To my years, I yet may die

Speedily;

And that this ditty, sweetly strong,

May be my death and funeral song.

ROBERT GOMERSALL.

SONG.

[1630.]

I.

WE care not for money, riches, or wealth,

Old Sack is our money, old Sack is our health:
Then let's flock hither,

Like birds of a feather,
To drink, to fling,

To laugh, to fing,

Conferring our notes together,

Conferring our notes together.

II.

Come, let us laugh, let us drink, let us fing,
The Winter with us is as good as the Spring:
We care not a feather

For wind, or for weather,

But night and day

We sport and play,

Conferring our notes together,
Conferring our notes together.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

SONG.

[1631.]

WHY art thou flow, thou rest of trouble, Death,
To stop a wretch's breath,

That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart
A prey unto thy dart?

I am not young, nor fair; be, therefore, bold:
Sorrow hath made me old,

Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave
Is quiet in my grave.

Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel;
But to me thou art cruel,

If thou end not my tedious misery,

And I soon cease to be.

Strike, and frike home, then; pity unto me,
In one bort hour's delay, is tyranny.

VIRTUE.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

[1631?]

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew fhall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My mufic fhows ye have your closes,
And all muft die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives:

But though the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

DISDAIN RETURNED.

[1632.]

I.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or, from ftar-like eyes, doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

II.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm defires,
Hearts, with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

THOMAS CAREW.

SONG.

[1636?]

I.

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

II.

Ask me no more whither doth stray
The golden atoms of the day;

For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

III.

Afk me no more whither doth hafte
The nightingale when Spring is paft;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

IV.

Afk me no more where those ftars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they fit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

V.

Afk me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy neft;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

THOMAS CAREW.

You that think love can convey
No other way,

But through the eyes, into the heart,
His fatal dart;

Close up those casements, and but hear
This firen fing;

And on the wing

Of her sweet voice it shall appear
That love can enter at the ear:
Then unveil your eyes, behold

The curious mould

Where that voice dwells; and, as we know,
When the cocks crow,

We freely may

Gaze on the day:

So may you, when the mufic's done,

Awake and see the rifing sun.

THOMAS CAREW.

SONG.

[1633.]

Oн, no more, no more, too late

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers

Of a life as chafte as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,