The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing CHRISTOPHER Marlowe. O SWEET CONTENT ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexéd? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexéd Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? 5 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? 10 O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney! 15 THOMAS DEKKER. STILL TO BE NEAT STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. TO CELIA DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, BEN JONSON. 5 ΤΟ And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 5 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. 10 15 BEN JONSON. GOOD MORROW PACK, clouds, away, and welcome, day! Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft Wings from the wind to please her mind, Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow! Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake, from thy nest, robin redbreast! And from each bill, let music shrill Sing, birds, in every furrow! THOMAS HEYWOOD. LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; They preach: 'In greatness is no trust.' 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.' Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. ROSES, THEIR SHARP SPINES BEING GONE ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone But in their hue; Maiden pinks of odour faint; 10 15 Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint; 5 Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry Spring-time's harbinger, Oxlips in their cradles growing; All dear Nature's children sweet Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence! IO 15 |