I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.
SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty,
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
[ride.
Thorough swords, thorough seas, whither she would
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth !
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother
Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the wool of beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
Oh do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing:
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.
O be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.
O do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears;
Mine own enough betray me.
HYMN TO DIANA, IN CYNTHIA'S REVELS.
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver car,
State in wonted manner keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose:
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever ;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs! [tears;
List to the heavy part the music bears;
Woe weeps out her decision, when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours :
(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill), Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since Summer's pride is now a wither'd daffodil.
HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID, IN THE MASQUE ON LORD HADDINGTON'S MARRIAGE.
BEAUTIES, have you seen this toy,
Call'd love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' runaway.
She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How, or where herself would wish:
But, who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss and another.
He hath of marks about him plenty :
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot, like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
At his sight, the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned:
Hell hath felt a greater heat:
Jove himself forsook his seat :
From the centre to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.
Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself, in kisses.
He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrows that outbrave
Dian's shafts: where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.
And pity somewhat else to it obtain,
Since thou hast power of dreams as well as he
Who paints strange figures in the slumb'ring brain :
Now while she sleeps in doleful guise her show
These tears, and the black map of all my woe.
Still the fairest are his fuel,
When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food; And his baths their warmest blood:
Dear quirister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, (Become all ear,) stars stay to hear thy plight;
Nought but wounds his hand doth season, If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
And he hates none like to Reason.
Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;
Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight:
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky
Enamour'd smiles on woods and flow'ry plains?
The bird, as if my question did her move,
With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I love.
Idle minutes are his reign;
Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think 'em joys:
'Tis th' ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.
SLEEP, silence, child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are opprest;
Lo by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possest,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st (alas!) who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With fained solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath:
I long to kiss the image of my death.
Fair moon, who with thy cold and silver shine
Makes sweet the horror of the dreadful night,
Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine,
Which Phœbus dazzles with his too much light;
Bright queen of the first heaven, if in thy shrine
By turning oft, and heaven's eternal might,
Thou hast not yet that once sweet fire of thine
Endymion, forgot, and lover's plight:
If cause like thine may pity breed in thee,
Alexis, here she stay'd among these pines;
Sweet hermitress she did alone repair :
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
Here sat she by those musket eglantines,
The happy flow'rs seem yet the print to bear,
Her voice did sweeten here my sugar'd lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.
She here me first perceiv'd, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face:
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
Here first I got a pledge of promis'd grace :
But ah! what serves't t' have been made happy so,
Since passed pleasures double but new woe.
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear,
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow'rs :
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yea, and to angels' lays.
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks;
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
SHALL I like an hermit dwell, On a rock, or in a cellCalling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalues me, What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good-manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be ?
No: she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too :
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
A VISION UPON THE CONCEIT OF THE FAERY QUEEN.
METHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn, and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair love, and fairer virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faëry Queen :
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended, in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce :
When Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curst the access of that celestial thief.
WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free;
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confined, I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,
And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.
SONG, TO LUCASTA.-ON GOING TO THE WARS.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiete minde,
To warre and armes I flee.
True; a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.
Why dost thou say I am forsworn, Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already morn;
It was last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long;
A tedious twelve hours' space!
I should all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Did I still doat upon that face.
Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah! braid no more that shining hair;
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress, must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then bind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud in night;
But, like the sun in 's early ray,
Shake your head, and scatter day!
THE ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY.
[Prefixed to the "Anatomy of Melancholy."]
WHEN I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, and void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie waking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
Fear and sorrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so sad as Melancholy.
When to myself I act, and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side, or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,
In a dark grove, or irksome den,
With discontents and furies, then
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so sour as Melancholy.
Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities fine,
Here now, then there, the world is mine;
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.
All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.
Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: -my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes;
Headless bears, black men, and apes,
Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so damn'd as Melancholy.
Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Methinks I now embrace my miss:
O blessed days, O sweet content!
In Paradise my time is spent!
Such thoughts may still my fancy move,
So may I ever be in love!
All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits! O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late.
No torment is so bad as love,
So bitter to my soul can prove:
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so harsh as Melancholy.
Friends and companions, get you gone!
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.
No gem, no treasure, like to this,
'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss.
All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
'Tis my sole plague to be alone;
I am a beast, a monster grown;
I will no light nor company,
I find it now my misery.
The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone,
Fear, discontent, and sorrows come.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so fierce as Melancholy.
I'll not change life with any king:
I ravish'd am! can the world bring
More joy, than still to laugh and smile,
In pleasant toys time to beguile?
Do not, O do not trouble me,
So sweet content I feel and see.
All my joys to this are folly,
None so divine as Melancholy.
I'll change my state with any wretch
Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch.
My pain past cure; another hell;
I may not in this torment dwell;
Now, desperate, I hate my life:
Lend me a halter or a knife.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so damn'd as Melancholy.
[In "Britannia's Pastorals" Book II. Song 2.]
SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me:
And if such a woman move
As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight
As e'er yet embrac'd a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she haths;
And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath:
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth;
Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.
Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
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