Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well loves the commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober,

Falls with the leaf, ftill in October.

SONG.

JOHN FLETCHER.

[1624?]

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As fhort 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 fixed eyes,
A figh, that, piercing, mortifies;
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale Paffion 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 fretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
JOHN FLETCHEr.

MADRIGAL.

[1612.]

HAVE I found her?

O rich finding!

Goddess-like for to behold;
Her fair trees seemly binding
In a chain of pearl and gold:
Chain me, chain me, oh most fair,

Chain me to thee with that hair!

PILKINGTON'S MADRIGALS.

[1612.]

SHALL I, wafting in despair,
Die, because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be fhe fairer than the day,

Or the flowery meads in May,
If he be not so to me,

What care I how fair fhe be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined,
'Cause I see a woman kind,
Or a well-disposed nature,
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be fhe meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If he be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?

Or her well-deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be fbe with that goodness bleft,
Which may gain her name of best,
If he be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo:

And unless that mind I see,

What care I how great fhe be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair.
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If he flight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go.

For if he be not for me,

What care I for whom he be?

GEORGE WITHER.

[1612.]

CALL for the robin redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er fhady 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 robbed) sustain no harm:

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

[1616?]

JOHN WEBSTER

HARK, now every thing is still ;

The screech-owl and the whistler frill

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 difturbed your mind;

Here your perfect peace is figned.

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,

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.

JOHN WEBSTER.

[1623.]

ALL 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 fhadows 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.

JOHN WEBSTER.