John Fletcher

1579-1625

SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN

(From The Faithful Shepherdess, Act II. sc. 1, acted 1610)

Shepherds all, and maidens fair

Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
5 See the dew-drops how they kiss.
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;

See the heavy clouds low falling,
10 And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face

15 Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
20 Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
25 To secure yourselves from these
Be not too secure in ease;
Let one eye his watches peep
While the other eye doth sleep;
So you shall good shepherds prove,

30 And for ever hold the love

Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eyelids! So, farewell!
Thus I end my evening's knell.

5

SONG TO PAN

(From the same, Act. V. sc. 5.)

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
All ye virtues and ye powers
That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground

With his honour and his name

10 That defends our flocks from blame.

Francis Beaumont
1586 (?)-1616

ON THE LIFE OF MAN

(From Poems, 1640)

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,

5 Or like the wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;

Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
10 The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY (From Poems, 1653)

Mortality, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones;

5 Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed

10 With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,

። Though gods they were, as men they died!"

15 Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Sir Henry Wotton

1568-1639

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

(Written cir. 1614)

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;

5 Whose passions not his masters are; · Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care

10

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 15 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

20

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Walter Raleigh (?)

1552-1618

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

(From England's Helicon, 1600)

If all the world and Love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

5 But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb,

The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 10 To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancies spring but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
15 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
20 To come to thee, and be thy love,