Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their ftrong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another fill:
Early or late

They stoop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

III.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and bloom in their duft.

JAMES SHIRLEY,

SONG.

CELIA IN LOVE.

[1646.]

I FELT my heart, and found a flame,
That for relief and shelter came:
I entertained the treacherous guest,
And gave it welcome in my breast.

Poor Celia! whither wilt thou go?
To cool in ftreams, or freeze in snow?
Or gentle Zephyrus entreat,

To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat?
Perhaps a taper's fading beams

May die in air, or quench in ftreams;
But love is a mysterious fire,

Nor can in air or ice expire:
Nor will this Phoenix be supprest

But with the ruin of his nest.

MARTIN LLUELLIN.

HONOUR.

[1647.]

I.

SHE loves, and she confesses too;
There's then at last no more to do.
The happy work's entirely done,

Enter the town which thou hast won;

The fruits of conqueft now begin:

Io Triumphe! Enter in.

II.

What's this, ye gods! what can it be?
Remains there still an enemy?

Bold Honour stands up in the gate,

And would yet capitulate.

Have I o'ercome all real foes,

And ball this Phantom me oppose?

Noisy Nothing! stalking Shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms!

But I fhall find out counter-charms
Thy airy Devilship to remove

From this circle here of Love.

JV.

Sure I fall rid myself of thee,
By the Night's obscurity,
And obscurer Secrecy.

Unlike to every other sprite,

Thou attempt'ft not men t' affright,

Nor appear's but in the Light.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

CHERRY-RIPE.

[1648.]

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones, come and buy
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer, There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land, or cherry-ifle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

ROBERT HERRICK,

TO MEADOWS.

[1648.]

I.

YE have been fresh and green,

Ye have been filled with flowers;

And

ye

the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours.

TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

[1648.]

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes?

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest Morn

Can tears

Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! ye have not known that shower
That mars a flower;

Nor felt th' unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and die.

Is it for want of fleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that

ye

have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?

No, no, this sorrow own

By your tears fhed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

ROBERT HERRICK.