1627 BEN JONSON My Picture left in Scotland

	I now thinke, Love is rather deafe, then blind,
	For else it could not be,
	That she,
	Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
	And cast my love behind:
	I’m sure my language to her, was as sweet,
	And every close did meet
	In sentence, of as subtile feet,
	As hath the youngest Hee,
	That sits in shadow of Apollo’s tree.
	Oh, but my conscious feares,
	That flie my thoughts betweene,
	Tell me that she hath seene
	My hundred of gray haires,
	Told seven and fortie years,
	Read so much wast, as she cannot imbrace
	My mountaine belly, and my rockie face,
	And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares.

(1640)

BEN JONSON An Ode. To Himselfe

	Where do’st thou carelesse lie,
	Buried in ease and sloth?
	Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;
	And this Securitie,
	It is the common Moath,
	That eats on wits, and Arts, and oft destroyes them both.

	Are all th’ Aonian springs
	Dri’d up? lyes Thespia wast?
	Doth Clarius Harp want strings,
	That not a Nymph now sings?
	Or droop they as disgrac’t,
	To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac’t?

	If hence thy silence be,
	As ’tis too just a cause;
	Let this thought quicken thee,
	Minds that are great and free,
	Should not on fortune pause,
	’Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.

	What though the greedie Frie
	Be taken with false Baytes
	Of worded Balladrie,
	And thinke it Poësie?
	They die with their conceits,
	And only pitious scorne, upon their folly waites.

	Then take in hand thy Lyre,
	Strike in thy proper straine,
	With Japhets lyne, aspire
	Sols Chariot for new fire,
	To give the world againe:
	Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Joves braine.

	And since our Daintie age,
	Cannot indure reproofe,
	Make not thy selfe a Page,
	To that strumpet the Stage,
	But sing high and aloofe,
	Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull Asses hoofe.

(1640)

MICHAEL DRAYTON from Nimphidia, The Court of Fayrie

	[Queen Mab’s Chariot]
	Her Chariot ready straight is made,
	Each thing therein is fitting layde,
	That she by nothing might be stayde,
	For naught must her be letting,
	Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,
	Their Harnasses of Gossamere,
	Flye Cranion her Chariottere,
	Upon the Coach-box getting.

	Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,
	Which for the colours did excell:
	The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,
	So lively was the limming:
	The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;
	The cover (gallantly to see)
	The wing of a pyde Butterflee,
	I trowe t’was simple trimming.

	The wheeles compos’d of Crickets bones,
	And daintily made for the nonce,
	For feare of ratling on the stones,
	With Thistle-downe they shod it;
	For all her Maydens much did feare,
	If Oberon had chanc’d to heare,
	That Mab his Queene should have bin there,
	He would not have aboad it.

	She mounts her Chariot with a trice,
	Nor would she stay for no advice,
	Untill her Maydes that were so nice,
	To wayte on her were fitted,
	But ranne her selfe away alone;
	Which when they heard there was not one,
	But hasted after to be gone,
	As she had beene diswitted.

	Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,
	Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
	To Mab their Soveraigne ever deare:
	Her speciall Maydes of Honour;
	Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
	Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
	Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
	The Trayne that wayte upon her.

	Upon a Grashopper they got,
	And what with Amble, and with Trot,
	For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
	But after her they hie them.
	A Cobweb over them they throw,
	To shield the winde if it should blowe,
	Themselves they wisely could bestowe,
	Lest any should espie them.

MICHAEL DRAYTON These Verses weare Made by Michaell 1631 Drayton Esquier Poett Lawreatt the Night before Hee Dyed.

	Soe well I love thee, as without thee I
	Love Nothing, yf I might Chuse, I’de rather dye
	Then bee one day debarde thy companye

	Since Beasts, and plantes doe growe, and live and move
	Beastes are those men, that such a life approve
	Hee onlye Lives, that Deadly is in Love

	The Corne that in the grownd is sowen first dies
	And of one seed doe manye Eares arise
	Love this worldes Corne, by dying Multiplies

	The seeds of Love first by thy eyes weare throwne
	Into a grownd untild, a harte unknowne
	To beare such fruitt, tyll by thy handes t’was sowen

	Looke as your Looking glass by Chance may fall
	Devyde and breake in manye peyces smale
	And yett shewes forth, the selfe same face in all

	Proportions, Features Graces just the same
	And in the smalest peyce as well the name
	Of Fayrest one deserves, as in the richest frame

	Soe all my Thoughts are peyces but of you
	Whiche put together makes a Glass soe true
	As I therin noe others face but yours can Veiwe

(1905)

ANONYMOUS Feltons Epitaph

	Heere uninterr’d suspendes (though not to save,
	Surviving Frendes th’expenses of a grave)
	Feltons dead Earth; which to the world must bee
	Its owne sadd Monument. His elegie
	As large as fames; but whether badd or good
	I say not; by himself ’twas writt in blood;
	For which his bodie is entomb’d in Ayre,
	Archt o’re with heaven, sett with a thousand faire
	And glorious Diamond Starrs. a Sepulchre
	That time can never ruinate, and where
	Th’impartiall Worme (which is not brid’d to spare
	Princes corrupt in Marble) cannot share
	His Flesh; which yf the cahritable skies
	Emblame with teares; doeing those obsequies
	Belong to emn shall last; till pittying fowle
	Contend to beare his bodie to his soule.

(1658)

ANONYMOUS [Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham]

	This little Grave embraces
	One Duke and twentie places.

GEORGE HERBERT from The Temple 1633

	Redemption
	Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
	Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
	And make a suit unto him, to afford
	A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’ old.

	In heaven at his manour I him sought:
	They told me there, that he was lately gone
	About some land, which he had dearly bought
	Long since on earth, to take possession.

	I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth,
	Sought him accordingly in great resorts;
	In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
	At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

	Of theeves and murderers: there I him espied,
	Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

	Prayer
	Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,
	Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
	The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
	The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth;

	Engine against th’ Almightie, sinners towre,
	Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
	The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,
	A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;

	Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
	Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
	Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
	The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,

	Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,
	The land of spices; something understood.

	Church-monuments
	While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
	Here I intombe my flesh, that it betimes
	May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
	To which the blast of deaths incessant motion,
	Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
	Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

	My bodie to this school, that it may learn
	To spell his elements, and finde his birth
	Written in dustie heraldrie and lines;
	Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
	Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
	These laugh at Jeat and Marble put for signes,

	To sever the good fellowship of dust,
	And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
	When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
	To kisse those heaps, which now they have in trust?
	Deare flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stemme
	And true descent; that when thou shalt grow fat,

	And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
	That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust
	That measures all our time; which also shall
	Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below
	How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
	That thou mayst fit thy self against thy fall.

	Deniall
	When my devotions could not pierce
	Thy silent eares;
	Then was my heart broken, as was my verse:
	My breast was full of fears
	And disorder:

	My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,
	Did flie asunder:
	Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,
	Some to the warres and thunder
	Of alarms.

	As good go any where, they say,
	As to benumme
	Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,
	Come, come, my God, O come,
	But no hearing.

	O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue
	To crie to thee,
	And then not heare it crying! all day long
	My heart was in my knee,
	But no hearing.

	Therefore my soul lay out of sight,
	Untun’d, unstrung:
	My feeble spirit, unable to look right,
	Like a nipt blossome, hung
	Discontented.

	O cheer and tune my heartlesse breast,
	Deferre no time;
	That so thy favours granting my request,
	They and my minde may chime,
	And mend my ryme.

	Hope
	I gave to Hope a watch of mine: but he
	An anchor gave to me.
	Then an old prayer-book I did present:
	And he an optick sent.
	With that I gave a viall full of tears:
	But he a few green eares.
	Ah Loyterer! I’le no more, no more I’le bring:
	I did expect a ring.

	The Collar
	I struck the board, and cry’d, No more.
	I will abroad.
	What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
	My lines and life are free; free as the rode,
	Loose as the winde, as large as store.
	Shall I be still in suit?
	Have I no harvest but a thorn
	To let me bloud, and not restore
	What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
	Sure there was wine
	Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
	Before my tears did drown it.
	Is the yeare onely lost to me?
	Have I no bayes to crown it?
	No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
	All wasted?
	Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
	And thou hast hands.
	Recover all thy sigh-blown age
	On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
	Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,
	Thy rope of sands,
	Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
	Good cable, to enforce and draw,
	And be thy law,
	While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
	Away; take heed:
	I will abroad.
	Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
	He that forbears
	To suit and serve his need,
	Deserves his load.
	But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
	At every word,
	Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:
	And I reply’d, My Lord.

	The Flower
	How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
	Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
	To which, besides their own demean,
	The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
	Grief melts away
	Like snow in May,
	As if there were no such cold thing.

	Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
	Could have recover’d greennesse? It was gone
	Quite under ground; as flowers depart
	To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
	Where they together
	All the hard weather,
	Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

	These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
	Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
	And up to heaven in an houre;
	Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
	We say amisse,
	This or that is:
	Thy word is all, if we could spell.

	O that I once past changing were,
	Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
	Many a spring I shoot up fair,
	Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:
	Nor doth my flower
	Want a spring-showre,
	My sinnes and I joining together.

	But while I grow in a straight line,
	Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
	Thy anger comes, and I decline:
	What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
	Where all things burn,
	When thou dost turn,
	And the least frown of thine is shown?

	And now in age I bud again,
	After so many deaths I live and write;
	I once more smell the dew and rain,
	And relish versing: O my onely light,
	It cannot be
	That I am he
	On whom thy tempests fell all night.

	These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
	To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
	Which when we once can finde and prove,
	Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
	Who would be more,
	Swelling through store,
	Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

	The Answer
	My comforts drop and melt away like snow:
	I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends,
	Which my fierce youth did bandie, fall and flow
	Like leaves about me: or like summer friends,

	Flyes of estates and sunne-shine. But to all,
	Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
	But in my prosecutions slack and small;
	As a young exhalation, newly waking,

	Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky;
	But cooling by the way, grows pursie and slow,
	And setling to a cloud, doth live and die
	In that dark state of tears: to all, that so

	Show me, and set me, I have one reply,
	Which they that know the rest, know more then I.

	A Wreath
	A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
	Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
	I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
	My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
	Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
	Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
	To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
	Then deceit seems above simplicitie.
	Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
	So live and like, that I may know, thy wayes,
	Know them and practise them: then shall I give
	For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

	Love
	Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
	Guiltie of dust and sinne.
	But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
	From my first entrance in,
	Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
	If I lack’d any thing.

	A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
	Love said, You shall be he.
	I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
	I cannot look on thee.
	Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
	Who made the eyes but I?

	Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
	Go where it doth deserve.
	And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
	My deare, then I will serve.
	You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
	So I did sit and eat.

1635 FRANCIS QUARLES Embleme IV [Canticles 7.10.1 am my Beloved’s, and his desire is towards me.]

	Like to the Artick needle, that doth guide
	The wand’ring shade by his Magnetick pow’r,
	And leaves his silken Gnomon to decide
	The question of the controverted houre;
	First franticks up and down, from side to side,
	And restlesse beats his crystall’d Iv’ry case
	With vain impatience; jets from place to place,
	And seeks the bosome of his frozen bride;
	At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest
	His trembling point at his bright Pole’s beloved brest.

	Ev’n so my soul, being hurried here and there,
	By ev’ry object that presents delight,
	Fain would be settled, but she knowes not where;
	She likes at morning what she loaths at night;
	She bowes to honour; then she lends an eare
	To that sweet swan-like voyce of dying pleasure,
	Then tumbles in the scatter’d heaps of treasure;
	Now flatter’d with false hope; now foyl’d with fear:
	Thus finding all the world’s delights to be
	But empty toyes, good God, she points alone to thee.

	But hath the virtued steel a power to move?
	Or can the untouch’d needle point aright?
	Or can my wandring thoughts forbear to rove,
	Unguided by the virtue of thy spirit?
	O hath my leaden soul the art t’ improve
	Her wasted talent, and unrais’d, aspire
	In this sad moulting-time of her desire?
	Not first belov’d have I the power to love?
	I cannot stirre, but as thou please to move me,
	Nor can my heart return thee love, until thou love me.

	The still Commandresse of the silent night
	Borrows her beams from her bright brother’s eye;
	His fair aspect filles her sharp horns with light;
	If he withdraw, her flames are quench’d and die:
	Even so the beams of thy enlightning spirit
	Infus’d and shot into my dark desire,
	Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soul with fire,
	That I am ravisht with a new delight;
	But if thou shroud thy face, my glory fades,
	And I remain a Nothing, all compos’d of shades.

	Eternall God, O thou that onely art
	The sacred Fountain of eternall light,
	And blessed Loadstone of my better part;
	O thou my heart’s desire, my soul’s delight,
	Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart,
	And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;
	And then my soul shall know thee; knowing, love thee;
	And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
	From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
	Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.

	Epigram
	My soul, thy love is dear: ’Twas thought a good
	And easie pen’worth of thy Saviour’s bloud:
	But be not proud; All matters rightly scann’d,
	’Twas over-bought: ’Twas sold at second hand.

1637 EDWARD LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney Lying in St Paul’s without a Monument, to be Fastned upon the Church Door

	Reader,
	Within this Church Sir Philip Sidney lies,
	Nor is it fit that I should more acquaint,
	Lest superstition rise,
	And men adore,
	Souldiers, their Martyr; Lovers, their Saint.

ROBERT SEMPILL OF BELTREES The Life and Death of Habbie Simson, the Piper of Kilbarchan

	Kilbarchan now may say alas!
	For she hath lost her game and grace,
	Both Trixie and The Maiden Trace;
	But what remead?
5	For no man can supply his place:
	Hab Simson’s dead.
	Now who shall play The Day it Dawis,
	Or Hunt’s Up, when the cock he craws?
	Or who can for our kirk-town cause
10	Stand us in stead?
	On bagpipes now nobody blaws
	Sen Habbie’s dead.
	Or wha will cause our shearers shear?
	Wha will bend up the brags of weir,
15	Bring in the bells, or good play-meir
	In time of need?
	Hab Simson cou’d, what needs you speir?
	But now he’s dead.
	So kindly to his neighbours neast
20	At Beltan and St Barchan’s feast
	He blew, and then held up his breast,
	As he were weid:
	But now we need not him arrest,
	For Habbie’s dead.
25	At fairs he play’d before the spear-men
	All gaily graithed in their gear men:
	Steel bonnets, jacks, and swords so clear then
	Like any bead:
	Now wha shall play before such weir-men
30	Sen Habbie’s dead?
	At clark-plays when he wont to come
	His Pipe play’d trimly to the drum;
	Like bikes of bees he gart it bum,
	And tun’d his reed:
35	Now all our pipers may sing dumb,
	Sen Habbie’s dead.
	And at horse races many a day,
	Before the black, the brown, the gray,
	He gart his pipe, when he did play,
40	Baith skirl and skreed:
	Now all such pastime’s quite away
	Sen Habbie’s dead.
	He counted was a weil’d wight-man,
	And fiercely at football he ran:
45	At every game the gree he wan
	For pith and speed.
	The like of Habbie was na than,
	But now he’s dead.
	And than, besides his valiant acts,
50	At bridals he won many placks;
	He bobbed ay behind fo’k’s backs
	And shook his head.
	Now we want many merry cracks
	Sen Habbie’s dead.
55	He was convoyer of the bride,
	With Kittock hinging at his side;
	About the kirk he thought a pride
	The ring to lead:
	But now we may gae but a guide,
60	For Habbie’s dead.
	So well’s he keeped his decorum
	And all the stots of Whip-meg-morum;
	He slew a man, and wae’s me for him,
	And bure the fead!
65	But yet the man wan hame before him,
	And was not dead.
	And whan he play’d, the lasses leugh
	To see him teethless, auld, and teugh,
	He wan his pipes besides Barcleugh,
70	Withouten dread!
	Which after wan him gear eneugh;
	But now he’s dead.
	Ay when he play’d the gaitlings gedder’d,
	And when he spake, the carl bledder’d,
75	On Sabbath days his cap was fedder’d,
	A seemly weid;
	In the kirk-yeard his mare stood tedder’d
	Where he lies dead.
	Alas! for him my heart is saur,
80	For of his spring I gat a skair,
	At every play, race, feast, and fair,
	But guile or greed;
	We need not look for pyping mair,
	Sen Habbie’s dead.

THOMAS JORDAN A Double Acrostich on Mrs Svsanna Blvnt

	Sweete	Soule of goodnesse, in whose Saintlike brest
	Vertue	Vowe’s dwelling, to make beauty blest;
	Sure	Sighing Cytherea sits, your eyes
	Are	Altars whereon shee might sacrifice;
	Now	None will of the Paphean order be;
	Natur’s	New worke transcends a deity;
	Arabia’s	Aromatticks court your scent;

	Bright	Beauty makes your gazers eloquent,
	Let	Little Cupid his lost eyes obtaine
	(Vayl’d)	Viewing you would strike him blinde againe;
	Nay	Never thinke I flatter, if you be
	Thus	To none else (by love) you are to me.

JOHN MILTON from A Mask Presented at Ludlow-Castle, 1634 [Comus]

	Comus enters with a Charming Rod in one hand, his Glass in the other, with him a rout of Monsters headed like sundry sorts of wilde Beasts, but otherwise like Men and Women, their Apparel glistring, they com in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.
	COMUS
	The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
	Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,
	And the gilded Car of Day,
	His glowing Axle doth allay
	In the steep Atlantick stream,
	And the slope Sun his upward beam
	Shoots against the dusky Pole,
	Pacing toward the other gole
	Of his Chamber in the East.
	Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
	Midnight shout, and revelry,
	Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
	Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
	Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
	Rigor now is gon to bed,
	And Advice with scrupulous head,
	Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
	With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
	We that are of purer fire
	Imitate the Starry Quire,
	Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
	Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
	The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
	Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
	And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
	Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
	By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
	The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,
	Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
	What hath night to do with sleep?
	Night hath better sweets to prove,
	Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love.
	Com let us our rights begin,
	’Tis onely day-light that makes Sin
	Which these dun shades will ne’re report.
	Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport
	Dark vaild Cotytto, t’whom the secret flame
	Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
	That ne’re art call’d, but when the Dragon woom
	Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
	And makes one blot of all the ayr,
	Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
	Wherin thou rid’st with Hecat’, and befriend
	Us thy vow’d Priests, till utmost end
	Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
	Ere the blabbing Eastern scout,
	The nice Morn on th’ Indian steep
	From her cabin’d loop hole peep,
	And to the tel-tale Sun discry
	Our conceal’d Solemnity.
	Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
	In a light fantastick round.

THOMAS RANDOLPH A Gratulatory to Mr Ben. Johnson for his Adopting of Him to be his Son 1638

	I was not borne to Helicon, nor dare
	Presume to thinke my selfe a Muses heire.
	I have no title to Parnassus hill,
	Nor any acre of it by the will
	Of a dead Ancestour, nor could I bee
	Ought but a tenant unto Poëtrie,
	But thy Adoption quits me of all feare,
	And makes me challenge a childs portion there.
	I am a kinne to Hero’s being thine,
	And part of my alliance is divine.
	Orpheus, Musœus, Homer too; beside
	Thy Brothers by the Roman Mothers side;
	As Ovid, Virgil, and the Latine Lyre,
	That is so like thy Horace; the whole quire
	Of Poets are by thy Adoption, all
	My uncles; thou hast given me pow’r to call
	Phœbus himselfe my grandsire, by this graunt
	Each sister of the nine is made my Aunt.
	Go you that reckon from a large descent
	Your lineall Honours, and are well content
	To glory in the age of your great name,
	Though on a Herralds faith you build the same:
	I do not envy you, nor thinke you blest
	Though you may beare a Gorgon on your Crest
	By direct line from Perseus; I will boast
	No farther then my Father; that’s the most
	I can, or should be proud of; and I were
	Unworthy his adoption, if that here
	I should be dully modest; boast I must
	Being sonne of his Adoption, not his lust.
	And to say truth, that which is best in mee
	May call you father, ’twas begot by thee.
	Have I a sparke of that cœlestiall flame
	Within me, I confesse I stole the same
	Prometheus like, from thee; and may I feed
	His vulture, when I dare deny the deed.
	Many more moones thou hast, that shine by night,
	All Bankrups, wer’t not for a borrow’d light;
	Yet can forsweare it; I the debt confesse,
	And thinke my reputation ne’re the lesse.
	For Father let me be resolv’d by you;
	Is’t a disparagement from rich Peru
	To ravish gold; or theft, for wealthy Ore
	To ransack Tagus, or Pactolus shore?
	Or does he wrong Alcinous, that for want
	Doth take from him a sprig or two, to plant
	A lesser Orchard? sure it cannot bee:
	Nor is it theft to steale some flames from thee.
	Grant this, and I’le cry guilty, as I am,
	And pay a filiall reverence to thy name.
	For when my Muse upon obedient knees,
	Askes not a Fathers blessing, let her leese
	The fame of this Adoption; ’tis a curse
	I wish her ’cause I cannot thinke a worse.
	And here, as Piety bids me, I intreat
	Phœbus to lend thee some of his own heat,
	To cure thy Palsie; else I will complaine
	He has no skill in hearbs; Poets in vaine
	Make him the God of Physicke; ’twere his praise
	To make thee as immortall as thy Baies;
	As his owne Daphne; ’twere a shame to see
	The God, not love his Preist, more then his Tree.
	But if heaven take thee, envying us thy Lyre,
	’Tis to pen Anthems for an Angels quire.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING Song

	Why so pale and wan fond Lover?
	Prithee why so pale?
	Will, when looking well can’t move her,
	Looking ill prevaile?
	Prithee why so pale?

	Why so dull and mute young Sinner?
	Prithee why so mute?
	Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
	Saying nothing doo’t?
	Prithee why so mute?

	Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
	This cannot take her;
	If of her selfe shee will not Love,
	Nothing can make her,
	The Devill take her.

JOHN MILTON Lycidas

	In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly drown’d in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.
	Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
	Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
	I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
	And with forc’d fingers rude,
	Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
	Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
	Compels me to disturb your season due:
	For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
	Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
	Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
	Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
	He must not flote upon his watry bear
	Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
	Without the meed of som melodious tear.
	Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
	That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
	Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
	Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
	So may som gentle Muse
	With lucky words favour my destin’d Um,
	And as he passes turn,
	And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.
	For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
	Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
	Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’d
	Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
	We drove a field, and both together heard
	What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
	Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
	Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright
	Toward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.
	Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
	Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute,
	Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,
	From the glad sound would not be absent long,
	And old Damœtas lov’d to hear our song.
	But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
	Now thou art gon, and never must return!
	Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
	With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,
	And all their echoes mourn.
	The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
	Shall now no more be seen,
	Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
	As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
	Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
	Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
	When first the White thorn blows;
	Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
	Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
	Clos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas?
	For neither were ye playing on the steep,
	Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
	Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
	Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:
	Ay me, I fondly dream!
	Had ye bin there – for what could that have don?
	What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
	The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
	Whom Universal nature did lament,
	When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
	His goary visage down the stream was sent,
	Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
	Alas! What boots it with uncessant care
	To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
	And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
	Were it not better don as others use,
	To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
	Or with the tangles of Neœra’s hair?
	Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
	(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
	To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
	But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
	And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
	Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorred shears,
	And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
	Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears;
	Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
	Nor in the glistering foil
	Set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies,
	But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
	And perfet witnes of all-judging Jove;
	As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
	Of so much fame in Heav’n expect thy meed.
	O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour’d floud,
	Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds,
	That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
	But now my Oate proceeds,
	And listens to the Herald of the Sea
	That came in Neptune’s plea,
	He ask’d the Waves, and ask’d the Fellon winds,
	What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle swain?
	And question’d every gust of rugged wings
	That blows from off each beaked Promontory;
	They knew not of his story,
	And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
	That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,
	The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
	Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d.
	It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
	Built in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,
	That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
	Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,
	His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
	Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
	Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.
	Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
	Last came, and last did go,
	The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
	Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
	(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
	He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake,
	How well could I have spar’d for thee young swain,
	Anow of such as for their bellies sake,
	Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
	Of other care they little reck’ning make,
	Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,
	And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
	Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold
	A Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the least
	That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
	What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
	And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
	Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
	The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
	But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
	Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
	Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
	Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
	But that two-handed engine at the door,
	Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
	Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
	That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
	And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
	Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
	Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
	Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
	On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
	Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
	That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
	And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
	Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,
	The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
	The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
	The glowing Violet,
	The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine,
	With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
	And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
	Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
	And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
	To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
	For so to interpose a little ease,
	Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
	Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
	Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
	Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
	Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
	Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
	Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d,
	Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
	Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
	Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;
	Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
	And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
	Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
	For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
	Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
	So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
	And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
	And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
	Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
	So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
	Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves;
	Where other groves, and other streams along,
	With Nectar pure his oozy Locks he laves,
	And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
	In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
	There entertain him all the Saints above,
	In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
	That sing, and singing in their glory move,
	And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
	Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
	Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
	In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
	To all that wander in that perilous flood.
	Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,
	While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
	He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,
	With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
	And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,
	And now was dropt into the Western bay;
	At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:
	To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

1640 BEN JONSON from A Celebration of Charis, in Ten Lyrick Peeces

	Her Triumph
	See the Chariot at hand here of Love,
	Wherein my Lady rideth!
	Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove,
	And well the Carre Love guideth.
	As she goes, all hearts doe duty
	Unto her beauty;
	And enamour’d, doe wish, so they might
	But enjoy such a sight,
	That they still were to run by her side,
	Thorough Swords, thorough Seas, whether she would ride.

	Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light
	All that Loves world compriseth!
	Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright
	As Loves starre when it riseth!
	Doe but marke, her forehead’s smoother
	Then words that sooth her!
	And from her arched browes, such a grace
	Sheds it selfe through the face,
	As alone there triumphs to the life
	All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.

	Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow,
	Before rude hands have touch’d it?
	Have you mark’d but the fall o’the Snow
	Before the soyle hath smutch’d it?
	Have you felt the wooll o’ the Bever?
	Or Swans Downe ever?
	Or have smelt o’the bud o’the Brier?
	Or the Nard i’ the fire?
	Or have tasted the bag o’the Bee?
	O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

BEN JONSON [A Fragment of Petronius Arbiter]

	Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;
	And done, we straight repent us of the sport:
	Let us not then rush blindly on unto it,
	Like lustfull beasts, that onely know to doe it:
	For lust will languish, and that heat decay.
	But thus, thus, keeping endlesse Holy-day,
	Let us together closely lie, and kisse,
	There is no labour, nor no shame in this;
	This hath pleas’d, doth please, and long will please; never
	Can this decay, but is beginning ever.

SIDNEY GODOLPHIN

	Faire Friend, ’tis true, your beauties move
	My heart to a respect:
	Too little to bee paid with love,
	Too great for your neglect.

	I neither love, nor yet am free,
	For though the flame I find
	Be not intense in the degree,
	’Tis of the purest kind.

	It little wants of love, but paine,
	Your beautie takes my sense,
	And lest you should that price disdaine,
	My thoughts, too, feele the influence.

	’Tis not a passions first accesse
	Readie to multiply,
	But like Loves calmest State it is
	Possest with victorie.

	It is like Love to Truth reduc’d,
	All the false values gone,
	Which were created, and induc’d
	By fond imagination.

	’Tis either Fancie, or ’tis Fate,
	To love you more then I;
	I love you at your beauties rate,
	Lesse were an Injurie.

	Like unstamp’d Gold, I weigh each grace,
	So that you may collect
	Th’intrinsique value of your face
	Safely from my respect.

	And this respect would merit love,
	Were not so faire a sight
	Payment enough; for, who dare move
	Reward for his delight?

SIDNEY GODOLPHIN

	Lord when the wise men came from Farr
	Ledd to thy Cradle by A Starr,
	Then did the shepheards too rejoyce,
	Instructed by thy Angells voyce,
	Blest were the wisemen in their skill,
	And shepheards in their harmelesse will.

	Wisemen in tracing Natures lawes
	Ascend unto the highest cause,
	Shepheards with humble fearefulnesse
	Walke safely, though their light be lesse,
	Though wisemen better know the way
	It seemes noe honest heart can stray:

	Ther is noe merrit in the wise
	But love, (the shepheards sacrifice)
	Wisemen all wayes of knowledge past,
	To ’th shepheards wonder come at last,
	To know, can only wonder breede,
	And not to know, is wonders seede.

	A wiseman at the Alter Bowes
	And offers up his studied vowes
	And is received, may not the teares,
	Which spring too from a shepheards feares,
	And sighs upon his fraylty spent,
	Though not distinct, be eloquent.

	Tis true, the object sanctifies
	All passions which within us rise,
	But since noe creature comprehends
	The cause of causes, end of ends,
	Hee who himselfe vouchsafes to know
	Best pleases his creator soe.

	When then our sorrowes wee applye
	To our owne wantes and poverty,
	When wee looke up in all distresse
	And our owne misery confesse
	Sending both thankes and prayers above
	Then though wee doe not know, we love.

(1906)

HENRY KING An Exequy to His Matchlesse Never to be Forgotten Freind

	Accept thou Shrine of my Dead Saint,
	Instead of Dirges this Complaint,
	And for sweet flowres to crowne thy Hearse
	Receive a strew of weeping verse
	From thy griev’d Friend; whome Thou might’st see
	Quite melted into Teares for Thee
	Deare Losse, since thy untimely fate
	My task hath beene to meditate
	On Thee, on Thee: Thou art the Book
	The Library whereon I look
	Though almost blind. For Thee (Lov’d Clay)
	I Languish out, not Live the Day,
	Using no other Exercise
	But what I practise with mine Eyes.
	By which wett glasses I find out
	How lazily Time creepes about
	To one that mournes: This, only This
	My Exercise and bus’nes is:
	So I compute the weary howres
	With Sighes dissolved into Showres.
	Nor wonder if my time goe thus
	Backward and most præposterous;
	Thou hast Benighted mee. Thy Sett
	This Eve of blacknes did begett
	Who wast my Day (though overcast
	Before thou hadst thy Noon-tide past)
	And I remember must in teares,
	Thou scarce hadst seene so many Yeeres
	As Day tells Howres; By thy cleere Sunne
	My Love and Fortune first did run;
	But Thou wilt never more appeare
	Folded within my Hemispheare:
	Since both thy Light and Motion
	Like a fledd Starr is fall’n and gone,
	And ’twixt mee and my Soule’s deare wish
	The Earth now interposed is,
	Which such a straunge Ecclipse doth make
	As ne’re was read in Almanake.
	I could allow Thee for a time
	To darken mee and my sad Clime,
	Were it a Month, a Yeere, or Ten,
	I would thy Exile live till then;
	And all that space my mirth adjourne
	So Thou wouldst promise to returne,
	And putting off thy ashy Shrowd
	At length disperse this Sorrowes Cloud.
	But woe is mee! the longest date
	To narrowe is to calculate
	These empty hopes. Never shall I
	Be so much blest as to descry
	A glympse of Thee, till that Day come
	Which shall the Earth to cinders doome,
	And a fierce Feaver must calcine
	The Body of this World like Thine,
	(My Little World!) That fitt of Fire
	Once off, our Bodyes shall aspire
	To our Soules blisse: Then wee shall rise,
	And view our selves with cleerer eyes
	In that calme Region, where no Night
	Can hide us from each others sight.
	Meane time, thou hast Hir Earth: Much good
	May my harme doe thee. Since it stood
	With Heaven’s will I might not call
	Hir longer Mine; I give thee all
	My short liv’d right and Interest
	In Hir, whome living I lov’d best.
	With a most free and bounteous grief,
	I give thee what I could not keep.
	Be kind to Hir: and prethee look
	Thou write into thy Doomsday book
	Each parcell of this Rarity
	Which in thy Caskett shrin’d doth ly:
	See that thou make thy reck’ning streight,
	And yeeld Hir back againe by weight.
	For thou must Auditt on thy trust
	Each Grane and Atome of this Dust,
	As thou wilt answere Him that leant,
	Not gave thee, my deare Monument.
	So close the ground, and ’bout hir shade
	Black Curtaines draw, My Bride is lay’d.
	Sleep on my Love in thy cold bed
	Never to be disquieted.
	My last Good-night! Thou wilt not wake
	Till I Thy Fate shall overtake:
	Till age, or grief, or sicknes must
	Marry my Body to that Dust
	It so much loves; and fill the roome
	My heart keepes empty in Thy Tomb.
	Stay for mee there: I will not faile
	To meet Thee in that hollow Vale.
	And think not much of my delay,
	I am already on the way,
	And follow Thee with all the speed
	Desire can make, or Sorrowes breed.
	Each Minute is a short Degree,
	And e’ry Howre a stepp towards Thee.
	At Night when I betake to rest,
	Next Morne I rise neerer my West
	Of Life, almost by eight Howres sayle,
	Then when Sleep breath’d his drowsy gale.
	Thus from the Sunne my Bottome steares,
	And my Dayes Compasse downward beares.
	Nor labour I to stemme the Tide
	Through which to Thee I swiftly glide.
	Tis true, with shame and grief I yeild,
	Thou like the Vann, first took’st the Field,
	And gotten hast the Victory
	In thus adventuring to Dy
	Before Mee; whose more yeeres might crave
	A just præcedence in the Grave.
	But hark! My Pulse, like a soft Drum
	Beates my Approach; Tells Thee I come;
	And slowe howe’re my Marches bee,
	I shall at last sitt downe by Thee.
	The thought of this bids mee goe on,
	And wait my dissolution
	With Hope and Comfort. Deare (forgive
	The Crime) I am content to live
	Divided, with but half a Heart,
	Till wee shall Meet, and Never part.

(1657)

THOMAS CAREW Song. Celia singing

	Harke how my Celia, with the choyce
	Musique of her hand and voyce
	Stills the loude wind; and makes the wilde
	Incensed Bore, and Panther milde!
	Marke how those statues like men move,
	Whilst men with wonder statues prove!
	This stiffe rock bends to worship her,
	That Idoll turnes Idolater.
	Now see how all the new inspir’d
	Images, with love are fir’d!
	Harke how the tender Marble grones,
	And all the late transformed stones,
	Court the faire Nymph with many a teare,
	Which she (more stony then they were)
	Beholds with unrelenting mind;
	Whilst they amaz’d to see combin’d
	Such matchlesse beautie, with disdaine,
	Are all turn’d into stones againe.

THOMAS CAREW Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villers

	The Lady Mary Villers lyes
	Under this stone; with weeping eyes
	The Parents that first gave her birth,
	And their sad Friends, lay’d her in earth:
	If any of them (Reader) were
	Knowne unto thee, shed a teare,
	Or if thyselfe possesse a gemme,
	As deare to thee, as this to them;
	Though a stranger to this place,
	Bewayle in theirs, thine owne hard case;
	For thou perhaps at thy returne
	Mayest find thy Darling in an Urne.

THOMAS CAREW Maria Wentworth, Thomæ Comitis Cleveland, filia præmortua prima Virgineam animam exhalavit An. Dom. 1632 Æt. suæ 18.

	And here the precious dust is layd;
	Whose purely-tempered Clay was made
	So fine, that it the guest betray’d.

	Else the soule grew so fast within,
	It broke the outward shell of sinne,
	And so was hatch’d a Cherubin.

	In heigth, it soar’d to God above;
	In depth, it did to knowledge move,
	And spread in breadth to generall love.

	Before, a pious duty shind
	To Parents, courtesie behind,
	On either side an equall mind,

	Good to the Poore, to kindred deare,
	To servants kind, to friendship cleare,
	To nothing but her selfe, severe.

	So though a Virgin, yet a Bride
	To every Grace, she justifi’d
	A chaste Poligamie, and dy’d.

	Learne from hence (Reader) what small trust
	We owe this world, where vertue must
	Fraile as our flesh, crumble to dust.

THOMAS CAREW A Song

	Aske me no more whither doe stray,
	The golden Atomes of the day:
	For in pure love heaven did prepare,
	Those powders to inrich your haire.

	Aske me no more whither doth hast,
	The Nightingale when May is past:
	For in your sweet dividing throat,
	She winters and keepes warme her note.

	Aske me no more where Jove bestowes,
	When June is past the fading rose:
	For in your beauties orient deepe,
	These flowers as in their causes, sleepe.

	Aske me no more where those starres light,
	That downewards fall in dead of night:
	For in your eyes they sit and there,
	Fixed become as in their sphere.

	Aske me no more if East or West,
	The Phenix builds her spicy nest:
	For unto you at last shee flies,
	And in your fragrant bosome dyes.