WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Cymbeline
	GUIDERIUS
	Pray you fetch him hither.
	Thersites body is as good as Ajax,
	When neyther are alive.
	ARVIRAGUS
	If you’ll go fetch him,
	Wee’l say our Song the whil’st: Brother begin.
	GUID.
	Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th’East,
	My father hath a reason for’t.
	ARVI.
	’Tis true.
	GUID.
	Come on then, and remove him.
	ARVI.
	So, begin.
	Song.
	GUID.
	Feare no more the heate o’th’Sun,
	Nor the furious Winters rages,
	Thou thy worldly task hath don,
	Home art gon and tane they wages.
	Golden Lads, and Girles all must,
	As Chimney-sweepers come to dust.
	ARVI.
	Fear no more the frowne o’th’Great,
	Thou art past the Tirants stroake,
	Care no more to cloath and eate,
	To thee the Reede is as the Oake:
	The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,
	All follow this and come to dust.
	GUID.
	Feare no more the Lightning flash.
	ARVI.
	Nor th’all-dreaded Thunder stone.
	GUID.
	Feare not Slander, Censure rash.
	ARVI.
	Thou hast finish’d Joy and mone.
	BOTH
	All Lovers young, all Lovers must,
	Consigne to thee and come to dust.
	GUID.
	No Exorcisor harme thee,
	ARVI.
	Nor no witch-craft charme thee.
	GUID.
	Ghost unlaid forbeare thee.
	ARVI.
	Nothing ill come neare thee.
	BOTH
	Quiet consumation have,
	And renowned be thy grave.
	[Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten]
	GUID.
	We have done our obsequies: Come lay him downe. (1623)
	ANONYMOUS [Inscription in Osmington Church, Dorset]
	Man’s Life
	Man is a Glas: Life is
	A water that’s weakly
	walled about: sinne bring
	es death: death breakes
	the Glas: so runnes
	the water out
	finis.
	ANONYMOUS [Inscription in St Mary Magdalene Church, Milk Street, London]
	Grass of levity,
	Span in brevity,
	Flowers’ felicity,
	Fire of misery,
	Winds’ stability,
	Is mortality.
1610	JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD The Author Loving These Homely Meats specially, viz.: cream, pancakes, buttered, pippin-pies (laugh, good people) and tobacco; writ to that worthy and virtuous gentlewoman, whom he calleth mistress, as followeth
	If there were, oh! an Hellespont of cream
	Between us, milk-white mistress, I would swim
	To you, to show to both my love’s extreme,
	Leander-like, – yea! dive from brim to brim.
	But met I with a buttered pippin-pie
	Floating upon ’t, that would I make my boat
	To waft me to you without jeopardy,
	Though sea-sick I might be while it did float.
	Yet if a storm should rise, by night or day,
	Of sugar-snows and hail of caraways,
	Then, if I found a pancake in my way,
	It like a plank should bring me to your kays;
	Which having found, if they tobacco kept,
	The smoke should dry me well before I slept.
1611	from The Authorized Version of the Bible
	2 Samuel 1: 19–27 David lamenteth the death of Jonathan
	The beauty of Israel is slaine upon thy high places: how are the mightie fallen!
	Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streetes of Askelon: lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoyce, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.
	Yee mountaines of Gilboa, let there bee no dewe, neither let there be raine upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mightie is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though hee had not beene annointed with oile.
	From the blood of the slaine, from the fat of the mightie, the bow of Ionathan turned not backe, and the sword of Saul returned not emptie.
	Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter then Eagles, they were stronger then Lions.
	Yee daughters of Israel, weepe over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of golde upon your apparell.
	How are the mightie fallen in the midst of the battell! O Jonathan, thou wast slaine in thine high places.
	I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan, very pleasant hast thou beene unto mee: thy love to mee was wonderfull, passing the love of women.
	How are the mightie fallen, and the weapons of warre perished!
	Job 3: 3–26 Job curseth the day, and services of his birth
	Let the day perish, wherein I was borne, and the night in which it was said, There is a man-childe conceived.
	Let that day bee darkenesse, let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.
	Let darkenes and the shadowe of death staine it, let a cloud dwell upon it, let the blacknes of the day terrifie it.
	As for that night, let darkenesse seaze upon it, let it not be joyned unto the dayes of the yeere, let it not come into the number of the moneths.
	Loe, let that night be solitarie, let no joyfull voice come therein.
	Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning.
	Let the starres of the twilight thereof be darke, let it looke for light, but have none, neither let it see the dawning of the day:
	Because it shut not up the doores of my mothers wombe, nor hid sorrowe from mine eyes.
	Why died I not from the wombe? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the bellie?
	Why did the knees prevent mee? or why the breasts, that I should sucke?
	For now should I have lien still and beene quiet, I should have slept; then had I bene at rest,
	With Kings and counsellers of the earth, which built desolate places for themselves,
	Or with Princes that had golde, who filled their houses with silver:
	Or as an hidden untimely birth, I had not bene; as infants which never saw light.
	There the wicked cease from troubling: and there the wearie be at rest.
	There the prisoners rest together, they heare not the voice of the oppressour.
	The small and great are there, and the servant is free from his master.
	Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soule?
	Which long for death, but it commeth not, and dig for it more then for hid treasures:
	Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad when they can finde the grave?
	Why is light given to a man, whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?
	For my sighing commeth before I eate, and my roarings are powred out like the waters.
	For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of, is come unto me.
	I was not in safetie, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet: yet trouble came.
	Ecclesiastes 12: 1–8 The Creator is to be remembred in due time
	Remember now thy Creatour in the days of thy youth, while the evil daies come not, nor the yeeres drawe nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them:
	While the Sunne, or the light, or the moone, or the starres be not darkened, nor the cloudes returne after the raine:
	In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bowe themselves, and the grinders cease, because they are fewe, and those that looke out of the windowes be darkened:
	And the doores shal be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musicke shall be brought low.
	Also when they shalbe afraid of that which is high, and feares shall bee in the way, and the Almond tree shall flourish, and the grashopper shall be a burden, and desire shall faile: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners goe about the streets:
	Or ever the silver corde be loosed, or the golden bowle be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountaine, or the wheele broken at the cisterne.
	Then shall the dust returne to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall returne unto God who gave it.
	Vanitie of vanities (saith the preacher) all is vanitie.
	GEORGE CHAPMAN from The Iliads of Homer
	from The Third Booke [Helen and the Elders on the Ramparts]
	And as in well-growne woods, on trees, cold spinie Grashoppers
	Sit chirping and send voices out that scarce can pierce our eares
	For softnesse and their weake faint sounds; so (talking on the towre)
	These Seniors of the people sate, who, when they saw the powre
	Of beautie in the Queene ascend, even those cold-spirited Peeres,
	Those wise and almost witherd men, found this heate in their yeares
	That they were forc’t (though whispering) to say: ‘What man can blame
	The Greekes and Troyans to endure, for so admir’d a Dame,
	So many miseries, and so long? In her sweet countenance shine
	Lookes like the Goddesses’. And yet (though never so divine)
	Before we boast, unjustly still, of her enforced prise
	And justly suffer for her sake, with all our progenies,
	Labor and ruine, let her go: the profit of our land
	Must passe the beautie.’ Thus, though these could beare so fit a hand
	On their affections, yet when all their gravest powers were usde
	They could not chuse but welcome her, and rather they accusde
	The gods than beautie. For thus spake the most fam’d King of Troy:
	‘Come, loved daughter, sit by me, and take the worthy joy
	Of thy first husband’s sight, old friends’ and Princes’ neare allyed,
	And name me some of these brave Greekes, so manly beautified.
	Come: do not thinke I lay the warres, endur’d by us, on thee:
	The gods have sent them, and the teares in which they swumme to me.’
	from The Twelfth Booke [Sarpedon’s Speech to Glaucus]
	And as in winter time when Jove his cold-sharpe javelines throwes
	Amongst us mortals and is mov’d to white earth with his snowes
	(The winds asleepe) he freely poures, till highest Prominents,
	Hill tops, low meddowes and the fields that crowne with most contents
	The toiles of men, sea ports and shores are hid, and everie place
	But floods (that snowe’s faire tender flakes, as their owne brood, embrace):
	So both sides coverd earth with stones, so both for life contend
	To shew their sharpnesse. Through the wall, uprore stood up on end.
	Nor had great Hector and his friends the rampire overrun
	If heaven’s great Counsellour, high Jove, had not inflam’d his sonne
	Sarpedon (like the forrest’s king when he on Oxen flies)
	Against the Grecians: his round targe he to his arme applies,
	Brasse-leav’d without and all within thicke Oxe-hides quilted hard,
	The verge naild round with rods of gold; and with two darts prepard
	He leades his people. As ye see a mountaine Lion fare,
	Long kept from prey, in forcing which his high mind makes him dare
	Assault upon the whole full fold, though guarded never so
	With well-arm’d men and eager dogs – away he will not go
	But venture on and either snatch a prey or be a prey:
	So far’d divine Sarpedon’s mind, resolv’d to force his way
	Through all the fore-fights and the wall. Yet, since he did not see
	Others as great as he in name, as great in mind as he,
	He spake to Glaucus: ‘Glaucus, say why are we honord more
	Than other men of Lycia in place – with greater store
	Of meates and cups, with goodlier roofes, delightsome gardens, walks,
	More lands and better, so much wealth that Court and countrie talks
	Of us and our possessions and every way we go
	Gaze on us as we were their Gods? This where we dwell is so:
	The shores of Xanthus ring of this: and shall not we exceed
	As much in merit as in noise? Come, be we great in deed
	As well as looke, shine not in gold but in the flames of fight,
	That so our neat-arm’d Lycians may say: “See, these are right
	Our kings, our Rulers: these deserve to eate and drinke the best;
	These governe not ingloriously; these thus exceed the rest.
	Do more than they command to do.” O friend, if keeping backe
	Would keepe backe age from us, and death, and that we might not wracke
	In this life’s humane sea at all, but that deferring now
	We shund death ever – nor would I halfe this vaine valour show,
	Nor glorifie a folly so, to wish thee to advance:
	But, since we must go though not here, and that, besides the chance
	Proposd now, there are infinite fates of other sort in death
	Which (neither to be fled nor scap’t) a man must sinke beneath –
	Come, trie we if this sort be ours and either render thus
	Glorie to others or make them resigne the like to us.’
	ANONYMOUS A Belmans Song
	Maides to bed, and cover coale,
	Let the Mouse Out of her hole:
	Crickets in the Chimney sing,
	Whil’st the little Bell doth ring.
	If fast asleepe, who can tell
	When the Clapper hits the Bell.
	WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from The Winter’s Tale
	Enter Autolicus singing
	When Daffadils begin to peere.
	With heigh the Doxy over the dale,
	Why then comes in the sweet o’the yeere,
	For the red blood raigns in the winters pale.
	The white sheete bleaching on the hedge,
	With hey the sweet birds, O how they sing:
	Doth set my pugging tooth on edge
	For a quart of Ale is a dish for a King.
	The Larke that tirra-Lyra chaunts,
	With heigh, the Thrush and the Jay:
	Are Summer songs for me and my Aunts
	While we lye tumbling in the hay.
	(… )
	Enter Autolicus singing.
	Lawne as white as driven Snow,
	Cypresse black as ere was Crow,
	Gloves as sweete as Damask Roses,
	Maskes for faces, and for noses:
	Bugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber,
	Perfume for a Ladies Chamber:
	Golden Quoifes, and Stomachers
	For my Lads, to give their deers:
	Pins, and poaking-stickes of steele.
	What Maids lacke from head to heele:
	Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,
	Buy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: come buy.
	(1623)
	WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from The Tempest
	Enter Ferdinand & Ariel, invisible playing and singing.
	Ariels Song.
	Come unto these yellow sands,
	and then take hands:
	Curtsied when you have, and kist
	The wilde waves whist:
	Foote it featly heere, and there,
	And Sweet Sprights beare
	The burthen.
	[Burthern dispersedly.] Bowgh-wawgh.
	ARIEL
	The watch-Dogges barke:
	[Burthen dispersedly.] Bowgh-wawgh.
	ARIEL
	Hark, hark, I heare
	The straine of strutting Chanticlere
	Cry cockadidle-dowe.
	FERDINAND
	Where should this Musick be? I’th’aire, or th’earth?
	It sounds no more: and sure it waytes upon
	Some God o’th’Iland, sitting on a banke,
	Weeping againe the King my Fathers wracke.
	This Musicke crept by me upon the waters,
	Allaying both their fury, and my passion
	With its sweet ayre: thence have I follow’d it
	(Or it hath drawne me rather) but ’tis gone.
	No, it begins againe.
	Full fadom five thy Father lies,
	Of his bones are Corall made:
	Those are pearles that were his eies,
	Nothing of him that doth fade,
	But doth suffer a Sea-change
	Into something rich, and strange:
	Sea Nimphs hourly ring his knell.
	[Burthen: ding dong.]
	ARIEL
	Harke now I heare them, ding-dong bell.
	(1623)
1612	JOHN WEBSTER from The White Divel
	FLAMINEO
	I would I were from hence.
	CORNELIA
	Do you heere, sir?
	Ile give you a saying which my grandmother
	Was wont, when she heard the bell tolle, to sing ore
	to her lute.
	FLA.
	Doe, and you will, doe.
	COR.
	Call for the Robin-Red-brest and the wren,
	Since ore shadie groves they hover,
	And with leaves and flowres doe cover
	The friendlesse bodies of unburied men.
	Call unto his funerall Dole
	The Ante, the field-mouse, and the mole
	To reare him hillockes, that shall keepe him warme,
	And (when gay tombes are rob’d) sustaine no harme,
	But keepe the wolfe far thence, that’s foe to men,
	For with his nailes hee’l dig them up agen.
	They would not bury him ’cause hee died in a quarrell
	But I have an answere for them.
	Let holie Church receive him duly
	Since hee payd the Church tithes truly.
	GEORGE CHAPMAN from the Latin of Epictetus
	Pleasd with thy Place
	God hath the whole world perfect made, and free;
	His parts to th’use of all. Men then, that be
	Parts of that all, must as the generall sway
	Of that importeth, willingly obay
	In everie thing, without their powres to change.
	He that (unpleasd to hold his place) will range,
	Can in no other be containd, thats fit:
	And so resisting all, is crusht with it.
	But he that knowing how divine a frame
	The whole world is, and of it all can name
	(Without selfe flatterie) no part so divine
	As he himselfe, and therefore will confine
	Freely, his whole powres, in his proper part:
	Goes on most god-like. He that strives t’invert
	The universall course, with his poore way:
	Not onely, dustlike, shivers with the sway;
	But (crossing God in his great worke) all earth
	Beares not so cursed, and so damn’d a birth.
	This then the universall discipline
	Of manners comprehends: a man to joyne
	Himselfe with th’universe, and wish to be
	Made all with it, and go on, round as he.
	Not plucking from the whole his wretched part,
	And into streights, or into nought revert:
	Wishing the complete universe might be
	Subject to such a ragge of it, as he.
	But to consider great necessitie,
	All things, as well refract, as voluntarie
	Reduceth to the high celestiall cause:
	Which he that yeelds to, with a mans applause,
	And cheeke by cheeke goes, crossing it, no breath,
	But like Gods image followes to the death:
	That man is perfect wise, and everie thing,
	(Each cause and everie part distinguishing)
	In nature, with enough Art understands,
	And that full glorie merits at all hands,
	That doth the whole world, at all parts adorne,
	And appertaines to one celestiall borne.
	THOMAS CAMPION
	Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore,
	Never tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more,
	Then my weary spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest.
	O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest.
	Ever-blooming are the joyes of Heav’ns high paradice,
	Cold age deafes not there our eares, nor vapour dims our eyes;
	Glory there the Sun outshines, whose beames the blessed onely see:
	O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee.
	WILLIAM FOWLER
	Ship-broken men whom stormy seas sore toss
	Protests with oaths not to adventure more;
	Bot all their perils, promises, and loss
	They quite forget when they come to the shore:
	Even so, fair dame, whiles sadly I deplore
	The shipwreck of my wits procured by you,
	Your looks rekindleth love as of before,
	And dois revive which I did disavow;
	So all my former vows I disallow,
	And buries in oblivion’s grave, but groans;
	Yea, I forgive, hereafter, even as now
	My fears, my tears, my cares, my sobs, and moans,
	In hope if anes I be to shipwreck driven,
	Ye will me thole to anchor in your heaven.
	JOHN WEBSTER from The Dutchesse of Malfy 1614
	BOSOLA
	I am the common Bell-man, ()[Takes up the Bell.]()
	That usually is sent to condemn’d persons
	The night before they suffer:
	DUCHESS
	Even now thou said’st,
	Thou wast a tombe-maker?
	BOS.
	’Twas to bring you
	By degrees to mortification: Listen. ()[Rings his bell.]()
	Hearke, now every thing is still—
	The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill,
	Call upon our Dame, aloud,
	And bid her quickly don her shrowd:
	Much you had of Land and rent,
	Your length in clay’s now competent.
	A long war disturb’d your minde,
	Here your perfect peace is sign’d—
	Of what is’t fooles make such vaine keeping?
	Sin their conception, their birth, weeping:
	Their life, a generall mist of error,
	Their death, a hideous storme of terror—
	Strew your haire, with powders sweete:
	Don cleane linnen, bath your feete,
	And (the foule feend more to checke)
	A crucifixe let blesse your necke,
	’Tis now full tide, ’tweene night, and day,
	End your groane, and come away.
	CARIOLA
	Hence villaines, tyrants, murderers: alas!
	What will you do with my Lady? call for helpe.
	DUCH.
	To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folkes.
1615	SIR JOHN HARINGTON Of Treason
	Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?
	For if it prosper, none dare call it Treason.
	ANONYMOUS [Tom o’ Bedlam’s Song]
	From the hagg and hungrie goblin
	That into raggs would rend ye,
	And the spirit that stands by the naked man
	In the Book of Moones defend yee,
	That of your five sounde sences
	You never be forsaken,
	Nor wander from your selves with Tom
	Abroad to begg your bacon.
	While I doe sing Any foode, any feeding,
	Feedinge, drinke or clothing
	Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
	Poor Tom will injure nothing.
	Of thirty bare years have I
	Twice twenty bin enraged,
	And of forty bin three tymes fifteene
	In durance soundlie cagèd
	On the lordlie loftes of Bedlam,
	With stubble softe and dainty,
	Brave braceletts strong, sweet whips ding dong,
	With wholsome hunger plenty.
	And nowe I sing, etc.
	With a thought I tooke for Maudlin,
	And a cruse of cockle pottage,
	With a thing thus tall, skie blesse you all,
	I befell into this dotage.
	I slept not since the Conquest,
	Till then I never waked,
	Till the rogysh boy of love where I lay
	Mee found and strip’t mee naked.
	And nowe I sing, etc.
	When I short have shorne my sow’s face
	And swigg’d my horny barrel,
	In an oaken inne I pound my skin
	As a suite of guilt apparell.
	The moon’s my constant Mistrisse,
	And the lowlie owle my marrowe,
	The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make
	Mee musicke to my sorrowe.
	While I doe sing, etc.
	The palsie plagues my pulses
	When I prigg your pigs or pullen,
	Your culvers take, or matchles make
	Your Chanticleare, or Sullen.
	When I want provant, with Humfrie
	I sup, and when benighted,
	I repose in Powles with waking soules
	Yet nevere am affrighted.
	But I doe sing, etc.
	I knowe more then Apollo,
	For oft, when hee ly’s sleeping,
	I see the starres att bloudie warres
	In the wounded welkin weeping;
	The moone embrace her shepheard,
	And the quene of Love her warryor,
	While the first doth horne the star of morne,
	And the next the heavenly Farrier.
	While I doe sing, etc.
	The Gipsie Snap and Pedro
	Are none of Tom’s comradoes,
	The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworn
	And the roaring boyes bravadoe.
	The meeke, the white, the gentle,
	Me handle touch and spare not
	But those that crosse Tom Rynosseros
	Doe what the panther dare not.
	Although I sing, etc.
	With an host of furious fancies,
	Whereof I am commander,
	With a burning speare, and a horse of aire,
	To the wildernesse I wander.
	By a knight of ghostes and shadowes
	I summon’d am to tourney
	Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end.
	Me thinke it is noe journey.
	Yet will I sing, etc.
1616	BEN JONSON from Epigrammes
	XIV To William Camden
	Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
	All that I am in arts, all that I know,
	(How nothing’s that?) to whom my countrey owes
	The great renowne, and name wherewith shee goes.
	Then thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
	More high, more holy, that shee more would crave.
	What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
	What sight in searching the most antique springs!
	What weight, and what authoritie in thy speech!
	Man scarse can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
	Pardon free truth, and let thy modestie,
	Which conquers all, be once over-come by thee.
	Many of thine this better could, then I,
	But for their powers, accept my pietie.
	XLV On My First Sonne
	Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
	My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy,
	Seven yeeres tho’wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
	Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
	O, could I loose all father, now. For why
	Will man lament the state he should envie?
	To have so soone scap’d worlds, and fleshes rage,
	And, if no other miserie, yet age?
	Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say here doth lye
	BEN. JONSON his best piece of poetrie.
	For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
	As what he loves may never like too much.
	LIX On Spies
	Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuffe,
	Who, when you’have burnt your selves downe to the snuffe,
	Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.
	CI Inviting a Friend to Supper
	To night, grave sir, both my poore house, and I
	Doe equally desire your companie:
	Not that we thinke us worthy such a ghest,
	But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
	With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme
	Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
	It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
	The entertaynment perfect: not the cates.
	Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
	An olive, capers, or some better sallade
	Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg’d hen,
	If we can get her, full of egs, and then,
	Limons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
	Is not to be despair’d of, for our money;
	And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarkes,
	The skie not falling, thinke we may have larkes.
	Ile tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
	Of partrich, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some
	May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
	Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man
	Shall reade a piece of VIRGIL, TACITUS,
	LIVIE, or of some better booke to us,
	Of which wee’ll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
	And Ile professe no verses to repeate:
	To this, if ought appeare, which I not know of,
	That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
	Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
	But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
	Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
	Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:
	Of which had HORACE, or ANACREON tasted,
	Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
	Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
	Are all but LUTHERS beere, to this I sing.
	Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
	And we will have no Pooly’, or Parrot by;
	Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
	But, at our parting, we will be, as when
	We innocently met. No simple word,
	That shall be utter’d at our mirthfull boord,
	Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
	The libertie, that wee’ll enjoy to night.
	CXVIII On Gut
	Gut eates all day, and lechers all the night,
	So all his meate he tasteth over, twise:
	And, striving so to double his delight,
	He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice.
	Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,
	Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.
	BEN JONSON from The Forrest
	To Heaven
	Good, and great GOD, can I not thinke of thee,
	But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
	Is it interpreted in me disease,
	That, laden with my sinnes, I seeke for ease?
	O, be thou witnesse, that the reynes dost know,
	And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
	And judge me after: if I dare pretend
	To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.
	As thou art all, so be thou all to mee,
	First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
	My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,
	My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate.
	Where have I beene this while exil’d from thee?
	And whither rap’d, now thou but stoup’st to mee?
	Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where,
	How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here?
	I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne,
	Conceiv’d in sinne, and unto labour borne,
	Standing with feare, and must with horror fall,
	And destin’d unto judgement, after all.
	I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground,
	Upon my flesh to’inflict another wound.
	Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death
	With holy PAUL, lest it be thought the breath
	Of discontent; or that these prayers bee
	For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.
	WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN Sonnet
	How many times Nights silent Queene her Face
	Hath hid, how oft with Starres in silver Maske
	In Heavens great Hall shee hath begunne her Taske,
	And chear’d the waking Eye in lower Place:
	How oft the Sunne hath made by Heavens swift Race
	The happie Lover to forsake the Brest
	Of his deare Ladie, wishing in the West
	His golden Coach to runne had larger Space:
	I ever count, and number, since alas
	I bade Farewell to my Hearts dearest Guest,
	The Miles I compasse, and in Minde I chase
	The Flouds and Mountaines holde mee from my Rest:
	But (woe is mee) long count and count may I,
	Ere I see Her whose Absence makes mee die.
	WILLIAM BROWNE from Britannia’s Pastorals
	[The Golden Age: Flower-weaving]
	The Pansie, Thistle, all with prickles set,
	The Cowslip, Honisuckle, Violet,
	And many hundreds more that grac’d the Meades,
	Gardens and Groves, (where beauteous Flora treads)
	Were by the Shepheards Daughters (as yet are
	Us’d in our Cotes) brought home with speciall care:
	For bruising them they not alone would quell
	But rot the rest, and spoile their pleasing smell.
	Much like a Lad, who in his tender prime
	Sent from his friends to learne the use of time,
	As are his mates, or good or bad, so he
	Thrives to the world, and such his actions be.
	As in the Rainbowes many coloured hewe
	Here see wee watchet deepned with a blewe,
	There a darke tawny with a purple mixt,
	Yealow and flame, with streakes of greene betwixt,
	A bloudy streame into a blushing run
	And ends still with the colour which begun,
	Drawing the deeper to a lighter staine,
	Bringing the lightest to the deep’st againe,
	With such rare Art each mingleth with his fellow,
	The blewe with watchet, greene and red with yealow;
	Like to the changes which we daily see
	About the Doves necke with varietie,
	Where none can say (though he it strict attends)
	Here one begins; and there the other ends:
	So did the Maidens with their various flowres
	Decke up their windowes, and make neate their bowres:
	Using such cunning as they did dispose
	The ruddy Piny with the lighter Rose,
	The Moncks-hood with the Buglosse, and intwine
	The white, the blewe, the flesh-like Columbine
	With Pinckes, Sweet-williams; that farre off the eye
	Could not the manner of their mixtures spye.
	Then with those flowres they most of all did prise,
	(With all their skill and in most curious wise
	On tufts of Hearbs or Rushes) would they frame
	A daintie border round their Shepheards name.
	Or Poesies make, so quaint, so apt, so rare,
	As if the Muses onely lived there:
	And that the after world should strive in vaine
	What they then did to counterfeit againe.
	Nor will the Needle nor the Loome e’re be
	So perfect in their best embroderie,
	Nor such composures make of silke and gold,
	As theirs, when Nature all her cunning told.
	THOMAS CAMPION
	There is a Garden in her face,
	Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
	A heav’nly paradice is that place,
	Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
	There Cherries grow which none may buy
	Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
	Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
	Of Orient Pearle a double row,
	Which when her lovely laughter showes,
	They look like Rose-buds fill’d with snow.
	Yet them nor Peere, nor Prince can buy,
	Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
	Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
	Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
	Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
	All that attempt with eye or hand
	Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
	Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
	THOMAS CAMPION
	Now winter nights enlarge
	The number of their houres,
	And clouds their stormes discharge
	Upon the ayrie towres,
	Let now the chimneys blaze
	And cups o’erflow with wine:
	Let well-tun’d words amaze
	With harmonie divine.
	Now yellow waxen lights
	Shall waite on hunny Love,
	While youthfull Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights,
	Sleepes leaden spels remove.
	This time doth well dispence
	With lovers long discourse;
	Much speech hath some defence,
	Though beauty no remorse.
	All doe not all things well;
	Some measures comely tread;
	Some knotted Ridles tell;
	Some Poems smoothly read.
	The Summer hath his joyes,
	And Winter his delights;
	Though Love and all his pleasures are but toyes,
	They shorten tedious nights.
	SIR WALTER RALEGH [Sir Walter Ralegh to his Sonne] 1618
	Three thinges there bee that prosper up apace
	And flourish, whilest they growe asunder farr,
	But on a day, they meet all in one place,
	And when they meet, they one another marr;
	And they bee theise: the wood, the weede, the wagg.
	The wood is that, which makes the Gallow tree,
	The weed is that, which stringes the Hangmans bagg,
	The wagg my pritty knave betokeneth thee.
	Marke well deare boy whilest theise assemble not,
	Green springs the tree, hempe growes, the wagg is wilde,
	But when they meet, it makes the timber rott,
	It fretts the halter, and it choakes the childe.
	Then bless thee, and beware, and lett us praye,
	Wee part not with the at this meeting day.
	(1870)
	SIR WALTER RALEGH from The Ocean to Scinthia
	Butt stay my thoughts, make end, geve fortune way
	harshe is the voice of woe and sorrows sounde
	cumplaynts cure not, and teares do butt allay
	greifs for a tyme, which after more abounde
	to seeke for moysture in th’arabien sande
	is butt a losse of labor, and of rest
	the lincks which tyme did break of harty bands
	words cannot knytt, or waylings make a new,
	seeke not the soonn in cloudes, when it is sett…
	On highest mountaynes wher thos Sedars grew
	agaynst whose bancks, the trobled ocean bett
	and weare the markes to finde thy hoped port
	into a soyle farr of them sealves remove
	on Sestus shore, Leanders late resorte
	Hero hath left no lampe to Guyde her love
	Thow lookest for light in vayne, and stormes arize
	Shee sleaps thy death, that erst thy danger syth-ed
	strive then no more bow down thy weery eyes
	eyes, which to all thes woes thy hart have guided
	Shee is gonn, Shee is lost, shee is found, shee is ever faire,
	Sorrow drawes weakly, wher love drawes not too
	Woes cries, sound nothinge, butt only in loves eare
	Do then by Diinge, what life cannot doo…
	Unfolde thy flockes, and leve them to the feilds
	to feed on hylls, or dales, wher likes them best
	of what the summer, or the springetyme yeildes
	for love, and tyme, hath geven thee leve to rest
	Thy hart which was their folde now in decay
	by often stormes, and winters many blasts
	all torne and rent becumes misfortunes pray,
	falce hope, my shepherds staff now age hath brast
	My pipe, which loves own hand, gave my desire
	to singe her prayses, and my wo uppon
	Dispaire hath often threatned to the fier
	as vayne to keipe now all the rest ar gonn.
	Thus home I draw, as deaths longe night drawes onn
	yet every foot, olde thoughts turne back myne eyes
	constraynt mee guides as old age drawes a stonn
	agaynst the hill, which over wayghty lyes
	for feebell armes, or wasted strenght to move
	my steapps ar backwarde, gasinge onn my loss,
	my minds affection, and my sowles sole love,
	not mixte with fances chafe, or fortunes dross,
	to god I leve it, who first gave it me,
	and I her gave, and she returnd agayne,
	as it was herrs, so lett his mercies bee,
	of my last cumforts, the essentiall meane.
	But be it so, or not, th’effects, ar past,
	her love hath end, my woe must ever last.
	(1870)
	SIR WALTER RALEGH
	Even suche is tyme that takes in trust
	our youth, our joies and what we have
	And paies us but with earth, and dust
	which in the Darke and silent grave
	when we have wandred all our waies
	shutts up the storie of our daies:
	But from this earth, this grave this dust
	The Lord will raise me up I trust.
	MICHAEL DRAYTON from Idea 1619
	61
	Since ther’s no helpe, Come let us kisse and part,
	Nay, I have done: You get no more of Me,
	And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,
	That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,
	Shake hands for ever, Cancell all our Vowes,
	And when We meet at any time againe,
	Be it not seene in either of our Browes,
	That We one jot of former Love reteyne;
	Now at the last gaspe, of Loves latest Breath,
	When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,
	When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,
	And Innocence is closing up his Eyes,
	Now if thou would’st, when all have given him over,
	From Death to Life, thou might’st him yet recover.
	ANONYMOUS
	Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
	With feathers like a lady bright,
	Thou sing’st alone, sitting by night,
	Te whit, te whoo, te whit, te whoo.
	Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,
	With shrill command the mouse controls,
	And sings a dirge for dying souls,
	Te whit, te whoo, te whit, te whoo.
1620	JOHN DONNE The Canonization
	For Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love,
	Or chide my palsie, or my gout,
	My five gray haires, or ruin’d fortune flout,
	With wealth your state, your minde with Arts improve,
	Take you a course, get you a place,
	Observe his honour, or his grace,
	Or the Kings reall, or his stamped face
	Contemplate, what you will, approve,
	So you will let me love.
	Alas, alas, who’s injur’d by my love?
	What merchants ships have my sighs drown’d?
	Who saies my teares have overflow’d his ground?
	When did my colds a forward spring remove?
	When did the heats which my veines fill
	Adde one more, to the plaguie Bill?
	Soldiers finde warres, and Lawyers finde out still
	Litigious men, which quarrels move,
	Though she and I do love.
	Call us what you will, wee are made such by love;
	Call her one, mee another flye,
	We’are Tapers too, and at our owne cost die,
	And wee in us finde the’Eagle and the dove;
	The Phœnix ridle hath more wit
	By us, we two being one, are it.
	So, to one neutrall thing both sexes fit,
	Wee dye and rise the same, and prove
	Mysterious by this love.
	Wee can dye by it, if not live by love,
	And if unfit for tombes and hearse
	Our legend bee, it will be fit for verse;
	And if no peece of Chronicle wee prove,
	We’ll build in sonnets pretty roomes;
	As well a well wrought urne becomes
	The greatest ashes, as halfe-acre tombes,
	And by these hymnes, all shall approve
	Us Canoniz’d for Love.
	And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love
	Made one anothers hermitage;
	You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
	Who did the whole worlds soule contract, and drove
	Into the glasses of your eyes
	So made such mirrors, and such spies,
	That they did all to you epitomize,
	Countries, Townes, Courts: Beg from above
	A patterne of your love.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE A Nocturnall upon S. Lucies Day, Being the Shortest Day
	’Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
	Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
	The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
	Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
	The world’s whole sap is sunke:
	The generall balme th’hydroptique earth hath drunk,
	Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunke,
	Dead and enterr’d; yet all these seeme to laugh,
	Compar’d with mee, who am their Epitaph.
	Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
	At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
	For I am every dead thing,
	In whom love wrought new Alchimie.
	For his art did expresse
	A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
	From dull privations, and leane emptinesse:
	He ruin’d mee, and I am re-begot
	Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.
	All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,
	Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;
	I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
	Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood
	Have wee two wept, and so
	Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
	To be two Chaosses, when we did show
	Care to ought else; and often absences
	Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.
	But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)
	Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;
	Were I a man, that I were one,
	I needs must know; I should preferre,
	If I were any beast,
	Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,
	And love; all, all some properties invest;
	If I an ordinary nothing were,
	As shadow, a light, and body must be here.
	But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.
	You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne
	At this time to the Goat is runne
	To fetch new lust, and give it you,
	Enjoy your summer all;
	Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,
	Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call
	This houre her Vigill, and her eve, since this
	Both the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE Loves Growth
	I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure
	As I had thought it was,
	Because it doth endure
	Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse;
	Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore,
	My love was infinite, if spring make’it more.
	But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
	With more, not onely bee no quintessence,
	But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense,
	And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,
	Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
	To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse,
	But as all else, being elemented too,
	Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
	And yet not greater, but more eminent,
	Love by the spring is growne;
	As, in the firmament,
	Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg’d, but showne.
	Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough,
	From loves awaken’d root do bud out now.
	If, as in water stir’d more circles bee
	Produc’d by one, love such additions take,
	Those like to many spheares, but one heaven make,
	For, they are all concentrique unto thee;
	And though each spring doe adde to love new heate,
	As princes doe in times of action get
	New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
	No winter shall abate the springs encrease.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
	As virtuous men passe mildly away,
	And whisper to their soules, to goe,
	Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,
	The breath goes now, and some say, no:
	So let us melt, and make no noise,
	No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
	‘Twere prophanation of our joyes
	To tell the layetie our love.
	Moving of th’earth brings harmes and feares,
	Men reckon what it did and meant,
	But trepidation of the spheares,
	Though greater farre, is innocent.
	Dull sublunary lovers love
	(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit
	Absence, because it doth remove
	Those things which elemented it.
	But we by a love, so much refin’d,
	That our selves know not what it is,
	Inter-assured of the mind,
	Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse.
	Our two soules therefore, which are one,
	Though I must goe, endure not yet
	A breach, but an expansion,
	Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.
	If they be two, they are two so
	As stiffe twin compasses are two,
	Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
	To move, but doth, if the’other doe.
	And though it in the center sit,
	Yet when the other far doth rome,
	It leanes, and hearkens after it,
	And growes erect, as that comes home.
	Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
	Like th’other foot, obliquely runne;
	Thy firmnes makes my circle just,
	And makes me end, where I begunne.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE The Exstasie
	Where, like a pillow on a bed,
	A Pregnant banke swel’d up, to rest
	The violets reclining head,
	Sat we two, one anothers best;
	Our hands were firmely cimented
	With a fast balme, which thence did spring,
	Our eye-beames twisted, and did thred
	Our eyes, upon one double string;
	So to’entergraft our hands, as yet
	Was all our meanes to make us one,
	And pictures in our eyes to get
	Was all our propagation.
	As ’twixt two equal Armies, Fate
	Suspends uncertaine victorie,
	Our soules, (which to advance their state,
	Were gone out,) hung ’twixt her, and mee.
	And whil’st our soules negotiate there,
	Wee like sepulchrall statues lay;
	All day, the same our postures were,
	And wee said nothing, all the day.
	If any, so by love refin’d,
	That he soules language understood,
	And by good love were growen all minde,
	Within convenient distance stood,
	He (though he knew not which soule spake,
	Because both meant, both spake the same)
	Might thence a new concoction take,
	And part farre purer then he came.
	This Extasie doth unperplex
	(We said) and tell us what we love,
	Wee see by this, it was not sexe,
	Wee see, we saw not what did move:
	But as all severall soules containe
	Mixture of things, they know not what,
	Love, these mixt soules, doth mixe againe,
	And makes both one, each this and that.
	A single violet transplant,
	The strength, the colour, and the size,
	(All which before was poore, and scant,)
	Redoubles still, and multiplies.
	When love, with one another so
	Interinanimates two soules,
	That abler soule, which thence doth flow,
	Defects of lonelinesse controules.
	Wee then, who are this new soule, know,
	Of what we are compos’d, and made,
	For, th’Atomies of which we grow,
	Are soules, whom no change can invade.
	But O alas, so long, so farre
	Our bodies why doe wee forbeare?
	They’are ours, though they’are not wee, Wee are
	Th’intelligences, they the spheare.
	We owe them thankes, because they thus,
	Did us, to us, at first convay,
	Yeelded their forces, sense, to us,
	Nor are drosse to us, but allay.
	On man heavens influence workes not so,
	But that it first imprints the ayre,
	Soe soule into the soule may flow,
	Though it to body first repaire.
	As our blood labours to beget
	Spirits, as like soules as it can,
	Because such fingers need to knit
	That subtile knot, which makes us man:
	So must pure lovers soules descend
	T’affections, and to faculties,
	Which sense may reach and apprehend,
	Else a great Prince in prison lies.
	To’our bodies turne wee then, that so
	Weake men on love reveal’d may looke;
	Loves mysteries in soules doe grow,
	But yet the body is his booke.
	And if some lover, such as wee,
	Have heard this dialogue of one,
	Let him still marke us, he shall see
	Small change, when we’are to bodies gone.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE from Holy Sonnets
	VII
	At the round earths imagin’d corners, blow
	Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
	From death, you numberlesse infinities
	Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,
	All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
	All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
	Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
	Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.
	But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
	For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
	’Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
	When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
	Teach mee how to repent; for that’s as good
	As if thou’hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.
	X
	Death be not proud, though some have called thee
	Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
	For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
	Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;
	From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
	Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
	And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
	Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
	Thou’art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
	And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
	And poppie,’or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
	And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
	One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
	And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.
	XIV
	Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you
	As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
	That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’ and bend
	Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
	I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,
	Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,
	Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
	But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue,
	Yet dearely’I love you, and would be lov’d faine,
	But am betroth’d unto your enemie,
	Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe,
	Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
	Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,
	Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors Last Going into Germany
	In what tome ship soever I embarke,
	That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke;
	What sea soever swallow mee, that flood
	Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;
	Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
	Thy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes,
	Which, though they turne away sometimes,
	They never will despise.
	I sacrifice this Iland unto thee,
	And all whom I lov’d there, and who lov’d mee;
	When I have put our seas twixt them and mee,
	Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee.
	As the trees sap doth seeke the root below
	In winter, in my winter now I goe,
	Where none but thee, th’Eternall root
	Of true love I may know.
	Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule,
	The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,
	But thou would’st have that love thy selfe: As thou
	Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,
	Thou lov’st not, till from loving more, thou free
	My soule: Who ever gives, takes libertie:
	O, if thou car’st not whom I love,
	Alas, thou lov’st not mee.
	Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,
	On whom those fainter beames of love did fall;
	Marry those loves, which in youth scatter’d bee
	On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee.
	Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:
	To see God only, I goe out of sight:
	And to scape stormy dayes, I chuse
	An everlasting night.
	(1633)
	JOHN DONNE A Hymne to God the Father
	Wilt thou forgive that sinne where I begunne,
	Which is my sin, though it were done before?
	Wilt thou forgive that sinne; through which I runne,
	And do run still: though still I doe deplore?
	When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
	For, I have more.
	Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I’have wonne
	Others to sinne? and, made my sinne their doore?
	Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I did shunne
	A yeare, or two: but wallow’d in, a score?
	When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
	For, I have more.
	I have a sinne of feare, that when I’have spunne
	My last thred, I shall perish on the shore;
	Sweare by thy selfe, that at my death thy Sonne
	Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
	And, having done that, Thou hast done,
	I feare no more.
	(1633)
1621	KATHERINE, LADY DYER [Epitaph on Sir William Dyer]
	My dearest dust could not thy hasty day
	Afford thy drowzy patience leave to stay
	One hower longer; so that we might either
	Sate up, or gone to bedd together?
	But since thy finisht labor hath possest
	Thy weary limbs with early rest,
	Enjoy it sweetly; and thy widdowe bride
	Shall soone repose her by thy slumbring side;
	Whose business, now is only to prepare
	My nightly dress, and call to prayre:
	Mine eyes wax heavy and the day growes old
	The dew falls thick, my bloud growes cold;
	Draw, draw the closed curtaynes: and make roome;
	My deare, my dearest dust; I come, I come.
	LADY MARY WROTH from Pamphilia to Amphilanthus
	77
	In this strang labourinth how shall I turne?
	wayes are on all sids while the way I miss:
	if to the right hand, ther, in love I burne;
	lett mee goe forward, therein danger is;
	If to the left, suspition hinders bliss,
	lett mee turne back, shame cries I ought returne
	nor fainte though crosses with my fortunes kiss;
	stand still is harder, allthough sure to mourne;
	Thus lett mee take the right, or left hand way;
	goe forward, or stand still, or back retire;
	I must thes doubts indure with out allay
	or help, butt traveile find for my best hire;
	Yett that which most my troubled sence doth move
	is to leave all, and take the thread of love.
	96
	Late in the Forest I did Cupid see
	colde, wett, and crying hee had lost his way,
	and beeing blind was farder like to stray:
	which sight a kind compassion bred in mee,
	I kindly tooke, and dride him, while that hee
	poore child complain’d hee sterved was with stay,
	and pin’de for want of his accustom’d pray,
	for non in that wilde place his hoste would bee,
	I glad was of his finding, thinking sure
	this service should my freedome still procure,
	and in my armes I tooke him then unharmde,
	Carrying him safe unto a Mirtle bowre
	butt in the way hee made mee feele his powre,
	burning my hart who had him kindly warmd.
	WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN [For the Baptiste] 1623
	The last and greatest Herauld of Heavens King,
	Girt with rough Skinnes, hyes to the Desarts wilde,
	Among that savage brood the Woods foorth bring,
	Which hee than Man more harmlesse found and milde:
	His food was Blossomes, and what yong doth spring,
	With Honey that from virgine Hives distil’d;
	Parcht Bodie, hollow Eyes, some uncouth thing
	Made him appeare, long since from Earth exilde.
	There burst hee foorth; All yee, whose Hopes relye
	On GOD, with mee amidst these Desarts mourne,
	Repent, repent, and from olde errours turne.
	Who listned to his voyce, obey’d his crye?
	Onelie the Ecchoes which hee made relent,
	Rung from their Marble Caves, repent, repent.
	WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN [Content and Resolute]
	As when it hapneth that some lovely Towne
	Unto a barbarous Besieger falles,
	Who there by Sword and Flame himselfe enstalles,
	And (Cruell) it in Teares and Blood doth drowne;
	Her Beauty spoyl’d, her Citizens made Thralles,
	His spight yet so cannot her all throw downe,
	But that some Statue, Arch, Phan of renowne,
	Yet lurkes unmaym’d within her weeping walles:
	So after all the Spoile, Disgrace, and Wrake,
	That Time, the World, and Death could bring combind,
	Amidst that Masse of Ruines they did make,
	Safe and all scarre-lesse yet remaines my Minde:
	From this so high transcending Rapture springes,
	That I, all else defac’d, not envie Kinges.
	WILLIAM BROWNE On the Countesse Dowager of Pembroke
	Underneth this Marble Hearse;
	Lyes the subject of all verse,
	Sidneys sister; Pembrookes mother,
	Death, ere thou hast kill’d another,
	Faire, and learn’d, and good as shee,
	Time shall throw a dart at thee.
	Marble Pyles let no man rayse
	To her name; for after dayes;
	Some kinde woman borne as she
	Reading this; (Like Niobe,)
	Shall turne Marble, and become
	Both her mourner and her Tombe.
	SIR HENRY WOTTON On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 1624
	You meaner Beauties of the Night,
	That poorly satisfie our Eyes
	More by your number, than your light,
	You Common people of the Skies;
	What are you when the Sun shall rise?
	You curious Chanters of the Wood,
	That warble forth Dame Natures layes,
	Thinking your Voices 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 Vertue first, then Choice a Queen,
	Tell me, if she were not design’d
	Th’ Eclipse and Glory of her kind?
	GEORGE SANDYS from the Latin of Ausonius Echo 1626
	Fond Painter, why woulds’t thou my picture draw?
	An unknowne Goddesse, whom none ever saw,
	Daughter of aire and tongue: of judgment blind
	The mother I; a voice without a mind.
	I only with anothers language sport,
	And but the last of dying speech retort.
	Lowd Ecchos mansion in the eare is found:
	If therefore thou wilt paint me, paint a sound.