POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth—My sinful earth these rebel powers array—Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth—My sinful earth these rebel powers array—Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth—My sinful earth these rebel powers array—Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
1565-1630?
165.
UPON my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would;Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thyselfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
UPON my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would;Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thyselfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
UPON my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would;Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thyselfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
1567-1601
166.
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring, the sweet Spring!
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring, the sweet Spring!
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring, the sweet Spring!
167.
1593
Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life’s lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Strength stoops unto the grave,Worms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come, come!the bells do cry;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death’s bitterness;Hell’s executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Haste therefore each degreeTo welcome destiny;Heaven is our heritage,Earth but a player’s stage.Mount we unto the sky;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life’s lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Strength stoops unto the grave,Worms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come, come!the bells do cry;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death’s bitterness;Hell’s executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Haste therefore each degreeTo welcome destiny;Heaven is our heritage,Earth but a player’s stage.Mount we unto the sky;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life’s lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave,Worms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come, come!the bells do cry;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death’s bitterness;Hell’s executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste therefore each degreeTo welcome destiny;Heaven is our heritage,Earth but a player’s stage.Mount we unto the sky;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
1567?-1619
168.
THERE is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:There cherries grow which none may buyTill ‘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 nor peer nor prince can buyTill ‘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 attempt with eye or handThose 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 flow:There cherries grow which none may buyTill ‘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 nor peer nor prince can buyTill ‘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 attempt with eye or handThose 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 flow:There cherries grow which none may buyTill ‘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 nor peer nor prince can buyTill ‘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 attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nigh,Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry.
169.
ROSE-cheek’dLaura, come;Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’sSilent music, either otherSweetly gracing.Lovely forms do flowFrom concent divinely framèd:Heaven is music, and thy beauty’sBirth is heavenly.These dull notes we singDiscords need for helps to grace them;Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord;But still moves delight,Like clear springs renew’d by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in them-selves eternal.
ROSE-cheek’dLaura, come;Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’sSilent music, either otherSweetly gracing.Lovely forms do flowFrom concent divinely framèd:Heaven is music, and thy beauty’sBirth is heavenly.These dull notes we singDiscords need for helps to grace them;Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord;But still moves delight,Like clear springs renew’d by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in them-selves eternal.
ROSE-cheek’dLaura, come;Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’sSilent music, either otherSweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flowFrom concent divinely framèd:Heaven is music, and thy beauty’sBirth is heavenly.
These dull notes we singDiscords need for helps to grace them;Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord;
But still moves delight,Like clear springs renew’d by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in them-selves eternal.
Devotion
170.
FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as night,And she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv’st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!That so have scorchèd theeAs thou still black must be,Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;And this the black unhappy shade divineth.Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd.
FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as night,And she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv’st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!That so have scorchèd theeAs thou still black must be,Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;And this the black unhappy shade divineth.Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd.
FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!Though thou be black as night,And she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!Though here thou liv’st disgraced,And she in heaven is placed,Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!That so have scorchèd theeAs thou still black must be,Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!There comes a luckless nightThat will dim all her light;And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd!The sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,—The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd.
171.
FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again!All that I sung still to her praise did tend;Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again!All that I sung still to her praise did tend;Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again!
All that I sung still to her praise did tend;Still she was first, still she my songs did end;Yet she my love and music both doth fly,The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
172.
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finish’d loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finish’d loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finish’d loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake:When thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
173.
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-dog pays a gemYearly out of his wat’ry cellTo deck great Neptune’s diadem.The Tritons dancing in a ringBefore his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,And the sirens, taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make ev’ry echoing rock replyUnto their gentle murmuring noiseThe 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-dog pays a gemYearly out of his wat’ry cellTo deck great Neptune’s diadem.The Tritons dancing in a ringBefore his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,And the sirens, taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make ev’ry echoing rock replyUnto their gentle murmuring noiseThe 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-dog pays a gemYearly out of his wat’ry cellTo deck great Neptune’s diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ringBefore his palace gates do makeThe water with their echoes quake,Like the great thunder sounding:The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,And the sirens, taught to killWith their sweet voice,Make ev’ry echoing rock replyUnto their gentle murmuring noiseThe praise of Neptune’s empery.
174.
NOW winter nights enlargeThe number of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon the airy towers.Let now the chimneys blazeAnd cups o’erflow with wine;Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Now yellow waxen lightsShall wait on honey love,While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sightsSleep’s leaden spells remove.This time doth well dispenseWith lovers’ long discourse;Much speech hath some defenceThough beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joys,And winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.
NOW winter nights enlargeThe number of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon the airy towers.Let now the chimneys blazeAnd cups o’erflow with wine;Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Now yellow waxen lightsShall wait on honey love,While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sightsSleep’s leaden spells remove.This time doth well dispenseWith lovers’ long discourse;Much speech hath some defenceThough beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joys,And winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.
NOW winter nights enlargeThe number of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon the airy towers.Let now the chimneys blazeAnd cups o’erflow with wine;Let well-tuned words amazeWith harmony divine.Now yellow waxen lightsShall wait on honey love,While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sightsSleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispenseWith lovers’ long discourse;Much speech hath some defenceThough beauty no remorse.All do not all things well;Some measures comely tread,Some knotted riddles tell,Some poems smoothly read.The summer hath his joys,And winter his delights;Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,They shorten tedious nights.
175.
THE man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent;That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder’s violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus, scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
THE man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent;That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder’s violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus, scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
THE man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder’s violence:
He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
176.
NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,Never tirèd pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,Never tirèd pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,Never tirèd pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!
Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
16th Cent.
177.
SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,With Violet blue;Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,And eke her view;Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,With sweet delightOf goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred teintIn fine, most bright?Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,With Pink most fine;Since you beheld the visage of my dear,And eyes divine;
SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,With Violet blue;Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,And eke her view;Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,With sweet delightOf goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred teintIn fine, most bright?Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,With Pink most fine;Since you beheld the visage of my dear,And eyes divine;
SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,With Violet blue;Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,And eke her view;Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,With sweet delightOf goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred teintIn fine, most bright?
Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,With Pink most fine;Since you beheld the visage of my dear,And eyes divine;
177.teint] tint, hue.
177.teint] tint, hue.
DID not her globy front, and glistering hair,With cheeks most sweet,So gloriously like damask flowers appear,The gods to greet?Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,With Daisy gay;Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,In her array;Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus’ bower,With heavenly glee,A Juno’s grace, conjure you to requireHer face to see?Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,With Primrose fair,Since ye have seen my nymph’s sweet dainty faceAnd gesture rare,Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view(White Lily) shine—(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a graceLike stars divine?
DID not her globy front, and glistering hair,With cheeks most sweet,So gloriously like damask flowers appear,The gods to greet?Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,With Daisy gay;Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,In her array;Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus’ bower,With heavenly glee,A Juno’s grace, conjure you to requireHer face to see?Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,With Primrose fair,Since ye have seen my nymph’s sweet dainty faceAnd gesture rare,Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view(White Lily) shine—(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a graceLike stars divine?
DID not her globy front, and glistering hair,With cheeks most sweet,So gloriously like damask flowers appear,The gods to greet?
Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,With Daisy gay;Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,In her array;Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus’ bower,With heavenly glee,A Juno’s grace, conjure you to requireHer face to see?
Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,With Primrose fair,Since ye have seen my nymph’s sweet dainty faceAnd gesture rare,Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view(White Lily) shine—(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a graceLike stars divine?
1568-1639
178.
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 wood,That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what’s your praiseWhen Philomel her voice shall 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 wood,That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what’s your praiseWhen Philomel her voice shall 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 wood,That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what’s your praiseWhen Philomel her voice shall 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.
179.
HOW happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another’s will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And 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 raise,Nor 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 thought,And 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 raise,Nor 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 thought,And 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 raise,Nor 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.
180.
HE first deceased; she for a little triedTo live without him, liked it not, and died.
HE first deceased; she for a little triedTo live without him, liked it not, and died.
HE first deceased; she for a little triedTo live without him, liked it not, and died.
1569-1626
181.
IKNOW my soul hath power to know all things,Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.I know my life’s a pain and but a span;I know my sense is mock’d in everything;And, to conclude, I know myself a Man—Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.
IKNOW my soul hath power to know all things,Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.I know my life’s a pain and but a span;I know my sense is mock’d in everything;And, to conclude, I know myself a Man—Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.
IKNOW my soul hath power to know all things,Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life’s a pain and but a span;I know my sense is mock’d in everything;And, to conclude, I know myself a Man—Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.
1570-1638
182.
IDO confess thou’rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to be loved by none.I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the windThat kisseth everything it meets:And since thou canst with more than one,Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none.The morning rose that untouch’d standsArm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells:But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.Such fate ere long will thee betideWhen thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to be thrown aside;And I shall sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love to every oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
IDO confess thou’rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to be loved by none.I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the windThat kisseth everything it meets:And since thou canst with more than one,Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none.The morning rose that untouch’d standsArm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells:But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.Such fate ere long will thee betideWhen thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to be thrown aside;And I shall sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love to every oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
IDO confess thou’rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the windThat kisseth everything it meets:And since thou canst with more than one,Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none.
The morning rose that untouch’d standsArm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells:But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betideWhen thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to be thrown aside;And I shall sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love to every oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
183.
ILOVED thee once; I’ll love no more—Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away!Nothing could have my love o’erthrownIf thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recallThat it thou might elsewhere enthral:And then how could I but disdainA captive’s captive to remain?When new desires had conquer’d theeAnd changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so:Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.Yet do thou glory in thy choice—Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost:The height of my disdain shall beTo laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging at a beggar’s door.
ILOVED thee once; I’ll love no more—Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away!Nothing could have my love o’erthrownIf thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recallThat it thou might elsewhere enthral:And then how could I but disdainA captive’s captive to remain?When new desires had conquer’d theeAnd changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so:Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.Yet do thou glory in thy choice—Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost:The height of my disdain shall beTo laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging at a beggar’s door.
ILOVED thee once; I’ll love no more—Thine be the grief as is the blame;Thou art not what thou wast before,What reason I should be the same?He that can love unloved again,Hath better store of love than brain:God send me love my debts to pay,While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o’erthrownIf thou hadst still continued mine;Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own,I might perchance have yet been thine.But thou thy freedom didst recallThat it thou might elsewhere enthral:And then how could I but disdainA captive’s captive to remain?
When new desires had conquer’d theeAnd changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me,Not constancy, to love thee still.Yea, it had been a sin to goAnd prostitute affection so:Since we are taught no prayers to sayTo such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice—Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoiceTo see him gain what I have lost:The height of my disdain shall beTo laugh at him, to blush for thee;To love thee still, but go no moreA-begging at a beggar’s door.
1573-1637
184.
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State 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 wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night—Goddess excellently bright.
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State 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 wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night—Goddess excellently bright.
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State 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 wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night—Goddess excellently bright.
185.
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 breathe,And 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 breathe,And 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 breathe,And sent’st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!
186.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.Give me a look, give me a faceThat makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th’ adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.Give me a look, give me a faceThat makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th’ adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a faceThat makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th’ adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
187.
FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?At morn and even, shades are longest;At noon they are or short or none:So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they’re not known.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?
FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?At morn and even, shades are longest;At noon they are or short or none:So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they’re not known.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?
FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even, shades are longest;At noon they are or short or none:So men at weakest, they are strongest,But grant us perfect, they’re not known.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?
188.
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my Lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour’d do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love’s world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch’d brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch’d it?Have you mark’d but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch’d it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan’s down ever?O have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my Lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour’d do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love’s world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch’d brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch’d it?Have you mark’d but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch’d it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan’s down ever?O have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my Lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour’d do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love’s world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch’d brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch’d it?Have you mark’d but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch’d it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan’s down ever?O have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
189.
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,And yours of whom I sing be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise.A virtue, like allay so goneThroughout your form as, though that moveAnd draw and conquer all men’s love,This subjects you to love of one.Wherein you triumph yet—because’Tis of your flesh, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith or honour’s laws.
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,And yours of whom I sing be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise.A virtue, like allay so goneThroughout your form as, though that moveAnd draw and conquer all men’s love,This subjects you to love of one.Wherein you triumph yet—because’Tis of your flesh, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith or honour’s laws.
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,And yours of whom I sing be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay so goneThroughout your form as, though that moveAnd draw and conquer all men’s love,This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yet—because’Tis of your flesh, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith or honour’s laws.
189.allay] alloy.
189.allay] alloy.
BUT who should less expect from you?In whom alone Love lives again:By whom he is restored to men,And kept and bred and brought up true.His falling temples you have rear’d,The withered garlands ta’en away;His altars kept from that decayThat envy wish’d, and nature fear’d:And on them burn so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’s expense,As Love to acquit such excellenceIs gone himself into your name.And you are he—the deityTo whom all lovers are design’dThat would their better objects findAmong which faithful troop am I—Who as an off’ring at your shrineHave sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.Which if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view;Yet give me leave to adore in youWhat I in her am grieved to want!
BUT who should less expect from you?In whom alone Love lives again:By whom he is restored to men,And kept and bred and brought up true.His falling temples you have rear’d,The withered garlands ta’en away;His altars kept from that decayThat envy wish’d, and nature fear’d:And on them burn so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’s expense,As Love to acquit such excellenceIs gone himself into your name.And you are he—the deityTo whom all lovers are design’dThat would their better objects findAmong which faithful troop am I—Who as an off’ring at your shrineHave sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.Which if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view;Yet give me leave to adore in youWhat I in her am grieved to want!
BUT who should less expect from you?In whom alone Love lives again:By whom he is restored to men,And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have rear’d,The withered garlands ta’en away;His altars kept from that decayThat envy wish’d, and nature fear’d:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’s expense,As Love to acquit such excellenceIs gone himself into your name.
And you are he—the deityTo whom all lovers are design’dThat would their better objects findAmong which faithful troop am I—
Who as an off’ring at your shrineHave sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view;Yet give me leave to adore in youWhat I in her am grieved to want!
190.
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age;Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.Then in a soil hast planted meWhere breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professèd be,And pride and ignorance the schools;Where nothing is examined, weigh’d,But as ’tis rumour’d, so believed;Where every freedom is betray’d,And every goodness tax’d or grieved.But what we’re born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is suchThat what to all may happen here,If ’t chance to me, I must not grutch.Else I my state should much mistakeTo harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind—that, for my sake,There should a miracle be wrought.No, I do know that I was bornTo age, misfortune, sickness, grief:But I will bear these with that scornAs shall not need thy false relief.Nor for my peace will I go far,As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age;Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.Then in a soil hast planted meWhere breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professèd be,And pride and ignorance the schools;Where nothing is examined, weigh’d,But as ’tis rumour’d, so believed;Where every freedom is betray’d,And every goodness tax’d or grieved.But what we’re born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is suchThat what to all may happen here,If ’t chance to me, I must not grutch.Else I my state should much mistakeTo harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind—that, for my sake,There should a miracle be wrought.No, I do know that I was bornTo age, misfortune, sickness, grief:But I will bear these with that scornAs shall not need thy false relief.Nor for my peace will I go far,As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age;Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted meWhere breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professèd be,And pride and ignorance the schools;
Where nothing is examined, weigh’d,But as ’tis rumour’d, so believed;Where every freedom is betray’d,And every goodness tax’d or grieved.
But what we’re born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is suchThat what to all may happen here,If ’t chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistakeTo harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind—that, for my sake,There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I do know that I was bornTo age, misfortune, sickness, grief:But I will bear these with that scornAs shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far,As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.
191.
HIGH-spirited friend,I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound:Your fate hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal;And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mindWrapp’d in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapply,You are unkind.Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gain’d,Must now be rein’d.True valour doth her own renown commandIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do, than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis fame which you have caught:Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.’Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.
HIGH-spirited friend,I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound:Your fate hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal;And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mindWrapp’d in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapply,You are unkind.Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gain’d,Must now be rein’d.True valour doth her own renown commandIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do, than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis fame which you have caught:Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.’Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.
HIGH-spirited friend,I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound:Your fate hath foundA gentler and more agile hand to tendThe cure of that which is but corporal;And doubtful days, which were named critical,Have made their fairest flightAnd now are out of sight.Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mindWrapp’d in this paper lie,Which in the taking if you misapply,You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gain’d,Must now be rein’d.True valour doth her own renown commandIn one full action; nor have you now moreTo do, than be a husband of that store.Think but how dear you boughtThis fame which you have caught:Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.’Tis wisdom, and that high,For men to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.
Epitaphs
i
192.