REVOLUTIONS Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand William Shakespeare A LAMENT My thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince' which here doth monarchise: Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, William Drummond A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS Brave flowers that I could gallant it like you, You come abroad, and make a harmless show, You do obey your months and times, but I My fate would know no Winter, never die, Oh that I could my bed of earth but view Oh teach me to see Death and not to fear, How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce! You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. Henry King VANITAS VANITATUM All the flowers of the spring Sweetest breath and clearest eye Who seek by trophies and dead things And weave but nets to catch the wind. John Webster MAN I know my soul hath power to know all things, I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, I know my life's a pain and but a span; O COME QUICKLY! Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest! Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see: come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee! Thomas Campion DEVOTION Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again! All that I sung still to her praise did tend; Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight. Thomas Campion SONG Seek not the tree of silkiest bark To carve her name while yet 'tis dark The world is full of noble tasks, And wreaths hard won: Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done. Sing not that violet-veinèd skin, That cheek's pale roses, The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes: Forth to the fight, true man, true knight; The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale To win her charms. The warrior for the True, the Right, The love that lures thee from that fight The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves That love, or none, is fit for one Man-shaped, like thee. Aubrey De Vere |