The raven hovers o'er my bier,
The bittern on a reed I hear
Pipes my elegy,

And warns me to die.
Whiles from yond' graves

My wrong'd love craves
My sad company.

Cease Hylas, cease thy call!
Such, O such, was thy parting groan,
Breathed out to me alone

When thou, disdain'd, didst fall.
Lo thus unto thy silent tomb,
In my sad winding-sheet, I come,
Creeping o'er dead bones
And cold marble stones,
That I may mourn
Over thy urn

And appease thy groans.

William Cartwright.

SORROW.

H, Sorrow, Sorrow, say where dost thou dwell?

In the lowest room of hell.

Art thou born of human race?

No, no, I have a furier face.

Art thou in city, town, or court?

I to every place resort.

Oh, why into the world is Sorrow sent?

Men afflicted best repent.

What dost thou feed on?

Broken sleep.

What takest thou pleasure in?

To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Oh when? oh when shall Sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never.

Never till she finds a grave.

Samuel Rowley.

STRAFFORD'S TRIAL AND DEATH.

REAT Strafford! worthy of that name, though all
Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall,
Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight,

Which too much merit did accumulate:
As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw,
Pretexts are into treason forged by law.

His wisdom such, at once it did appear

Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear;
Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although
Each had an army, as an equal foe.

Such was his force of eloquence, to make
The hearers more concern'd than he that spake;
Each seem'd to act that part he came to see,
And none was more a looker-on than he;
So did he move our passions, some were known
To wish, for the defence, the crime their own.
Now private pity strove with public hate,
Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate:
Now they could him, if he could them forgive;
He's not too guilty, but too wise to live;

Less seem those facts which treason's nick-name bore,
Than such a fear'd ability for more.

They after death their fears of him express,
His innocence, and their own guilt confess.
Their legislative frenzy they repent:
Enacting it should make no precedent.

This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose
Honour for life, but rather nobly chose

Death from their fears, than safety from his own,
That his last action all the rest might crown.

Sir John Denham.

EPITAPH UPON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD.

D

(Beheaded May 12th, 1641.)

ERE lies wise and valiant dust,
Huddled up 'twixt fit and just :
Strafford, who was hurried hence

'Twixt treason and convenience.
He spent his time here in a mist,
A papist yet a calvinist.

His prince's nearest joy and grief,
He had, yet wanted, all relief:
The prop and ruin of the state,
The people's violent love and hate.
One in extremes loved and abhorr'd.
Riddles lie here, and in a word
Here lies blood, and let it lie
Speechless still, and never cry.

THE FALL.

John Cleveland.

HE bloody trunk of him who did possess Above the rest a hapless happy state This little stone doth seal, but not depress, And scarce can stop the rolling of his fate.

Brass tombs which justice hath denied to his fault
The common pity to his virtues pays,

Adorning on imaginary vault

Which from our minds Time strives in vain to raze.

Ten years the world upon

him falsely smiled,

Sheathing in fawning looks the deadly knife. Long aimed at his head; that so beguiled

It more securely might bereave his life;

Then threw him to a scaffold from a throne.
Much doctrine lies under this little stone.

Sir Richard Fanshawe.

THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON.

ING out, pent souls, sing cheerfully!
Care shackles you in liberty:

Mirth frees you in captivity.

Would you double fetters add?
Else why so sad?

Chorus.

Besides your pinion'd arms you'll find
Grief too can manacle the mind.

Live then, prisoners, uncontroled;
Drink o' the strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollity

And throats are free

Chorus.

Triumph in your bonds and pains,

And dance to the music of your chains.

Richard Lovelace.

COURANTE MONSIEUR.

HAT frown, Aminta, now hath drown'd
Thy bright front's power, and crown'd
Me that was bound.

No, no, deceived cruel, no!

Love's fiery darts,

Till tipt with kisses, never kindle hearts.

Adieu, weak beauteous tyrant, see!
Thy angry flames, meant me,

Retort on thee:

For know, it is decreed, proud fair,
I ne'er must die

By any scorching, but a melting eye.

Richard Lovelace.

DISDAIN RETURNED.

D

E that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

[1 st.

Thomas Carew.