The Flower of the Mind

The moon embraces her shepherd,
   And the Queen of Love her warrior;
      While the first does horn
      The stars of the morn,
   And the next the heavenly farrier.

With a heart of furious fancies,
   Whereof I am commander:
      With a burning spear,
      And a horse of air,
   To the wilderness I wander;

With a Knight of ghosts and shadows,
   I summoned am to Tourney:
      Ten leagues beyond
      The wide world’s end;
   Methinks it is no journey.

THOMAS CAMPION
Circ. 1567–1620

KIND ARE HER ANSWERS

   Lost is our freedom
   When we submit to women so:
   Why do we need ’em
   When, in their best, they work our woe?
   There is no wisdom
   Can alter ends by fate prefixt.
O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?
   Never were days yet called two
   But one night went betwixt.

LAURA

Rose-cheeked Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s
Silent music, either other
      Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed;
Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s
      Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them,
Only beauty purely loving
      Knows no discord.

But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
      Selves eternal.

Where she her sacred bower adorns
   The rivers clearly flow,
The groves and meadows swell with flowers,
   The winds all gently blow.
Her sun-like beauty shines so fair,
   Her spring can never fade.
Who then can blame the life that strives
   To harbour in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;
   Her love though I obtain,
No time, no toil, no vow, no faith
   Her wished grace can gain.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers
   And her will I adore;
And from that love when I depart
   Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring;
   And when her trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit
   Shall straw her pleasant ways.
The words of hearty zeal have power
   High wonders to effect;
O, why should then her princely ear
   My words or zeal neglect?

But from her Bower of Joy since I
   Must now excluded be,
And she will not relieve my cares,
   Which none can help but she;
My comfort in her love shall dwell,
   Her love lodge in my breast,
And though not in her bower, yet I
   Shall in her temple rest.

FOLLOW

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
   Though thou be black as night,
   And she made all of light;
Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth;
   Though here thou live disgraced
   And she in heaven is placed;
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.

Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth
   That so have scorched thee
   As thou still black must be,
Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow her while yet her glory shineth;
   There comes a luckless night
   That will dim all her light;
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

WHEN THOU MUST HOME

When thou must home to shades of underground,
   And there arrived, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do engird thee round,
   White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finished love,
   From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
   Of masks and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
   And all these triumphs for thy beauties’ sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.

WESTERN WIND

The peaceful western wind
   The winter storms hath tamed,
And nature in each kind
   The kind heat hath inflamed:
The forward buds so sweetly breathe
   Out of their earthly bowers,
That heav’n, which views their pomp beneath,
   Would fain be decked with flowers.

What Saturn did destroy,
   Love’s Queen revives again;
And now her naked boy
   Doth in the fields remain,
Where he such pleasing change doth view
   In every living thing,
As if the world were born anew
   To gratify the Spring.

If all things life present,
   Why die my comforts then?
Why suffers my content?
   Am I the worst of men?
O beauty, be not thou accus’d
   Too justly in this case!
Unkindly if true love be used,
   ’Twill yield thee little grace.

FOLLOW YOUR SAINT

   Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
   Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
   There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love;
   But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne’er return again.

CHERRY-RIPE

There is a garden in her face
   Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
   Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
   Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
   They look like rosebuds filled with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
   Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
   All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.

The palm and may make country-houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
         Spring, the sweet Spring!

JOHN DONNE
1573–1631

THIS HAPPY DREAM

As lightning or a taper’s light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me.
      Yet I thought thee
(For thou lov’st truth) an angel at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,
And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,
When thou knew’st what I dreamt, then thou knew’st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then;
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying showed thee thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
      Thou art not thou.
That love is weak, where fear’s as strong as he;
’Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour, have.
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me;
Thou cam’st to kindle, goest to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

DEATH

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

Thou ’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke.  Why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
   Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
   And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
         For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won
   Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
   A year or two and wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
         For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun
   My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
   Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore.
And having done that, Thou hast done;
         I fear no more.

   Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
            Nor question much
   That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;
   The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
            For ’tis my outward soul,
   Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone,
            Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

   But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
            Through every part,
   Can tie those parts and make me one of all;
   The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
            Have from a better brain,
   Can better do’t; except she meant that I
            By this should know my pain,
As prisoners are manacled when they’re condemned to die.

   Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me;
            For since I am
   Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry
   If into others’ hands these relics came.
            As ’twas humility
   To afford to it all that a soul can do,
            So ’twas some bravery
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

THE NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
—Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapped in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.

CHARIS’ TRIUMPH

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
   Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
   And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes all hearts do duty
            Unto her beauty;
And enamoured do wish, so they might
            But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
   All that love’s world compriseth!
Do but look on her, she is bright
   As love’s star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother
            Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows, such a grace
            Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife.

JEALOUSY

Wretched and foolish jealousy,
How cam’st thou thus to enter me?
         I ne’er was of thy kind:
Nor have I yet the narrow mind
         To vent that poor desire,
That others should not warm them at my fire:
         I wish the sun should shine
On all men’s fruits and flowers as well as mine.

But under the disguise of love,
Thou say’st thou only cam’st to prove
         What my affections were.
Think’st thou that love is helped by fear?
         Go, get thee quickly forth,
Love’s sickness and his noted want of worth,
         Seek doubting men to please.
I ne’er will owe my health to a disease.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.

Wouldst thou hear what many say
In a little?—reader, stay.

HYMN TO DIANA

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
   Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
   State in wonted manner keep:
      Hesperus entreats thy light,
      Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade
   Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia’s shining orb was made
   Heaven to clear when day did close:
      Bless us then with wished sight,
      Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
   And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
   Space to breathe, how short soever:
      Thou that mak’st a day of night,
      Goddess excellently bright!

ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER

ECHO’S LAMENT FOB NARCISSUS

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
   Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the music bears;
   Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
            Droop herbs and flowers;
            Fall grief in showers,
            Our beauties are not ours;
               O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
            Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL

JOHN FLETCHER
1579–1625

INVOCATION TO SLEEP, FROM VALENTINIAN

TO BACCHUS

God Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honoured, ever sung;
Stained with blood of lusty grapes
In a thousand lusty shapes;
Dance upon the mazer’s brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine:
   God of Youth, let this day here
   Enter neither care nor fear.

JOHN WEBSTER
(?)–1625

SONG FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI

Hark, now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud:

SONG FROM THE DEVIL’S LAW-CASE

All the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time.
Survey our progress from our birth;
We’re set, we grow, we turn to earth,
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites!
Sweetest breath and clearest eye,
Like perfumes, go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings
Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,
And weave but nets to catch the wind.

IN EARTH, DIRGE FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o’er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,
For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.

SONG

Phœbus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed
That she thy càreer may with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
Make an eternal Spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

SLEEP, SILENCE’ CHILD

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Dear chorister, who from these shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne’er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky
Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?
   The bird, as if my question did her move,
   With trembling wings sobbed forth, ‘I love!  I love!’

MADRIGAL I

MADRIGAL II

   The beauty and the life
Of life’s and beauty’s fairest paragon,
O tears!  O grief! hung at a feeble thread
To which pale Atropos had set her knife;
   The soul with many a groan
   Had left each outward part,
And now did take its last leave of the heart;
Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead;
When the afflicted band about her bed,
Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,
Cried, ‘Ah! and can death enter paradise?’

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER
1586–1616 and 1579–1625

I DIED TRUE

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

My love was false, but I was firm
   From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
   Lightly, gentle earth.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
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
With the richest royallest 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!’
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 FRANCIS KYNASTON
1587–1642

TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY

Do not conceal those radiant eyes,
The starlight of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos’ endless night!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost.

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,
No spices grow in all the rest.

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,
Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;
Lest, music hearing no such thing,
The nightingale forget to sing.

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;
Lest that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all thy worth.

Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
That’s either in thy mind or face;
Lest virtue overcome by vice
Make men believe no Paradise.

MATIN SONG

Rise, Lady Mistress, rise!
   The night hath tedious been;
No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes
   Nor slumbers made me sin.
Is not she a saint then, say,
Thoughts of whom keep sin away?

Rise, Madam! rise and give me light,
   Whom darkness still will cover,
And ignorance, darker than night,
   Till thou smile on thy lover.
All want day till thy beauty rise;
For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes.

GEORGE WITHER
1588–1667

SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
   What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,
   To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin,
   A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And though thy birth unclean hath been,
   A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

While thus thy lullaby I sing,
   For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine Eldest Brother is a king,
   And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
   For whosoever thee offends
By thy protector threaten’d are,
   And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,
   In little babes He took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
   Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need
   He friends and helpers doth prepare,
Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,
   For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when He was born,
   Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,
   Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
   Where oxen lay and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
   An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain
   Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by His torments and His pain
   Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

THOMAS CAREW
1589–1639

SONG

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, 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 if east or west
The phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies!

When thou, poor Excommunicate
   From all the joys of Love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
   Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
   Then curse thine own Inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure
   That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
   Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
   And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
   To Love, as I did once to thee:
When all thy tears shall be as vain
   As mine were then: for thou shalt be
   Damned for thy false Apostacy.

AN HYMENEAL DIALOGUE

Groom.—Tell me, my Love, since Hymen tied
   The holy knot, hast thou not felt
A new-infused spirit slide
   Into thy breast, whilst mine did melt?

Bride.—First tell me, Sweet, whose words were those?
   For though your voice the air did break,
Yet did my soul the sense compose,
   And through your lips my heart did speak.

Bride.—’Tis true, for when that mutual change
   Of souls was made, with equal gain,
I straight might feel diffused a strange
   But gentle heat through every vein.

Bride.—Thy bosom then I’ll make my nest,
   Since there my willing soul doth perch.
Groom.—And for my heart, in thy chaste breast,
   I’ll make an everlasting search.

O blest disunion, that doth so
   Our bodies from our souls divide;
As two to one, and one four grow,
   Each by contraction multiplied.

INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED

Know, Celia (since thou art so proud),
   ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown!
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd
   Of common beauties lived unknown,
Had not my verse exhaled thy name,
And with it imped the wings of fame.

That killing power is none of thine;
   I gave it to thy voice and eyes;
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
   Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere
Lightning on him that fixed thee there.

THOMAS DEKKER
Circa 1570–1641

LULLABY

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Bock them, rock a lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock a lullaby.

SWEET CONTENT

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
   O sweet content!
Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
   O punishment!
Then he that patiently want’s burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content!  O sweet, O sweet content!
   Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
   Honest labour bears a lovely face;
   Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

THOMAS HEYWOOD
—1649?

GOOD-MORROW

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
   With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
   To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
   Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
   To give my Love good-morrow;
   To give my Love good-morrow,
   Notes from them both I’ll borrow.

ROBERT HERRICK
1591–1674

TO DIANEME

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which star-like sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives; yours yet free.
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.

TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green,
   Ye have been filled with flowers;
And ye the walks have been
   Where maids have spent their hours.

You’ve heard them sweetly sing,
   And seen them in a round,
Each virgin, like a Spring,
   With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here
   Whose silvery feet did tread,
And with dishevelled hair
   Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
   Your stock, and needy grown,
You’re left here to lament
   Your poor estates alone.

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
   Why do ye fall so fast?
   Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
   To blush and gently smile,
      And go at last.

What, were ye born to be
   An hour or half’s delight,
   And so to bid good-night?
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
   Merely to show your worth,
      And lose you quite!

TO DAFFODILS

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
   You haste away so soon:
As yet the early-rising Sun
   Has not attained his noon.
         Stay, stay,
   Until the hasting day
         Has run
   But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
   Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
   We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
   As you, or any thing.
         We die,
   As your hours do, and dry
         Away,
   Like to the Summer’s rain,
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
   Ne’er to be found again.

Welcome, Maids of Honour!
   You do bring
   In the Spring,
And wait upon her.

She has Virgins many,
   Fresh and fair;
   Yet you are
More sweet than any.

Ye are the Maiden Posies,
   And so graced
   To be placed
’Fore damask roses.

But, though thus respected,
   By and by
   Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.

TO PRIMROSES

Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make known
            The reason, why
            Ye droop and weep;
      Is it for want of sleep?
      Or childish lullaby?
   Or that ye have not seen as yet
            The violet?
            Or brought a kiss
      From that sweetheart to this?
      No, no, this sorrow shown
            By your tears shed,
      Would have this lecture read,
That things of greatest, so of meanest, worth,
Conceived with care are, and with tears brought forth.

TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
   Hath not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
   Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are,
   No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherd’s star
   Shine like a spangle here.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
   To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
   The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
   And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may for ever tarry.

DRESS

IN SILKS

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

CORINNA’S GOING A-MAYING

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
      And sweet as Flora.  Take no care
      For jewels for your gown or hair:
      Fear not; the leaves will strew
      Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
      Come, and receive them while the light
      Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
      And Titan on the eastern hill
      Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth.  Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

There’s not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
      A deal of youth, ere this, is come
      Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
      Some have despatched their cakes and cream,
      Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
      Many a green-gown has been given;
      Many a kiss, both odd and even:
      Many a glance, too, has been sent
      From out the eye, Love’s firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks picked:—Yet we’re not a-Maying.

Come! let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
      We shall grow old apace, and die
      Before we know our liberty.
      Our life is short; and our days run
      As fast away as does the sun:
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne’er be found again;
      So when or you or I are made
      A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
      All love, all liking, all delight
      Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.

Here, a little child, I stand,
Heaving up my either hand:
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on our all.  Amen.

BEN JONSON

               Ah, Ben!
         Say how, or when,
         Shall we thy guests
      Meet at those lyric feasts
         Made at the Sun,
      The Dog, the Triple Tun?
      Where we such clusters had
   As made us nobly wild, not mad;
      And yet each verse of thine
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

               My Ben!
         Or come again
         Or send to us
      Thy wit’s great over-plus;
         But teach us yet
      Wisely to husband it,
      Lest we that talent spend:
   And having once brought to an end
      That precious stock, the store
Of such a wit, the world should have no more.

HOLY BAPTISM

      Since, Lord, to Thee
   A narrow way and little gate
Is all the passage, on my infancy
   Thou didst lay hold, and antedate
      My faith in me.

      O, let me still
   Write Thee ‘great God,’ and me ‘a child’;
Let me be soft and supple to Thy will,
   Small to myself, to others mild,
      Behither ill.

      Although by stealth
   My flesh get on; yet let her sister,
My soul, bid nothing but preserve her wealth:
   The growth of flesh is but a blister;
      Childhood is health.

VIRTUE

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
         For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
         And thou must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
         Then chiefly lives.

UNKINDNESS

Lord, make me coy and tender to offend:
In friendship, first I think if that agree
            Which I intend
   Unto my friend’s intent and end;
I would not use a friend as I use Thee.

If any touch my friend or his good name,
It is my honour and my love-to free
            His blasted fame
   From the least spot or thought of blame;
I could not use a friend as I use Thee.

My friend may spit upon my curious floor;
Would he have gold?  I lend it instantly;
            But let the poor,
   And Thee within them, starve at door;
I cannot use a friend as I use Thee.

When that my friend pretendeth to a place,
I quit my interest, and leave it free;
            But when Thy grace
   Sues for my heart, I Thee displace;
Nor would I use a friend as I use Thee.

LOVE

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
            Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
            From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
            If I lacked anything.

‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here’:
            Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful?  Ah, my dear!
            I cannot look on thee.’
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
            ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame
            Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?
            ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
            So I did sit and eat.

THE PULLEY

      When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
‘Let us,’ said He, ‘pour on him all we can;
Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,
      Contract into a span.’

      ‘For if I should,’ said He,
‘Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
      So both should losers be.

      ‘Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
      May toss him to My breast.’

THE COLLAR