Though I may fail, yet I rejoice
Another's good hap to see,
I care for nobody, no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.
So let us his example take,
And be from malice free;
Let every one his neighbour serve,
As served he'd like to be.
And merrily push the can about,
And drink and sing with glee;
If nobody cares a doit for us,
Why not a doit care we.
HALL I tell you how the rose at first grew red,
And whence the lily whiteness borrowèd?
You blush'd, and straight the rose with red was
dight,
The lily kiss'd your hand, and so was white.
Before such time, each rose had but a stain,
And lilies nought but paleness did contain:
You have the native colour, these the dye,
And only flourish in your livery.
From "Wit's Recreations," 1640.
¶ An Epitaph upon Husband and
Wife, who died and were buried together.
O these whom death again did wed,
This grave's the second marriage bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till the stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never die in night.
Richard Crashaw, 1616-1650.
Siren Pleasant! Foe to Reason.
OW I find thy looks were feignèd,
Quickly lost and quickly gainèd!
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart unstable, light as feathers;
Tongue untrusty, subtle sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted:
Siren pleasant! foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!
Of thine eyes I made my mirror,
From thy beauty came mine error,
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deemèd pity.
Thy false tears that me aggrievèd
First of all my trust deceived:
Siren pleasant! foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!
Feigned acceptance when I askèd,
Lovely words with cunning maskèd.
Holy vows, but heart unholy;
Wretched man! my trust was folly.
Siren Pleasant! Foe to Reason.
Lily white and pretty winking,
Solemn vows, but sorry thinking:
Siren pleasant! foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!
Now I see, O, seemly cruel!
Others warm them at my fuel.
Wit shall guide me in this durance,
Since in love is no assurance.
Change thy pasture! take thy pleasure!
Beauty is a fading treasure:
Siren pleasant! foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!
Prime youth lusts not age's still follow,
And make white these tresses yellow;
Wrinkled face for looks delightful,
Shall acquaint the Dame despiteful:
And when Time shall eat thy glory;
Then, too late, thou wilt be sorry.
Siren pleasant! foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for thy treason!
Thomas Lodge, 1556 — 1625.
On the Death of a Favourite
Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold-Fishes.
WAS on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes-
She saw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gazed; but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
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