Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye winds would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your furious chiding stay; Let Zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play. -The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; Here is the pleasant place-
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!
Or this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold, Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold; Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought.
THE last and greatest herald of Heaven's King Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild. His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn, Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!" Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, " Repent! Repent!"
GEORGE WITHER [1588–1667]
SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Should my seely heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposèd nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle dove, or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die? He that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps he find,
Thinks what, with them, he would do, That, without them, dares her woo. And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair! If she love me (this believe!) I will die, ere she shall grieve! If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go!
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
WILLIAM BROWNE [1591-1643]
LIKE to a silkworm of one year, Or like a wrongèd lover's tear, Or on the waves a rudder's dint, Or like the sparkles of a flint, Or like to little cakes perfumed, Or fireworks made to be consumed-
Even such is man, and all that trust
In weak and animated dust.
The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed;
The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead; The cake is burnt; the firework done;
And man as these as quickly gone.
HERE lies a man much wronged in his hopes, Who got his wealth backwards by making of ropes: It was his hard chance in his fortunes to falter For he lived by the ropes, and died by the halter.
ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE*
UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse:
SIDNEY'S sister, PEMBROKE's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learned and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Marble piles let no man raise To her name: for after days Some kind woman, born as she, Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.
*For upward of a century this epitaph has been ascribed to Ben Jonson. Its authorship was eventually established when it was found in a MS. in Trinity College, Dublin, signed with Browne's name. The second, and vastly inferior sextain, is possibly by another hand, that of the (then) Earl of Pembroke.
ROBERT HERRICK [1591–1674]
CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy! If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer, "There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow."
ROSES at first were white, Till they could not agree Whether my Sapho's breast Or they more white should be.
But being vanquished quite, A blush their cheeks bespread; Since which, believe the rest, The roses first came red.
A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction-
An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher- A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly- A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat-
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