To separate these twyLights, the Dioscuri,And keep the one half from hisHarry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine.And shine as you exalted are!Two names of friendship, but one star:Of hearts the union: and those not by chanceMade, or indenture, or leased out to advanceThe profits for a time.No pleasures vain did chimeOf rimes or riots at your feasts,Orgies of drink or feign’d protests;But simple love of greatness and of good,That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.This made you first to know theWhyYou liked, then after, to applyThat liking, and approach so one the t’otherTill either grew a portion of the other:Each stylèd by his endThe copy of his friend.You lived to be the great surnamesAnd titles by which all made claimsUnto the Virtue—nothing perfect doneBut as aCARYor aMORISON.And such the force the fair example hadAs they that sawThe good, and durst not practise it, were gladThat such a lawWas left yet to mankind,Where they might read and findFriendship indeed was written, not in words,And with the heart, not pen,Of two so early men,Whose lines her rules were and records:Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,Had sow’d these fruits, and got the harvest in.
IT is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.Call, nobleLucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine:Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think—nay, know—thyMorison’s not dead.He leap’d the present age,Possest with holy rageTo see that bright eternal DayOf which we Priests and Poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men;And there he lives with memory—and BenJonson: who sung this of him, ere he wentHimself to rest,Or tast a part of that full joy he meantTo have exprestIn this bright AsterismWhere it were friendship’s schism—Were not hisLuciuslong with us to tarry—To separate these twyLights, the Dioscuri,And keep the one half from hisHarry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine.And shine as you exalted are!Two names of friendship, but one star:Of hearts the union: and those not by chanceMade, or indenture, or leased out to advanceThe profits for a time.No pleasures vain did chimeOf rimes or riots at your feasts,Orgies of drink or feign’d protests;But simple love of greatness and of good,That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.This made you first to know theWhyYou liked, then after, to applyThat liking, and approach so one the t’otherTill either grew a portion of the other:Each stylèd by his endThe copy of his friend.You lived to be the great surnamesAnd titles by which all made claimsUnto the Virtue—nothing perfect doneBut as aCARYor aMORISON.And such the force the fair example hadAs they that sawThe good, and durst not practise it, were gladThat such a lawWas left yet to mankind,Where they might read and findFriendship indeed was written, not in words,And with the heart, not pen,Of two so early men,Whose lines her rules were and records:Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,Had sow’d these fruits, and got the harvest in.
IT is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Call, nobleLucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine:Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,And think—nay, know—thyMorison’s not dead.He leap’d the present age,Possest with holy rageTo see that bright eternal DayOf which we Priests and Poets saySuch truths as we expect for happy men;And there he lives with memory—and Ben
Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he wentHimself to rest,Or tast a part of that full joy he meantTo have exprestIn this bright AsterismWhere it were friendship’s schism—Were not hisLuciuslong with us to tarry—To separate these twyLights, the Dioscuri,And keep the one half from hisHarry.But fate doth so alternate the design,Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine.
And shine as you exalted are!Two names of friendship, but one star:Of hearts the union: and those not by chanceMade, or indenture, or leased out to advanceThe profits for a time.No pleasures vain did chimeOf rimes or riots at your feasts,Orgies of drink or feign’d protests;But simple love of greatness and of good,That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.
This made you first to know theWhyYou liked, then after, to applyThat liking, and approach so one the t’otherTill either grew a portion of the other:Each stylèd by his endThe copy of his friend.You lived to be the great surnamesAnd titles by which all made claimsUnto the Virtue—nothing perfect doneBut as aCARYor aMORISON.
And such the force the fair example hadAs they that sawThe good, and durst not practise it, were gladThat such a lawWas left yet to mankind,Where they might read and findFriendship indeed was written, not in words,And with the heart, not pen,Of two so early men,Whose lines her rules were and records:Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,Had sow’d these fruits, and got the harvest in.
1573-1631
195.
STAY, O sweet, and do not rise!The light that shines comes from thine eyes;The day breaks not: it is my heart,Because that you and I must part.Stay! or else my joys will dieAnd perish in their infancy.
STAY, O sweet, and do not rise!The light that shines comes from thine eyes;The day breaks not: it is my heart,Because that you and I must part.Stay! or else my joys will dieAnd perish in their infancy.
STAY, O sweet, and do not rise!The light that shines comes from thine eyes;The day breaks not: it is my heart,Because that you and I must part.Stay! or else my joys will dieAnd perish in their infancy.
196.
GO and catch a falling star,Get with child a mandrake root,Tell me where all past years are,Or who cleft the Devil’s foot;Teach me to hear mermaids singing,Or to keep off envy’s stinging,And findWhat windServes to advance an honest mind.If thou be’st born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nightsTill Age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNo whereLives a woman true and fair.If thou find’st one, let me know;Such a pilgrimage were sweet,Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.
GO and catch a falling star,Get with child a mandrake root,Tell me where all past years are,Or who cleft the Devil’s foot;Teach me to hear mermaids singing,Or to keep off envy’s stinging,And findWhat windServes to advance an honest mind.If thou be’st born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nightsTill Age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNo whereLives a woman true and fair.If thou find’st one, let me know;Such a pilgrimage were sweet,Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.
GO and catch a falling star,Get with child a mandrake root,Tell me where all past years are,Or who cleft the Devil’s foot;Teach me to hear mermaids singing,Or to keep off envy’s stinging,And findWhat windServes to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’st born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nightsTill Age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNo whereLives a woman true and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know;Such a pilgrimage were sweet,Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.
197.
That Time and Absence provesRather helps than hurts to loves
That Time and Absence provesRather helps than hurts to loves
That Time and Absence provesRather helps than hurts to loves
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance and length:Do what thou canst for alteration,For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join and Time doth settle.Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection’s groundBeyond time, place, and all mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.My senses want their outward motionWhich now withinReason doth win,Redoubled by her secret notion:Like rich men that take pleasureIn hiding more than handling treasure.By Absence this good means I gain,That I can catch herWhere none can watch her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her,And so enjoy her and none miss her.
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance and length:Do what thou canst for alteration,For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join and Time doth settle.Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection’s groundBeyond time, place, and all mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.My senses want their outward motionWhich now withinReason doth win,Redoubled by her secret notion:Like rich men that take pleasureIn hiding more than handling treasure.By Absence this good means I gain,That I can catch herWhere none can watch her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her,And so enjoy her and none miss her.
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance and length:Do what thou canst for alteration,For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection’s groundBeyond time, place, and all mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.
My senses want their outward motionWhich now withinReason doth win,Redoubled by her secret notion:Like rich men that take pleasureIn hiding more than handling treasure.
By Absence this good means I gain,That I can catch herWhere none can watch her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her,And so enjoy her and none miss her.
198.
WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,A pregnant bank swell’d up, to restThe violet’s reclining head,Sat we two, one another’s best.Our hands were firmly cèmentedBy a fast balm which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did threadOur eyes upon one double string.So to engraft our hands, as yetWas all the means to make us one;And pictures in our eyes to getWas all our propagation.As ’twixt two equal armies FateSuspends uncertain victory,Our souls—which to advance their stateWere gone out—hung ’twixt her and me.And whilst our souls negotiate there,We like sepulchral statues lay;All day the same our postures were,And we said nothing, all the day.
WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,A pregnant bank swell’d up, to restThe violet’s reclining head,Sat we two, one another’s best.Our hands were firmly cèmentedBy a fast balm which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did threadOur eyes upon one double string.So to engraft our hands, as yetWas all the means to make us one;And pictures in our eyes to getWas all our propagation.As ’twixt two equal armies FateSuspends uncertain victory,Our souls—which to advance their stateWere gone out—hung ’twixt her and me.And whilst our souls negotiate there,We like sepulchral statues lay;All day the same our postures were,And we said nothing, all the day.
WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,A pregnant bank swell’d up, to restThe violet’s reclining head,Sat we two, one another’s best.
Our hands were firmly cèmentedBy a fast balm which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did threadOur eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yetWas all the means to make us one;And pictures in our eyes to getWas all our propagation.
As ’twixt two equal armies FateSuspends uncertain victory,Our souls—which to advance their stateWere gone out—hung ’twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,We like sepulchral statues lay;All day the same our postures were,And we said nothing, all the day.
199.
DEAR love, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream,It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy.Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.Thou art so true that thoughts of thee sufficeTo make dreams truths and fables histories;Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it bestNot to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.As lightning, or a taper’s light,Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;Yet I thought thee—For thou lov’st truth—an angel, at first sight;But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st whenExcess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,I must confess it could not choose but beProfane to think thee anything but thee.Coming and staying show’d thee thee,But rising makes me doubt that nowThou art not thou.That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he;’Tis not all spirit pure and braveIf mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.Perchance as torches, which must ready be,Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me.Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then IWill dream that hope again, but else would die.
DEAR love, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream,It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy.Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.Thou art so true that thoughts of thee sufficeTo make dreams truths and fables histories;Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it bestNot to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.As lightning, or a taper’s light,Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;Yet I thought thee—For thou lov’st truth—an angel, at first sight;But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st whenExcess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,I must confess it could not choose but beProfane to think thee anything but thee.Coming and staying show’d thee thee,But rising makes me doubt that nowThou art not thou.That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he;’Tis not all spirit pure and braveIf mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.Perchance as torches, which must ready be,Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me.Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then IWill dream that hope again, but else would die.
DEAR love, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream,It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy.Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.Thou art so true that thoughts of thee sufficeTo make dreams truths and fables histories;Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it bestNot to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper’s light,Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;Yet I thought thee—For thou lov’st truth—an angel, at first sight;But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st whenExcess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,I must confess it could not choose but beProfane to think thee anything but thee.
Coming and staying show’d thee thee,But rising makes me doubt that nowThou art not thou.That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he;’Tis not all spirit pure and braveIf mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.Perchance as torches, which must ready be,Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me.Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then IWill dream that hope again, but else would die.
200.
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;The mystery, the sign you must not touch,For ’tis my outward soul,Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone,Will leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every partCan tie those parts, and make me one of all;Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do’t: except she meant that IBy this should know my pain,As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die.Whate’er she meant by ’t, bury it with me,For since I amLove’s martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into other hands these reliques came.As ’twas humilityT’ afford to it all that a soul can do,So ’tis some braveryThat, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;The mystery, the sign you must not touch,For ’tis my outward soul,Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone,Will leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every partCan tie those parts, and make me one of all;Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do’t: except she meant that IBy this should know my pain,As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die.Whate’er she meant by ’t, bury it with me,For since I amLove’s martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into other hands these reliques came.As ’twas humilityT’ afford to it all that a soul can do,So ’tis some braveryThat, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;The mystery, the sign you must not touch,For ’tis my outward soul,Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone,Will leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every partCan tie those parts, and make me one of all;Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do’t: except she meant that IBy this should know my pain,As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die.
Whate’er she meant by ’t, bury it with me,For since I amLove’s martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into other hands these reliques came.As ’twas humilityT’ afford to it all that a soul can do,So ’tis some braveryThat, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
201.
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,Which was my sin, though it were done before?Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,And do run still, though still I do deplore?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallow’d in a score?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy SonShall shine as He shines now and heretofore:And having done that, Thou hast done;I fear no more.
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,Which was my sin, though it were done before?Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,And do run still, though still I do deplore?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallow’d in a score?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy SonShall shine as He shines now and heretofore:And having done that, Thou hast done;I fear no more.
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,Which was my sin, though it were done before?Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,And do run still, though still I do deplore?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonOthers to sin, and made my sins their door?Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shunA year or two, but wallow’d in a score?When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spunMy last thread, I shall perish on the shore;But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy SonShall shine as He shines now and heretofore:And having done that, Thou hast done;I fear no more.
202.
DEATH, be not proud, though some have callèd theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;And soonest our best men with thee do go—Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally,And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
DEATH, be not proud, though some have callèd theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;And soonest our best men with thee do go—Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally,And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
DEATH, be not proud, though some have callèd theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;And soonest our best men with thee do go—Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;And poppy or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally,And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
1574-1627
203.
AS it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLean’d her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapp’d in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.
AS it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLean’d her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapp’d in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.
AS it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLean’d her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapp’d in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.
1575-1641
204.
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 crispèd spring?O sweet content!Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?O punishment!Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!
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 crispèd spring?O sweet content!Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?O punishment!Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!
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 crispèd spring?O sweet content!Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?O punishment!Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!
157?-1650
205.
PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day!With night we banish sorrow.Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mind,Notes from the lark I’ll borrow:Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!To give my Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them all I’ll borrow.Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!Sing, birds, in every furrow!And from each bill let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,You pretty elves, among yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrow!Sing, birds, in every furrow!
PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day!With night we banish sorrow.Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mind,Notes from the lark I’ll borrow:Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!To give my Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them all I’ll borrow.Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!Sing, birds, in every furrow!And from each bill let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,You pretty elves, among yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrow!Sing, birds, in every furrow!
PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day!With night we banish sorrow.Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mind,Notes from the lark I’ll borrow:Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!To give my Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them all I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!Sing, birds, in every furrow!And from each bill let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,You pretty elves, among yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow!To give my Love good-morrow!Sing, birds, in every furrow!
205.stare] starling.
205.stare] starling.
206.
YE little birds that sit and singAmidst the shady valleys,And see how Phillis sweetly walksWithin her garden-alleys;Go, pretty birds, about her bower;Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;Ah me! methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.Go tell her through your chirping bills,As you by me are bidden,To her is only known my love,Which from the world is hidden.Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,See that your notes strain not too low.For still methinks I see her frown;Ye pretty wantons, warble.Go tune your voices’ harmonyAnd sing, I am her lover;Strain loud and sweet, that every noteWith sweet content may move her:And she that hath the sweetest voice,Tell her I will not change my choice:—Yet still methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.O fly! make haste! see, see, she fallsInto a pretty slumber!Sing round about her rosy bedThat waking she may wonder:Say to her, ’tis her lover trueThat sendeth love to you, to you!And when you hear her kind reply,Return with pleasant warblings.
YE little birds that sit and singAmidst the shady valleys,And see how Phillis sweetly walksWithin her garden-alleys;Go, pretty birds, about her bower;Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;Ah me! methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.Go tell her through your chirping bills,As you by me are bidden,To her is only known my love,Which from the world is hidden.Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,See that your notes strain not too low.For still methinks I see her frown;Ye pretty wantons, warble.Go tune your voices’ harmonyAnd sing, I am her lover;Strain loud and sweet, that every noteWith sweet content may move her:And she that hath the sweetest voice,Tell her I will not change my choice:—Yet still methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.O fly! make haste! see, see, she fallsInto a pretty slumber!Sing round about her rosy bedThat waking she may wonder:Say to her, ’tis her lover trueThat sendeth love to you, to you!And when you hear her kind reply,Return with pleasant warblings.
YE little birds that sit and singAmidst the shady valleys,And see how Phillis sweetly walksWithin her garden-alleys;Go, pretty birds, about her bower;Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;Ah me! methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills,As you by me are bidden,To her is only known my love,Which from the world is hidden.Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,See that your notes strain not too low.For still methinks I see her frown;Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices’ harmonyAnd sing, I am her lover;Strain loud and sweet, that every noteWith sweet content may move her:And she that hath the sweetest voice,Tell her I will not change my choice:—Yet still methinks I see her frown!Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she fallsInto a pretty slumber!Sing round about her rosy bedThat waking she may wonder:Say to her, ’tis her lover trueThat sendeth love to you, to you!And when you hear her kind reply,Return with pleasant warblings.
1579-1625
207.
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceivingLock me in delight awhile;Let some pleasing dreams beguileAll my fancies; that from thenceI may feel an influenceAll my powers of care bereaving!Though but a shadow, but a sliding,Let me know some little joy!We that suffer long annoyAre contented with a thoughtThrough an idle fancy wrought:O let my joys have some abiding!
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceivingLock me in delight awhile;Let some pleasing dreams beguileAll my fancies; that from thenceI may feel an influenceAll my powers of care bereaving!Though but a shadow, but a sliding,Let me know some little joy!We that suffer long annoyAre contented with a thoughtThrough an idle fancy wrought:O let my joys have some abiding!
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceivingLock me in delight awhile;Let some pleasing dreams beguileAll my fancies; that from thenceI may feel an influenceAll my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,Let me know some little joy!We that suffer long annoyAre contented with a thoughtThrough an idle fancy wrought:O let my joys have some abiding!
208.
CYNTHIA, to thy power and theeWe obey.Joy to this great company!And no dayCome to steal this night awayTill the rites of love are ended,And the lusty bridegroom say,Welcome, light, of all befriended!Pace out, you watery powers below;Let your feet,Like the galleys when they row,Even beat;Let your unknown measures, setTo the still winds, tell to allThat gods are come, immortal, great,To honour this great nuptial!
CYNTHIA, to thy power and theeWe obey.Joy to this great company!And no dayCome to steal this night awayTill the rites of love are ended,And the lusty bridegroom say,Welcome, light, of all befriended!Pace out, you watery powers below;Let your feet,Like the galleys when they row,Even beat;Let your unknown measures, setTo the still winds, tell to allThat gods are come, immortal, great,To honour this great nuptial!
CYNTHIA, to thy power and theeWe obey.Joy to this great company!And no dayCome to steal this night awayTill the rites of love are ended,And the lusty bridegroom say,Welcome, light, of all befriended!
Pace out, you watery powers below;Let your feet,Like the galleys when they row,Even beat;Let your unknown measures, setTo the still winds, tell to allThat gods are come, immortal, great,To honour this great nuptial!
209.
LAY a garland on my herseOf the dismal yew;Maidens, willow branches bear;Say, I died true.My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth.Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth!
LAY a garland on my herseOf the dismal yew;Maidens, willow branches bear;Say, I died true.My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth.Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth!
LAY a garland on my herseOf the dismal yew;Maidens, willow branches bear;Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth.Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth!
210.
SING his praises that doth keepOur flocks from harm,Pan, the father of our sheep;And arm in armTread we softly in a round,Whilst the hollow neighbouring groundFills the music with her sound.Pan, O great god Pan, to theeThus do we sing!Thou who keep’st us chaste and freeAs the young spring:Ever be thy honour spokeFrom that place the morn is brokeTo that place day doth unyoke!
SING his praises that doth keepOur flocks from harm,Pan, the father of our sheep;And arm in armTread we softly in a round,Whilst the hollow neighbouring groundFills the music with her sound.Pan, O great god Pan, to theeThus do we sing!Thou who keep’st us chaste and freeAs the young spring:Ever be thy honour spokeFrom that place the morn is brokeTo that place day doth unyoke!
SING his praises that doth keepOur flocks from harm,Pan, the father of our sheep;And arm in armTread we softly in a round,Whilst the hollow neighbouring groundFills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to theeThus do we sing!Thou who keep’st us chaste and freeAs the young spring:Ever be thy honour spokeFrom that place the morn is brokeTo that place day doth unyoke!
211.
AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,For I must die.Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever tellingLie after lie.For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;Alas, for pity goAnd fire their heartsThat have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.Never again deluding love shall know me,For I will die;And all those griefs that think to overgrow meShall be as I:For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—‘Alas, for pity stay,And let us dieWith thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’
AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,For I must die.Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever tellingLie after lie.For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;Alas, for pity goAnd fire their heartsThat have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.Never again deluding love shall know me,For I will die;And all those griefs that think to overgrow meShall be as I:For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—‘Alas, for pity stay,And let us dieWith thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’
AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,For I must die.Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever tellingLie after lie.For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;Alas, for pity goAnd fire their heartsThat have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.
Never again deluding love shall know me,For I will die;And all those griefs that think to overgrow meShall be as I:For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—‘Alas, for pity stay,And let us dieWith thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’
212.
NOW the lusty spring is seen;Golden yellow, gaudy blue,Daintily invite the view:Everywhere on every greenRoses blushing as they blow,And enticing men to pull,Lilies whiter than the snow,Woodbines of sweet honey full:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’Yet the lusty spring hath stay’d;Blushing red and purest whiteDaintily to love inviteEvery woman, every maid:Cherries kissing as they grow,And inviting men to taste,Apples even ripe below,Winding gently to the waist:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
NOW the lusty spring is seen;Golden yellow, gaudy blue,Daintily invite the view:Everywhere on every greenRoses blushing as they blow,And enticing men to pull,Lilies whiter than the snow,Woodbines of sweet honey full:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’Yet the lusty spring hath stay’d;Blushing red and purest whiteDaintily to love inviteEvery woman, every maid:Cherries kissing as they grow,And inviting men to taste,Apples even ripe below,Winding gently to the waist:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
NOW the lusty spring is seen;Golden yellow, gaudy blue,Daintily invite the view:Everywhere on every greenRoses blushing as they blow,And enticing men to pull,Lilies whiter than the snow,Woodbines of sweet honey full:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
Yet the lusty spring hath stay’d;Blushing red and purest whiteDaintily to love inviteEvery woman, every maid:Cherries kissing as they grow,And inviting men to taste,Apples even ripe below,Winding gently to the waist:All love’s emblems, and all cry,‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
213.
HEAR, ye ladies that despiseWhat the mighty Love has done;Fear examples and be wise:Fair Callisto was a nun;Leda, sailing on the streamTo deceive the hopes of man,Love accounting but a dream,Doted on a silver swan;Danaë, in a brazen tower,Where no love was, loved a shower.Hear, ye ladies that are coy,What the mighty Love can do;Fear the fierceness of the boy:The chaste Moon he makes to woo;Vesta, kindling holy fires,Circled round about with spies,Never dreaming loose desires,Doting at the altar dies;Ilion, in a short hour, higherHe can build, and once more fire.
HEAR, ye ladies that despiseWhat the mighty Love has done;Fear examples and be wise:Fair Callisto was a nun;Leda, sailing on the streamTo deceive the hopes of man,Love accounting but a dream,Doted on a silver swan;Danaë, in a brazen tower,Where no love was, loved a shower.Hear, ye ladies that are coy,What the mighty Love can do;Fear the fierceness of the boy:The chaste Moon he makes to woo;Vesta, kindling holy fires,Circled round about with spies,Never dreaming loose desires,Doting at the altar dies;Ilion, in a short hour, higherHe can build, and once more fire.
HEAR, ye ladies that despiseWhat the mighty Love has done;Fear examples and be wise:Fair Callisto was a nun;Leda, sailing on the streamTo deceive the hopes of man,Love accounting but a dream,Doted on a silver swan;Danaë, in a brazen tower,Where no love was, loved a shower.
Hear, ye ladies that are coy,What the mighty Love can do;Fear the fierceness of the boy:The chaste Moon he makes to woo;Vesta, kindling holy fires,Circled round about with spies,Never dreaming loose desires,Doting at the altar dies;Ilion, in a short hour, higherHe can build, and once more fire.
214.
GOD Lyaeus, ever young,Ever honour’d, ever sung,Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes,In a thousand lusty shapesDance upon the mazer’s brim,In the crimson liquor swim;
GOD Lyaeus, ever young,Ever honour’d, ever sung,Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes,In a thousand lusty shapesDance upon the mazer’s brim,In the crimson liquor swim;
GOD Lyaeus, ever young,Ever honour’d, ever sung,Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes,In a thousand lusty shapesDance upon the mazer’s brim,In the crimson liquor swim;
214.mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.
214.mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.
FROM thy plenteous hand divineLet a river run with wine:God of youth, let this day hereEnter neither care nor fear.
FROM thy plenteous hand divineLet a river run with wine:God of youth, let this day hereEnter neither care nor fear.
FROM thy plenteous hand divineLet a river run with wine:God of youth, let this day hereEnter neither care nor fear.
215.
BEAUTY clear and fair,Where the airRather like a perfume dwells;Where the violet and the roseTheir blue veins and blush disclose,And come to honour nothing else;Where to live nearAnd planted thereIs to live, and still live new;Where to gain a favour isMore than light, perpetual bliss—Make me live by serving you!Dear, again back recallTo this light,A stranger to himself and all!Both the wonder and the storyShall be yours, and eke the glory;I am your servant, and your thrall.
BEAUTY clear and fair,Where the airRather like a perfume dwells;Where the violet and the roseTheir blue veins and blush disclose,And come to honour nothing else;Where to live nearAnd planted thereIs to live, and still live new;Where to gain a favour isMore than light, perpetual bliss—Make me live by serving you!Dear, again back recallTo this light,A stranger to himself and all!Both the wonder and the storyShall be yours, and eke the glory;I am your servant, and your thrall.
BEAUTY clear and fair,Where the airRather like a perfume dwells;Where the violet and the roseTheir blue veins and blush disclose,And come to honour nothing else;
Where to live nearAnd planted thereIs to live, and still live new;Where to gain a favour isMore than light, perpetual bliss—Make me live by serving you!
Dear, again back recallTo this light,A stranger to himself and all!Both the wonder and the storyShall be yours, and eke the glory;I am your servant, and your thrall.
216.
HENCE, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There’s naught in this life sweet,If men were wise to see’t,But only melancholy—O sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,A sight that piercing mortifies,A look that’s fasten’d to the ground,A tongue chain’d up without a sound!Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed, save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan—These are the sounds we feed upon:Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
HENCE, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There’s naught in this life sweet,If men were wise to see’t,But only melancholy—O sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,A sight that piercing mortifies,A look that’s fasten’d to the ground,A tongue chain’d up without a sound!Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed, save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan—These are the sounds we feed upon:Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
HENCE, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There’s naught in this life sweet,If men were wise to see’t,But only melancholy—O sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,A sight that piercing mortifies,A look that’s fasten’d to the ground,A tongue chain’d up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed, save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan—These are the sounds we feed upon:Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
217.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again.Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,Why should sadness longer last?Grief is but a wound to woe;Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again.Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,Why should sadness longer last?Grief is but a wound to woe;Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again.Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,Why should sadness longer last?Grief is but a wound to woe;Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
?-1630?
218.
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o’er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o’er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o’er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
218.dole] lamentation.
218.dole] lamentation.
219.
HARK! Now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,Call upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud!Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay’s now competent:A long war disturb’d your mind;Here your perfect peace is sign’d.Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And—the foul fiend more to check—A crucifix let bless your neck:’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day;End your groan and come away.
HARK! Now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,Call upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud!Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay’s now competent:A long war disturb’d your mind;Here your perfect peace is sign’d.Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And—the foul fiend more to check—A crucifix let bless your neck:’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day;End your groan and come away.
HARK! Now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,Call upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay’s now competent:A long war disturb’d your mind;Here your perfect peace is sign’d.
Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And—the foul fiend more to check—A crucifix let bless your neck:’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day;End your groan and come away.
220.
ALL the flowers of the springMeet to perfume our burying;These have but their growing prime,And man does flourish but his time:Survey our progress from our birth—We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.Courts adieu, and all delights,All bewitching appetites!Sweetest breath and clearest eyeLike perfumes go out and die;And consequently this is doneAs shadows wait upon the sun.Vain the ambition of kingsWho seek by trophies and dead thingsTo leave a living name behind,And weave but nets to catch the wind.
ALL the flowers of the springMeet to perfume our burying;These have but their growing prime,And man does flourish but his time:Survey our progress from our birth—We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.Courts adieu, and all delights,All bewitching appetites!Sweetest breath and clearest eyeLike perfumes go out and die;And consequently this is doneAs shadows wait upon the sun.Vain the ambition of kingsWho seek by trophies and dead thingsTo leave a living name behind,And weave but nets to catch the wind.
ALL the flowers of the springMeet to perfume our burying;These have but their growing prime,And man does flourish but his time:Survey our progress from our birth—We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.Courts adieu, and all delights,All bewitching appetites!Sweetest breath and clearest eyeLike perfumes go out and die;And consequently this is doneAs shadows wait upon the sun.Vain the ambition of kingsWho seek by trophies and dead thingsTo leave a living name behind,And weave but nets to catch the wind.
1580?-1640
221.
OHAPPY Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap,And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,Then need’st thou not—which ah! I grieve to grant—Repine at Jove, lull’d in his leman’s lap:That golden shower in which he did repose—One dewy drop it stainsWhich thy Aurora rainsUpon the rural plains,When from thy bed she passionately goes.Then, waken’d with the music of the merles,She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:That faithful flame which in her bosom burnsFrom crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,She so her grief delates.—O favour’d by the fatesAbove the happiest states,Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
OHAPPY Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap,And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,Then need’st thou not—which ah! I grieve to grant—Repine at Jove, lull’d in his leman’s lap:That golden shower in which he did repose—One dewy drop it stainsWhich thy Aurora rainsUpon the rural plains,When from thy bed she passionately goes.Then, waken’d with the music of the merles,She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:That faithful flame which in her bosom burnsFrom crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,She so her grief delates.—O favour’d by the fatesAbove the happiest states,Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
OHAPPY Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap,And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,Then need’st thou not—which ah! I grieve to grant—Repine at Jove, lull’d in his leman’s lap:That golden shower in which he did repose—One dewy drop it stainsWhich thy Aurora rainsUpon the rural plains,When from thy bed she passionately goes.
Then, waken’d with the music of the merles,She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:That faithful flame which in her bosom burnsFrom crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,She so her grief delates.—O favour’d by the fatesAbove the happiest states,Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
1580-1650
222.