Part 3

Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade, The morning’s darling late, the summer’s queen, Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Right so my life, contentments being dead, 5 Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 10 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright Of what yet rests thee of life’s wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born. _William Drummond._

XXXIII

_SONNET._

Alexis, here she stayed; 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. She sat her by these muskèd eglantines, 5 The happy place the print seems yet to bear; Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines, To which winds, trees, beasts, birds did lend an ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o’erspread her face: 10 Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, Here first I got a pledge of promised grace: But ah! what served it to be happy so? Sith passèd pleasures double but new woe? _William Drummond._

XXXIV

_SONNET._

Sweet spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers, Thou turn’st, sweet youth; but ah! my pleasant hours 5 And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; 10 But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air, Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore. Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come, When thine, forgot, lie closèd in a tomb. _William Drummond._

XXXV

_SONNET._

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part-- Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 5 And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 10 When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes,-- Now if thou would’st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover! _Michael Drayton._

XXXVI

_A SAD SONG._

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that’s gone: Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again; Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 5 Fate’s hidden ends eyes cannot see: Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. 10 _Beaumont and Fletcher._

XXXVII

_INVOCATION TO SLEEP._

Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence, 5 All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought, 10 Through an idle fancy wrought: Oh, let my joys have some abiding! _Beaumont and Fletcher._

XXXVIII

_SONG._

Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm 5 From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! _Beaumont and Fletcher._

XXXIX

_THE SHEPHERD’S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA._

Praised be Diana’s fair and harmless light, Praised be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground: Praised be her beams, the glory of the night, Praised be her power, by which all powers abound.

Praised be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods, Praised be her knights, in whom true honour lives: 6 Praised be that force by which she moves the floods, Let that Diana shine which all these gives.

In heaven Queen she is among the spheres, She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure; 10 Eternity in her oft change she bears, She beauty is, by her the fair endure.

Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide, Mortality below her orb is placed; By her the virtue of the stars down slide, 15 In her is Virtue’s perfect image cast. A knowledge pure it is her worth to know: With Circe let them dwell that think not so. _Anon._

XL

_TRUE GROWTH._

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere. A lily of a day 5 Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. 10 _Ben Jonson._

XLI

_THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT_

Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, 5 At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, 10 Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay 15 With all his power.

Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the King sending; 20 Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile, Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, 25 Quoth our brave Henry then, ‘Though they to one be ten, Be not amazèd. Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won 30 Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd.

‘And for myself,’ quoth he, ‘This my full rest shall be; England ne’er mourn for me, 35 Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. 40

‘Poictiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell: No less our skill is, Than when our grandsire great, 45 Claiming the regal seat By many a warlike feat, Lopped the French lilies.’

The Duke of York so dread, The eager vaward led; 50 With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen. Exeter had the rear, A braver man not there, O Lord! how hot they were 55 On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; 60 That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, 65 O noble Erpingham Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, 70 The English archery Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, 75 Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. 80

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbows drew, And on the French they flew; Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent; 85 Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went, Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king, His broad sword brandishing, 90 Down the French host did ding, As to o’erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent 95 Bruisèd his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother; 100 Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade, 105 Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby 110 Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin’s day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay 115 To England to carry. Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry! 120 _Michael Drayton._

XLII

_TO HIMSELF._

Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth 5 That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius’ harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings! 10 Or droop they as disgraced, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?

If hence thy silence be, As ’tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: 15 Minds that are great and free, Should not on Fortune pause; ’Tis crown enough to Virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits 20 Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre, 25 Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet’s line, aspire Sol’s chariot for new fire, To give the world again: Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove’s brain.

And since our dainty age 31 Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, 35 Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof. _Ben Jonson._

XLIII

_MELANCHOLY._

Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There’s nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see’t, 5 But only melancholy, Oh, sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that’s fastened to the ground, 10 A tongue chained up without a sound! Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! 15 A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. _Beaumont and Fletcher._

XLIV

_LEWD LOVE IS LOSS._

Misdeeming eye! that stoopeth to the lure Of mortal worths, not worth so worthy love; All beauty’s base, all graces are impure, That do thy erring thoughts from God remove. Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun, 5 All grace to God, from whom all graces run.

If picture move, more should the pattern please; No shadow can with shadowed thing compare, And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize, But silly signs of God’s high beauty are. 10 Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast; True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.

Glean not in barren soil these offal ears, Sith reap thou may’st whole harvests of delight; Base joys with griefs, bad hopes do end with fears, 15 Lewd love with loss, evil peace with deadly fight: God’s love alone doth end with endless ease, Whose joys in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.

Let not the luring train of fancies trap, Or gracious features, proofs of Nature’s skill, 20 Lull Reason’s force asleep in Error’s lap, Or draw thy wit to bent of wanton will. The fairest flowers have not the sweetest smell; A seeming heaven proves oft a damning hell.

Self-pleasing souls, that play with beauty’s bait, 25 In shining shroud may swallow fatal hook; Where eager sight on semblant fair doth wait, A lock it proves, that first was but a look: The fish with ease into the net doth glide, But to get out the way is not so wide. 30

So long the fly doth dally with the flame, Until his singèd wings do force his fall; So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game, Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall. Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail, 35 But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.

Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust, Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light; The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust, The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right; 40 In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell; In which to live is death, to die is hell. _Robert Southwell._

XLV

_TO THE WORLD. A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE._

False world, good night, since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age, Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage.

Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt 5 A spirit so resolved to tread Upon thy throat, and live exempt From all the nets that thou canst spread.

I know thy forms are studied arts, Thy subtil ways be narrow straits; 10 Thy courtesy but sudden starts, And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.

I know too, though thou strut and paint, Yet art thou both shrunk up and old; That only fools make thee a saint, 15 And all thy good is to be sold.

I know thou whole art but a shop Of toys and trifles, traps and snares, To take the weak, or make them stop: Yet art thou falser than thy wares. 20

And, knowing this, should I yet stay, Like such as blow away their lives, And never will redeem a day, Enamoured of their golden gyves?

Or having ’scaped, shall I return, 25 And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence so lately I did burn With all my powers myself to loose?

What bird or beast is known so dull, That fled his cage, or broke his chain, 30 And tasting air and freedom, wull Render his head in there again?

If these who have but sense, can shun The engines that have them annoyed; Little for me had reason done, 35 If I could not thy gins avoid.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fear As little, as I hope from thee: I know thou canst nor show, nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me. 40

My tender, first, and simple years Thou didst abuse, and then betray; Since stirr’dst up jealousies and fears, When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me, 45 Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts professèd be, And pride and ignorance the schools:

Where nothing is examined, weighed; But as ’tis rumoured, so believed; 50 Where every freedom is betrayed, And every goodness taxed or grieved.

But what we’re born for, we must bear: Our frail condition it is such, That what to all may happen here, 55 If’t chance to me, I must not grutch,

Else I my state should much mistake, To harbour a divided thought From all my kind: that for my sake There should a miracle be wrought. 60

No! I do know that I was born To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear these with that scorn, As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far, 65 As wanderers do, that still do roam; But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bosom, and at home. _Ben Jonson._

XLVI

_TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON._

The Muses’ fairest light in no dark time, The wonder of a learnèd age; the line Which none can pass; the most proportioned wit To nature, the best judge of what was fit; The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen; 5 The voice most echoed by consenting men; The soul which answered best to all well said By others, and which most requital made; Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, Returning all her music with his own; 10 In whom with nature study claimed a part, And yet who to himself owed all his art: Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will look With sorrow here, with wonder on his book. _John Cleveland._

XLVII

_A CONTENTED MIND._

I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile; I joy not much in earthly joys; I seek not state, I seek not style; I am not fond of fancy’s toys; I rest so pleased with what I have, 5 I wish no more, no more I crave.

I quake not at the thunder’s crack; I tremble not at noise of war; I swound not at the news of wrack; I shrink not at a blazing star; 10 I fear not loss, I hope not gain, I envy none, I none disdain.

I see ambition never pleased; I see some Tantals starved in store; I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased; 15 I see e’en Midas gape for more: I neither want, nor yet abound-- Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship, where I hate; I fawn not on the great in show; 20 I prize, I praise a mean estate-- Neither too lofty nor too low: This, this is all my choice, my cheer-- A mind content, a conscience clear. _Joshua Sylvester._

XLVIII

_SONNET._

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end? Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 10 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more:-- So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then. _William Shakespeare._

XLIX

_SONNET._

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoyed no sooner than despisèd straight; 5 Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; 10 A bliss in proof--and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream: All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. _William Shakespeare._

L

_TIMES GO BY TURNS._

The loppèd tree in time may grow again; Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower; Times go by turns, and chances change by course, 5 From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; 10 No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; No endless night, yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing; 15 The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; 20 In some things all, in all things none are crossed; Few all they need, but none have all they wish; Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, Who least hath some, who most hath never all. _Robert Southwell._

LI

_LIFE A BUBBLE._

This Life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air, By sporting children’s breath, Who chase it everywhere, And strive who can most motion it bequeath; 5 And though it sometimes seem of its own might Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there, And firm to hover in that empty height, That only is because it is so light. But in that pomp it doth not long appear; 10 For when ’tis most admirèd, in a thought, Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. _William Drummond._

LII

_MAN’S MORTALITY._

Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, 5 Or like the gourd which Jonas had-- E’en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers; the blossom blasteth; The flower fades; the morning hasteth; 10 The sun sets, the shadow flies; The gourd consumes; and man he dies!

Like to the grass that’s newly sprung, Or like a tale that’s new begun, Or like the bird that’s here to day, 15 Or like the pearlèd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan-- E’en such is man; who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life, and death. 20 The grass withers, the tale is ended; The bird is flown, the dew’s ascended; The hour is short, the span is long; The swan’s near death; man’s life is done! _Simon Wastell._

LIII

_OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT._

Can I, who have for others oft compiled The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead, And ere full time hangs down his smiling head, Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 5 Among the angels fed with heavenly dew? We have this sign of joy, that many days, While on the earth his struggling spirit stays, The name of Jesus in his mouth contains His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. 10 Oh! may that sound be rooted in my mind, Of which in him such strong effect I find. Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature, or his tender age; 15 Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage; Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to be In that frail body, which was part of me, Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show, How to this port at every step I go. 20 _Sir John Beaumont._

LIV

_DIRGE._

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, 5 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great, Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: 10 The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.