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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 raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his mails he'll dig them up again.

A Dirge. Hark, now every thing is still ; The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. Much ye had of land and rent ; Your length in clay now's competent. A long war disturb’d the mind: Here the perfect peace is signed. Of what is't fools make such vain keeping 2 Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping: Their life, a general mist of error, Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew the hair with powder sweet, D'on clean linen, bathe the feet: And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless the neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: End the groan, and come away.

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Dula. I could never have the pow'r
To love one above an hour,
But my heart would prompt mine eye
On some other man to fly:
Venus, fix thou mine eyes fast,

Or if not, give me all that I shall see at last.

FROM THE LITTLE FRENch LAwYER.

This way, this way, come and hear,
You that hold these pleasures dear;
Fill your ears with our sweet sound,
Whilst we melt the frozen ground. -
This way come; make haste, oh, fair :
Let your clear eyes gild the air;
Come, and bless us with your sight;
This way, this way, seek delight!

FROM valentin LAN.

Hear ye, ladies that despise,
What the mighty love has done;
Fear examples, and be wise:
Fair Calista was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doated on a silver swan ;
Danaë, in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, lov’d a shower.

Hear ye, ladies that are coy, What the mighty love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy; The chaste moon he makes to wooe: Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doating at the altar dies; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire. Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud, ln gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet, And as a purling stream, thou son of night, Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain, Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

God Lyteus, ever young,
Ever honour'd, ever sung;
Stain'd 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!

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Such as no mortals use to tread,
Fit only for Apollo
To play to, for the moon to lead,
And all the stars to follow !
On, blessed youths! for Jove doth pause,
Laying aside his graver laws
For this device:
And at the wedding such a pair,
Each dance is taken for a pray'r,
Each song a sacrifice.

Solo. More pleasing were those sweet delights, If ladies mov'd as well as knights; Run every one of you, and catch A nymph, in honour of this match, And whisper boldly in her ear, Jove will but laugh, if you forswear!

Chorus. And this day's sins, he doth resolve, That we his priests should all absolve. Ye should stay longer if we durst: Away alas, that he that first Gave time wild wings to fly away, Hath now no power to make him stay! But tho’ these games must needs be play'd, I would this pair, when they are laid, And not a creature nigh 'em, Could catch his scythe as he doth pass, And cut his wings, and break his glass, And keep him ever by 'em. Peace and silence be the guide To the man, and to the bride 1 If there be a joy yet new In marriage, let it fall on you, That all the world may wonder 1 If we should stay, we should do worse, And turn our blessing to a curse, By keeping you asunder.

FLETCHER.

proM The FAlthful, shepherdess. Satyr. Thorough yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And thro' these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun Since the lusty spring began, All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night, His paramour, the Syrinx bright. But, behold a fairer sight ! By that heav'nly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods; for in thy face Shines more awful majesty, Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live Therefore on this mould,
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand,
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells:
Fairer by the famous wells,
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poets' good,
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em ;
Deign, oh, fairest fair, to take 'em.
For these black-ey'd Driope
Hath often-times commanded me
With my clasped knee to clime:
See how well the lusty time
Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen,
Some be red, some be green ;
These are of that luscious meat,
The great god Pan himself doth eat :
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade :
I must go, I must run
Swifter than the fiery-sun.

River God. What pow'rful charms my streams do

Back again unto their spring, [bring
With such force, that I their God,
Three times striking with my rod,
Could not keep them in their ranks!
My fishes shoot into the banks;
There's not one that stays and feeds,
All have hid them in the weeds.
Here's a mortal almost dead,
Fall’n into my river-head,
Hallow’d so with many a spell,
That till now none ever fell.
'Tis a female young and clear,
Cast in by some ravisher.
See upon her breast a wound,
On which there is no plaister bound,
Yet she's warm, her pulses beat,
'Tis a sign of life and heat.
If thou be'st a virgin pure,
I can give a present cure :
Take a drop into thy wound,
From my watery locks, more round

Than orient pearl, and far more pure Than unchaste flesh may endure.

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See, she pants, and from her flesh The warm blood gusheth out afresh. She is an unpolluted maid; I must have this bleeding staid. From my banks I pluck this flow'r With holy hand, whose virtuous pow'r Is at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw A fairer mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak. [breath, Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, giv'n me new And brought me back out of the arms of death 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 My waters to a river grow, And 'twixt two banks with osiers set, That only prosper in the wet, Thro' the meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on ev'ry side, Sometimes winding round about, To find the even'st channel out. And if thou wilt go with me, Leaving mortal company, In the cool stream shalt thou lie, Free from harm as well as I: I will give thee for thy food No fish that useth in the mud : But trout and pike, that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Thro' the pure streams may be seen: Orient pearl fit for a queen, Will I give, thy love to win, And a shell to keep them in: Not a fish in all my brook That shall disobey thy look, But, when thou wilt, come sliding by, And from thy white hand take a fly. And to make thee understand How I can my waves command, They shall bubble whilst I sing, Sweeter than the silver string.

song.

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 not 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,

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What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat,
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring,
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring.

BEN JONSON.

song. To cella.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
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,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

FROM A celebration OF CHARIS.

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 enamour'd, do wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side, [ride.
Thorough swords, thorough seas,whither she would

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth .
Do but look on her hair, it 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 trigumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow

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Cruel now, and then as kind?

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