With that, abashed and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cried, "Alas, my King!
Can both the way and end be tears?"
Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived.
My hill was farther; so I flung away,
Yet heard a cry
Just as I went,-" None goes that way
And lives." "If that be all," said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
My comforts drop and melt away like snow;
I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends
Which my fierce youth did bandy, fall and flow;
Like leaves about me; or like summer friends,
Flies of estate and sunshine.
SCORN no man's love, though of a mean degree,-
Love is a present for a mighty king.
GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
The age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while you may, go, marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
Robert Herrick, 1591-1674.
VIRTUE AND VICE.
VIRTUE'S branches wither, virtue pines,
O pity pity and alack the time!
Vice doth flourish, vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb,
Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity!
She in every land doth monarchize:
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise.
O pity, pity! Virtue weeping dies!
Vice laughs to see her faint, alack the time!
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies;
Alack, that best should fall, and bad should climb.
O pity, pity, pity! mourn, not sing;
Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling;
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Virtue's branches wither, Virtue pines.
Patience!-why, 'tis the soul of peace:
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven :
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit:
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles await you when you rise,
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby :
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Dekker, Chettle, and Haughton, About 1599.
GIVE, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford
Instead of that a sweet and gentle word.
God crowns our goodness, wheresoe'er He sees
On cur part, wanting the abilities.
WHY SO PALE AND WAN?
WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
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 do't?
Prithee, who so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her !
Sir John Suckling, 1613-'41.
FANCIES are but streams
Of vain pleasure;
They, who by their dreams
True joys measure,
Feasting starve, laughing weep,
Playing smart; whilst in sleep
Fools, with shadows smiling,
Wake and find
Hopes like wind,
Idle hopes, beguiling.
Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them:
Wake now, awake! see and taste them!
John Ford, 1586-1639.
THE THREE STATES OF WOMEN.
In a maiden-time professed,
Then we say that life is blessed;
Tasting once the married life,
Then we only praise the wife;
There's but one state more to try,
Which makes women laugh or cry
Widow, widow of these three
The middle's best, and that give me.
Thomas Middleton, About 1623.
SWEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd the wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb!
William Drummond, 1585-1649.
THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon :
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon;
And passing proud a little color makes thee.
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane ;
For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves
The sentence of thy early death contain.
Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn :
And many Herods lie in wait each hour
To murder thee as soon as thou art born;
Nay, force thy bud to blow; their tyrant breath
Anticipating life, to hasten death.
Sir Richard Fanshawe, 1607-'66
THE lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings,
He takes this window for the east,
And to implore your light he sings:
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
|