107. What pleasure were to walk and see, O then it were a seemly thing, All labourers draw home at even, Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, O GEORGE CHAPMAN Bridal Song 1560-1634 COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night! The reaped harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face; Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, 108 ROBERT SOUTHWELL Times go by Turns HE loppèd tree in time may grow again, THE 1561-95 Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, A chance may win that by mischance was lost; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. unmeddled] unmixed. 109. The Burning Babe ASI in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, To view what fire was near, Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, 'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born Yet none approach to warm their hearts 'My faultless breast the furnace is; The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, Are men's defilèd souls: For which, as now on fire I am So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood.' And straight I called unto mind 1562?-1613? 110. On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney IVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries, If they, importune, interrupt thy song, Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among 111. I stood amazed when others' tears begun, SAMUEL DANIEL Love is a Sickness LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? 1562-1619 More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 112. Ulysses and the Siren Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, Possess these shores with me: The winds and seas are troublesome, Here may we sit and view their toil That travail in the deep, And joy the day in mirth the while, Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were Then would I come and rest me there, Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived This honour is a thing conceived, Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile The best thing of our life—our rest, |