SIR ROBERT AYTON.

[1570-1638.]

FAIR AND UNWORTHY.

I DO confess thou 'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee,

Had I not found the lightest prayer

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

[About 1640.]

GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.

move thee:

But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou 'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind,

That kisses everything it meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands,

Notes from the lark I 'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

SEARCH AFTER GOD.

But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile,

Like sere flowers to be thrown aside:

And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

WILLIAM STRODE.

[1600-1644.] MUSIC.

O LULL me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet!
Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
Down let him lie

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony!

God!

look higher.

I asked the world's great universal mass If that God was;

mense,

Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,
Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

He is the well of life, for he doth give
To all that live

Both breath and being; he is the Creator
Both of the water,

Earth, air, and fire.

Of all things that

subsist He hath the list,

replied, As stupefied,

"I am not he, O man! for know that I

grace, Thy glorious face

(So far forth as it may discovered be)
Methinks I see;

And though invisible and infinite,
To human sight

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest,

In which, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest.

O, make us apt to seek and quick to find, Thou, God, most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust,

Thou, God, most just!

Remit all our offences, we entreat, Most good! most great! Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

May,

HENRY KING.

[1591-1669.]

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past, and man forgot.

ELEGY.

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 sickness must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there! I will not fail
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 sorrow breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night, when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my vessel steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labor I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

"T is true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come:
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive
The crime, I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet, and never part.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF CHERBURY.)

[1581-1648.]

CELINDA.

WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove,
Which did, it seemed, in new delight
The pleasures of the time unite
To give a triumph to their love,
They stayed at last, and on the grass
Reposéd so as o'er his breast

She bowed her gracious head to rest,
Such a weight as no burden was.
Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent,
Unchangéd they did never move,
As if so great and pure a love
No glass but it could represent.
"These eyes again thine eyes shall see,
Thy hands again these hands infold,
And all chaste pleasures can be told,
Shall with us everlasting be.

Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch,
Much less your fairest mind invade;
Were not our souls immortal made,
Our equal loves can make them such."

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

[1605-1682.]

EVENING HYMN.

THE night is come; like to the day,
Depart not thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep in my horizon: for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep:
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.

Whilst I do rest, my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance:
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigor rün
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; O, make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
O, come that hour when I shall never
Sleep thus again, but wake forever.