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215.

216.

From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine:

God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear.

Beauty Clear and Fair

BEAUTY clear and fair,

Where the air

Rather like a perfume dwells;
Where the violet and the rose
Their blue veins and blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else:

Where to live near

And planted there

Is to live, and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is

More than light, perpetual bliss-
Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recall
To this light,

A stranger to himself and all!

Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.

Melancholy

HENCE, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,

If men were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy-
O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls.
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan-
These are the sounds we feed upon:

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

217.

W

Weep no more

EEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone:

Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.

Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

218.

A Dirge

?-1630?

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

Since o'er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

219. The Shrouding of the Duchess of Malfi

H

ARK! Now everything is still,

The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,

Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay's now competent :
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

218. dole] lamentation.

220.

221.

And the foul fiend more to check-
A crucifix let bless your neck:

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.

ᎪᏞ

Vanitas Vanitatum

LL the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time:
Survey our progress from our birth—
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights,

All bewitching appetites!

Sweetest breath and clearest eye
Like perfumes go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings

Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,

And weave but nets to catch the wind.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF

STIRLING

Aurora

1580?-1640

O

HAPPY Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap, And valuest thy wealth, as I my want, Then need'st thou not-which ah! I grieve to grant— Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap:

That golden shower in which he did repose-
One dewy drop it stains

Which thy Aurora rains
Upon the rural plains,

When from thy bed she passionately goes.

Then, waken'd with the music of the merles,

She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:
That faithful flame which in her bosom burns
From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:
Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,
She so her grief delates.

-O favour'd by the fates
Above the happiest states,
Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!

222.

PHINEAS FLETCHER

A Litany

DROP, drop, slow tears,

And bathe those beauteous feet

Which brought from Heaven

The news and Prince of Peace:

Cease not, wet eyes,

His

mercy to entreat;

Το cry for vengeance

Sin doth never cease.

In your deep floods

Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let His eye

See sin, but through my tears.

1580-1650

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