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William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
137. It was a Lover and his Lass
IT was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that life was but a flower In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.
And, therefore, take the present time With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crown`d with the prime In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
138. Take, O take those Lips away
TAKE, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn! But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, Seal'd in vain!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
139. Aubade
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
140. Fidele
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
141. Bridal Song ? or John Fletcher.
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks, of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver; Merry springtime's harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweet Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pye, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
142. Dirge of the Three Queens ? or John Fletcher.
URNS and odours bring away! Vapours, sighs, darken the day! Our dole more deadly looks than dying; Balms and gums and heavy cheers, Sacred vials fill'd with tears, And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows, That are quick-eyed Pleasure's foes! We convent naught else but woes.
dole] lamentation. convent] summon.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
143. Orpheus ? or John Fletcher.
ORPHEUS with his lute made trees And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
144. The Phoenix and the Turtle
LET the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing Save the eagle, feather'd king: Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:— Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none; Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix' sight; Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appall'd, That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was call'd.
Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither; Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, 'How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none If what parts can so remain.'
Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix' nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
can] knows.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
145. Sonnets i
SHALL I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
146. Sonnets ii
WHEN, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising— Haply I think on thee: and then my state, Like to the Lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
147. Sonnets iii
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
148. Sonnets iv
THY bosom is endeared with all hearts Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead: And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead!—which now appear But things removed that hidden in thee lie. Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give: —That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I loved I view in thee, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
149. Sonnets v
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear; And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
foison] plenty.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
150. Sonnets vi
O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But—for their virtue only is their show— They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
151. Sonnets vii
BEING your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those! So true a fool is love, that in your Will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
152. Sonnets viii
THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold— Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang, In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after Sunset fadeth in the West, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
153. Sonnets ix
FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
154. Sonnets x
THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after loss: Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
155. Sonnets xi
THEY that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow— They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the Lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die; But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
156. Sonnets xii
HOW like a Winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime Like widow'd wombs after their Lord's decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute: Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter 's near.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
157. Sonnets xiii
FROM you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
158. Sonnets xiv
MY love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
159. Sonnets xv
TO me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
160. Sonnets xvi
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
161. Sonnets xvii
O NEVER say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify! As easy might I from myself depart, As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so prepost'rously be stain'd, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide Universe I call, Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
162. Sonnets xviii
LET me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom:— If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
163. Sonnets xix
TH' expense of Spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
164. Sonnets xx
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.
Richard Rowlands. 1565-1630?
165. Lullaby
UPON my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meantime his love maintains my life And 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 nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would; Because I would not be to thee But 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 thyself Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
166. 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!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
167. In Time of Pestilence 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 flower Which 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 wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness; Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply; I am sick, I must die— Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste therefore each degree To 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!
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
168. Cherry-Ripe
THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of 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 buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
169. Laura
ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow From concent divinely framed: Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing Discords need for helps to grace them; Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord;
But still moves delight, Like clear springs renew'd by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
170. Devotion i
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 scorched thee As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black so brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordained! The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,— The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
171. Devotion ii
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.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
172. Vobiscum est Iope
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From 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!
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
173. A Hymn in Praise of Neptune
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 yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell: And every sea-dog pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The water with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the sirens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make ev'ry echoing rock reply Unto their gentle murmuring noise The praise of Neptune's empery.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
174. Winter Nights
NOW winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though 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.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
175. Integer Vitae
THE man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence:
He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares That 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 inn And quiet pilgrimage.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
176. O come quickly!
NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired 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 Blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
John Reynolds. 16th Cent.
177. A Nosegay
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 delight Of goddess' grace and angels' sacred teint In fine, most bright?
Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair, With Pink most fine; Since you beheld the visage of my dear, And eyes 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 require Her face to see?
Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue, With Primrose fair, Since ye have seen my nymph's sweet dainty face And gesture rare, Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view (White Lily) shine— (Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace Like stars divine?
teint] tint, hue.
Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639
178. Elizabeth of Bohemia
YOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More 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 Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like 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 seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.
Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639
179. The Character of a Happy Life
HOW happy is he born and taught That 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 care Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; who never understood How 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 pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend;
—This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639
180. Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife
HE first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died.
Sir John Davies. 1569-1626
181. Man
I KNOW 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.
Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638
182. To His Forsaken Mistress
I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind That 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 stands Arm'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 betide When 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 one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638
183. To an Inconstant One
I LOVED 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'erthrown If 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 recall That it thou might elsewhere enthral: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquer'd thee And 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 go And prostitute affection so: Since we are taught no prayers to say To 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 rejoice To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
184. Hymn to Diana
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 shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night— Goddess excellently bright.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
185. To Celia
DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth 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 thee As giving it a hope that there It 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!
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
186. Simplex Munditiis
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 face That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
187. The Shadow
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?
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
188. The Triumph
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 duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd do wish, so they might But 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 light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or 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!
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
189. An Elegy
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay so gone Throughout your form as, though that move And 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 use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws.
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 wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay That 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 excellence Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he—the deity To whom all lovers are design'd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I—
Who as an off'ring at your shrine Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you What I in her am grieved to want!
allay] alloy.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
190. A Farewell to the World
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That 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 fear As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple years Thou 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 me Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts professed 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 such That what to all may happen here, If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake To harbour a divided thought From all my kind—that, for my sake, There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I do know that I was born To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear these with that scorn As 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.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
191. The Noble Balm
HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal; And doubtful days, which were named critical, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'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 command In one full action; nor have you now more To do, than be a husband of that store. Think but how dear you bought This 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.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
192. On Elizabeth L. H. Epitaphs: i
WOULDST thou hear what Man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much Beauty as could die: Which in life did harbour give To more Virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, The other, let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died, to tell Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
193. On Salathiel Pavy A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Epitaphs: ii
WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When Fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The 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 fate They 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.
Ben Jonson. 1573-1637
194. A Part of an Ode to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison
IT is not growing like a tree In 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 day Is 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, noble Lucius, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think—nay, know—thy Morison 's not dead. He leap'd the present age, Possest with holy rage To see that bright eternal Day Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memory—and Ben
Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or tast a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest In this bright Asterism Where it were friendship's schism— Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry— To separate these twy Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry. 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 chance Made, or indenture, or leased out to advance The profits for a time. No pleasures vain did chime Of 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 the Why You liked, then after, to apply That liking, and approach so one the t'other Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styled by his end The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the Virtue—nothing perfect done But as a CARY or a MORISON.
And such the force the fair example had As they that saw The good, and durst not practise it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind, Where they might read and find FRIENDSHIP 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.
John Donne. 1573-1631
195. Daybreak
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 die And perish in their infancy.
John Donne. 1573-1631
196. Song
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 find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives 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 she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.
John Donne. 1573-1631
197. That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation Against thy strength, Distance and length: Do what thou canst for alteration, For hearts of truest mettle Absence doth join and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality, His mind hath found Affection's ground Beyond time, place, and all mortality. To hearts that cannot vary Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
My senses want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win, Redoubled by her secret notion: Like rich men that take pleasure In hiding more than handling treasure.
By Absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her Where 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.
John Donne. 1573-1631
198. The Ecstasy
WHERE, like a pillow on a bed, A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented By a fast balm which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one; And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equal armies Fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls—which to advance their state Were 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.
John Donne. 1573-1631
199. The Dream
DEAR love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths and fables histories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not 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 when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee.
Coming and staying show'd thee thee, But rising makes me doubt that now Thou art not thou. That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit pure and brave If 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 I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
John Donne. 1573-1631
200. The Funeral
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That 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 control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do 't: except she meant that I By 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 am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came. As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
John Donne. 1573-1631
201. A Hymn to God the Father
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 won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A 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 spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more.
John Donne. 1573-1631
202. Death
DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die 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 well And 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!
Richard Barnefield. 1574-1627
203. Philomel
AS it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Lean'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 complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made 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 sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.
Thomas Dekker. 1575-1641
204. Sweet Content
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'd To 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 crisped 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!
Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650
205. Matin Song
PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To 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-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! Sing, birds, in every furrow! And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, You pretty elves, among yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow! Sing, birds, in every furrow!
stare] starling.
Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650
206. The Message
YE little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within 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' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With 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 falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
207. Sleep
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding!
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
208. Bridal Song
CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee We obey. Joy to this great company! And no day Come to steal this night away Till 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, set To the still winds, tell to all That gods are come, immortal, great, To honour this great nuptial!
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
209. Aspatia's Song
LAY a garland on my herse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
210. Hymn to Pan
SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm. Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke From that place the morn is broke To that place day doth unyoke!
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
211. Away, Delights
AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling, For I must die. Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling Lie after lie. For ever let me rest now from thy smarts; Alas, for pity go And fire their hearts That 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 me Shall be as I: For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry— 'Alas, for pity stay, And let us die With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.'
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
212. Love's Emblems
NOW the lusty spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view: Everywhere on every green Roses 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 white Daintily to love invite Every 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.'
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
213. Hear, ye Ladies
HEAR, ye ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise: Fair Callisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan; Danae, 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, higher He can build, and once more fire.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
214. God Lyaeus
GOD Lyaeus, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine: God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear.
mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
215. Beauty Clear and Fair
BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:
Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss— Make me live by serving you!
Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all! Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
216. Melancholy
HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein 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 fixed 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 fowls Are 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.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
217. Weep no more
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that 's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
John Webster. ?-1630?
218. A Dirge
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The 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.
dole] lamentation.
John Webster. ?-1630?
219. The Shrouding of the Duchess of Malfi
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.
John Webster. ?-1630?
220. Vanitas Vanitatum
ALL the flowers of the spring Meet 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 eye Like perfumes go out and die; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. 1580?-1640
221. Aurora
O HAPPY 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 stains Which thy Aurora rains Upon 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 burns From 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 fates Above the happiest states, Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
Phineas Fletcher. 1580-1650
222. A Litany
DROP, drop, slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from Heaven The news and Prince of Peace: Cease not, wet eyes, His mercy to entreat; To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease. In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let His eye See sin, but through my tears.
Sir John Beaumont. 1583-1627
223. Of his Dear Son, Gervase
DEAR Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature or his tender age; Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage: Let his pure soul, ordain'd seven years to be In that frail body which was part of me, Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show How to this port at every step I go.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
224. Invocation
PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy career may with roses spread; The nightingales thy coming each-where sing; Make an eternal spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn, That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray), Which, only white, deserves A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring into this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair King, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise: Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your stormy chiding stay; Let zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are; And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: Here is the pleasant place— And everything, save Her, who all should grace.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
225. Madrigal
LIKE the Idalian queen, Her hair about her eyne, With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The Graces naked danced about the place, The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed, The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wish'd me in her hand.
paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
226. Spring Bereaved 1
THAT zephyr every year So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green Meads were so early seen, That in the saddest months oft sung the merles, It was for her; for her trees dropp'd forth pearls. That proud and stately courts Did envy those our shades and calm resorts, It was for her; and she is gone, O woe! Woods cut again do grow, Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done; But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
227. Spring Bereaved 2
SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs: The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, Is gone—nor gold nor gems her can restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
228. Spring Bereaved 3
ALEXIS, here she stay'd; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. She set her by these musked eglantines, —The happy place the print seems yet to bear: Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face; Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, And I first got a pledge of promised grace: But ah! what served it to be happy so? Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
229. Her Passing
THE beauty and the life Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon —O tears! O grief!—hung at a feeble thread To which pale Atropos had set her knife; The soul with many a groan Had left each outward part, And now did take his last leave of the heart: Naught else did want, save death, ev'n to be dead; When the afflicted band about her bed, Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, Cried, 'Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?'
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
230. Inexorable
MY thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: —But he, grim-grinning King, Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
231. Change should breed Change
NEW doth the sun appear, The mountains' snows decay, Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year. My soul, time posts away; And thou yet in that frost Which flower and fruit hath lost, As if all here immortal were, dost stay. For shame! thy powers awake, Look to that Heaven which never night makes black, And there at that immortal sun's bright rays, Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!
William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649
232. Saint John Baptist
THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and mild. His food was locusts, and what young doth spring With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: 'All ye, whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!' —Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their marble caves 'Repent! Repent!'
Giles Fletcher. 158?-1623
233. Wooing Song
LOVE is the blossom where there blows Every thing that lives or grows: Love doth make the Heav'ns to move, And the Sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild: Love no med'cine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas: Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leavy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity! Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heav'n that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
Francis Beaumont. 1586-1616
234. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.' Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried— 'Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
John Ford. 1586-1639
235. Dawn
FLY hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep! Tho' the eyes be overtaken, Yet the heart doth ever waken Thoughts chain'd up in busy snares Of continual woes and cares: Love and griefs are so exprest As they rather sigh than rest. Fly hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep!
George Wither. 1588-1667
236. I loved a Lass
I LOVED a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!
Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpass her sister, Which pass'd all others far; She would me honey call, She'd—O she'd kiss me too! But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!
Many a merry meeting My love and I have had; She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad; The tears stood in her eyes Like to the morning dew: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!
Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!
To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo!
George Wither. 1588-1667
237. The Lover's Resolution
SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman 's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
George Wither. 1588-1667
238. The Choice
ME so oft my fancy drew Here and there, that I ne'er knew Where to place desire before So that range it might no more; But as he that passeth by Where, in all her jollity, Flora's riches in a row Do in seemly order grow, And a thousand flowers stand Bending as to kiss his hand; Out of which delightful store One he may take and no more; Long he pausing doubteth whether Of those fair ones he should gather.
First the Primrose courts his eyes, Then the Cowslip he espies; Next the Pansy seems to woo him, Then Carnations bow unto him; Which whilst that enamour'd swain From the stalk intends to strain, (As half-fearing to be seen) Prettily her leaves between Peeps the Violet, pale to see That her virtues slighted be; Which so much his liking wins That to seize her he begins.
Yet before he stoop'd so low He his wanton eye did throw On a stem that grew more high, And the Rose did there espy. Who, beside her previous scent, To procure his eyes content Did display her goodly breast, Where he found at full exprest All the good that Nature showers On a thousand other flowers; Wherewith he affected takes it, His beloved flower he makes it, And without desire of more Walks through all he saw before.
So I wand'ring but erewhile Through the garden of this Isle, Saw rich beauties, I confess, And in number numberless. Yea, so differing lovely too, That I had a world to do Ere I could set up my rest, Where to choose and choose the best.
Thus I fondly fear'd, till Fate (Which I must confess in that Did a greater favour to me Than the world can malice do me) Show'd to me that matchless flower, Subject for this song of our; Whose perfection having eyed, Reason instantly espied That Desire, which ranged abroad, There would find a period: And no marvel if it might, For it there hath all delight, And in her hath nature placed What each several fair one graced.
Let who list, for me, advance The admired flowers of France, Let who will praise and behold The reserved Marigold; Let the sweet-breath'd Violet now Unto whom she pleaseth bow; And the fairest Lily spread Where she will her golden head; I have such a flower to wear That for those I do not care.
Let the young and happy swains Playing on the Britain plains Court unblamed their shepherdesses, And with their gold curled tresses Toy uncensured, until I Grudge at their prosperity.
Let all times, both present, past, And the age that shall be last, Vaunt the beauties they bring forth. I have found in one such worth, That content I neither care What the best before me were; Nor desire to live and see Who shall fair hereafter be; For I know the hand of Nature Will not make a fairer creature.
George Wither. 1588-1667
239. A Widow's Hymn
HOW near me came the hand of Death, When at my side he struck my dear, And took away the precious breath Which quicken'd my beloved peer! How helpless am I thereby made! By day how grieved, by night how sad! And now my life's delight is gone, —Alas! how am I left alone!
The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day; Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoy'd in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
Lord! keep me faithful to the trust Which my dear spouse reposed in me: To him now dead preserve me just In all that should performed be! For though our being man and wife Extendeth only to this life, Yet neither life nor death should end The being of a faithful friend.
peer] companion.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
240. A Welcome
WELCOME, welcome! do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
He that to the voice is near Breaking from your iv'ry pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then...
He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then...
He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then...
He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, then...
He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then...
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
241. The Sirens' Song
STEER, hither steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners! Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers— Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. —Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
242. The Rose
A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray. God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
243. Song
FOR her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
244. Memory
SO shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath As night they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
245. In Obitum M.S. Xo Maij, 1614 Epitaphs
MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, Nor Flora's pride! In thee all flowers and roses spring, Mine only died.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
246. On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke Epitaphs
UNDERNEATH this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learn'd and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
247. Corinna's going a-Maying
GET up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree! Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since, yet you not drest; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimm'd with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see 't? Come, we'll abroad: and let 's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying.
There 's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth ere this is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd: yet we're not a-Maying!
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun. And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. |
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