페이지 이미지

See, she pants, and from her flesh

With his honour and his nam The warm blond gusheth out afresh.

That defends our flocks from blame. She is an unpolluted maid;

He is great, and he is just, I must have this bleeding staid.

He is ever good, and must From my banks I pluck this flow'r

Thus be honour'd. Daffodillies, With holy hand, whose virtuous pow'r

Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Is at once to heal and draw.

Let us fling, The blood returns. I never saw

Whilst we sing, A fairer mortal. Now doth break

Ever holy,
Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak. [breath,

Ever holy,
Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, giv’n me new Ever honour'd, ever young!
And brought me back out of the arms of death?

Thus great Pan is ever sung.
God. I have heal'd thy wounds.
Amo. Ah me!

God. Fear not him that succour'd thee :
I am this fountain's God! Below

FORD. My waters to a river grow,

FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. And 'twixt two banks with osiers set, That only prosper in the wet,

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep Thro' the meadows do they glide,

Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep! Wheeling still on ev'ry side,

Though the eyes be overtaken, Sometimes winding round about,

Yet the heart doth ever waken To find the even'st channel out.

Thoughts, chain'd up in busy snares And if thou wilt go with me,

Of continual woes and cares : Leaving mortal company,

Loves and griefs are so express'd, In the cool stream shalt thou lie,

As they rather sigh than rest. Free from harm as well as I:

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep I will give thee for thy food

Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep. No fish that useth in the mud ! But trout and pike, that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim

Oh, no more, no more! too late Thro' the pure streams may be seen :

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers Orient pearl fit for a queen,

Of a life as chaste as fate, Will I give, thy love to win,

Pure as are unwritten papers, And a shell to keep them in :

Are burnt out: no heat, no light, Not a fish in all my, brook

Now remains ; 'tis ever night. That shall disobey thy look,

Love is dead; let lovers' eyes, But, when thou wilt, come sliding by,

Lock'd in endless dreams, And from thy white hand take a fly.

Th'extremes of all extremes, And to make thee understand

Ope no more, for now love dies, How I can my waves command,

Now love dies, implying They shall bubble whilst I sing,

Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying. Sweeter than the silver string.





Do not fear to put thy feet
Naked in the river sweet;
Think not leech, or newt, or toad,
Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod;
Nor let the water rising high,
As thou wad'st in, make thee cry
And sob; but ever live with me,
And got a wave shall trouble thee !

All ye woods, and trees, and bow'rs,
All ye virtues and ye pow'rs
That inhabit in the lakes,
In the pleasant springs or brakes,

Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground,

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows;
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?



What bird so sings, yet so does wail?

Ha’ you felt the wool of beaver ? O'tis the ravish'd nightingale.

Or swan's down ever? Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue, she cries,

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
And still her woes at midnight rise.

Or the nard in the fire ?
Brave prick song! who is't now we hear? Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
None but the lark so shrill and clear ;

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat,

Oh do not wanton with those eyes,
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note ;

Lest I be sick with seeing : Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing

Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Cuckoo to welcome in the spring,

Lest shame destroy their being. Cuckoo to welcome in the spring.

O be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me ;
Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.

O do not steep them in thy tears,

For so will sorrow slay me ;

Nor spread them as distract with fears;
Drink to me only with thine eyes,

Mine own enough betray me.
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Doth ask a drink divine :

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver car,
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

State in wonted manner keep.
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Not so much honouring thee,

Goddess excellently bright. As giving it a hope, that there

Earth, let not thy envious shade It could not withered be.

Dare itself to interpose : But thou thereon didst only breathe,

Cynthia's shining orb was made And sent'st it back to me :

Heaven to clear, when day did close ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Bless us then with wished sight,
Not of itself, but thee.

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver ;
See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Give unto the flying hart
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

Space to breathe, how short soever :

Thou that mak’st a day of night, And well the car Love guideth.

Goddess excellently bright.
As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty,
And enamour'd, do wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt That they still were to run by her side, (ride.

Yet slower, yet, О faintly, gentle springs ![tears; Thorough swords, thorough seas, whither she would List to the heavy part the music bears;

Woe weeps out her decision, when she sings. Do but look on her eyes, they do light

Droop herbs and flowers; All that Love's world compriseth !

Fall grief in showers; Do but look on her hair, it is bright

Our beauties are not ours : As Love's star when it riseth !

O could I still Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill), Than words that soothe her!

Drop, drop, drop, drop, And from her arched brows, such a grace

Since Summer's pride is now a wither'd daffodil. Sheds itself through the face, As alone there trijimphs to the life

HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID, IN THE MASQUE ON All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

LORD HADDINGTON'S MARRIAGE. Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Beauties, have you seen this toy, Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Call'd love, a little boy, Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow

Almost naked, wanton, blind; Before the soil hath smutch'd it!

Cruel now, and then as kind?



If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' runaway.

She that will but now discover

Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,

Sleep, silence child, sweet father of soft rest, How, or where herself would wish :

Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings, But, who brings him to his mother,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Shall have that kiss and another.

Sole comforter of minds which are opprest;

Lo by thy charming rod all breathing things He hath of marks about him plenty:

Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possest, You shall know him among twenty.

And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings All his body is a fire,

Thou spar’st (alas!) who cannot be thy guest. And his breath a flame entire,

Since I am thine, O come, but with that face That being shot, like lightning in,

To inward light which thou art wont to show, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

With fained solace ease a true-felt woe ;

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
At his sight, the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned :

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath: Hell hath felt a greater heat:

I long to kiss the image of my death.
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky,

Fair moon, who with thy cold and silver shine Are his trophies reared high.

Makes sweet the horror of the dreadful night,

Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine, Wings he hath, which though ye clip,

Which Phæbus dazzles with his too much light; He will leap from lip to lip,

Bright queen of the first heaven, if in thy shrine Over liver, lights, and heart,

By turning oft, and heaven's eternal might, But not stay in any part ;

Thou hast not yet that once sweet fire of thine And, if chance his arrow misses,

Endymion, forgot, and lover's plight: He will shoot himself, in kisses.

If cause like thine may pity breed in thee,

And pity somewhat else to it obtain, He doth bear a golden bow,

Since thou hast power of dreams as well as he And a quiver hanging low,

Who paints strange figures in the slumb'ring brain: Full of arrows that outbrave

Now while she sleeps in doleful guise her show Dian's shafts : where, if he have

These tears, and the black map of all my woe. Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.

Dear quirister, who from those shadows sends, Still the fairest are his fuel,

Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, When his days are to be cruel,

Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, Lovers hearts are all his food;

(Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight; And his baths their warmest blood,

If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Nought but wounds his hand doth season,

Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste deligbt, And he hates none like to Reason.

May thee importune who like case pretends,

And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despight: Trust him not: his words, though sweet,

Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, Seldom with his heart do meet.

And long long sing) for what thou thus complains, All his practice is deceit;

Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky Every gift it is a bait;

Enamour'd smiles on woods and flow'ry plains ? Not a kiss but poison bears;

The bird, as if my question did her move, And most treason in his tears.

With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I lore. Idle minutes are his reign ; Then the straggler makes his gain,

Alexis, here she stay'd among these pines ; By presenting maids with toys,

Sweet hermitress she did alone repair: And would have ye think 'em joys:

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, "Tis th' ambition of the elf

More rich than that broughtfrom the Colchian mines. To have all childish as himself.

Here sat she by those musket eglantines,

The happy flow'rs seem yet the print to bear, If by these ye please to know him,

Her voice did sweeten here my sugar'd lines, Beauties, be not nice, but show him,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear. 'Though ye had a will to hide him,

She here me first perceiv'd, and here a morn Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.

Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face: Since you hear his falser play,

Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, And that he's Venus' runaway.

Here first I got a pledge of promis'd grace :

But ah! what serves't t'have been made happy so,
Since passed pleasures double but new woe.



My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such barmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear,
For which be silent as in woods before :

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

[ocr errors]

$ Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,

Of winters past or coming void of care, ? Well pleased with delights which present are,

Fair seasons, budding sprays,sweet-smelling flow'rs: es To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs To Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,

And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ?

Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yea, and to angels lays.

Shall I like an hermit dwell, On a rock, or in a cellCalling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalues me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And, with little nore a-do, Work them into bracelets too : If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be? Were her hands as rich a prize, As her hairs, or precious eyes ; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good-manner's sake, And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip: If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be? No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show, Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire by buruing too: But when she, by change, hath got To her heart a second lot; Then, if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be !

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]



Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountaivs yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks; By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning : If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn, and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair love, and fairer virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen :
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended, in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
When Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curst the access of that celestial thief.


DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ;

There is no armour against fate ;

SONG, TO LUCASTA.-ON GOING TO THE WARS. Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, Sceptre and crown

That from the nunnerie Must tumble down,

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, And in the dust be equal made

To warre and armes I flee. With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

True; a new mistresse now I chase, Some men with swords may reap the field,

The first foe in the field; And plant fresh laurels where they kill;

And with a stronger faith imbrace
But their strong nerves at last must yield;

A sword, a horse, a shield.
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

Yet this inconstancy is such,
They stoop to fate,

As you too shall adore ; And must give up their murmuring breath,

I could not love thee, deare, so much, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Lov'd I not hononr more. The garlands wither on your brow,

SONG. Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;

Why dost thou say I am forsworn, Upon death's purple altar now,

Since thine I vow'd to be? See where the victor victim bleeds.

Lady, it is already morn; All heads must come

It was last night I swore to thee
To the cold tomb;

That fond impossibility.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long ;

A tedious twelve hours space!
I should all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,

Did I still doat upon that face.


Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah! braid no more that shining hair;
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it Ay.
Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress, must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best ;
Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then bind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud in night;
But, like the sun in 's early ray,
Shake your head, and scatter day!

When Love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates; And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames ;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free; Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty. When linnet-like confined, I

With shriller note shall sing,
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,

And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,
Th’enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.



(Prefixed to "the Anatomy of Melancholy.)
When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, and void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie waking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,

« 이전계속 »