When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal

Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I'm tost about,
Either with despair or doubt;

Yet, before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th

With the sins of all my youth,

And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries

Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,

And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the Judgment is revealed,

And that opened which was sealed;

When to Thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

THOMAS CAREW.

(1598?-1639?.)

From Carew's Poems, 1640. There are modern editions by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt (in the Roxburghe Library), and by the Rev. J. W. Ebsworth (in the Library of Old Authors). They are also reprinted in vol. v. of Chalmers' Poets.

As

SONG.

SK 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.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day,
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past,
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night,
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

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

DISDAIN RETURNED.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts, with equal love combined
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win,

My resolved heart to return;

I have searched thy soul within
And find nought but pride and scorn;
I have learned thy arts, and now

Can disdain as much as thou!

THE PRIMROSE.

ASK me why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year;

Ask me why I send to you

This primrose all bepearled with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears:

Ask me why this flower doth show

So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLERS.

THE Lady Mary Villers lies

Under this stone; with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case,
For thou, perhaps, at thy return
May'st find thy darling in an urn.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

(1609–1641.)

Suckling's Collected Poems were first published in 1646 under the title of Fragmenta Aurea. As in the cases of Carew and Lovelace also, many of his songs were set to music and circulated long before the for mal edition of his poems. They are reprinted in Chalmers' Poets, vol. vi., and have been edited, together with the plays, by Mr. W. C. Haz (2 vols., London, 1874).

ORSAMES' SONG.

HY so pale and wan, fond lover?

WH

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

CONSTANCY.

OUT upon it, I have loved,

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen in her place.