Her hair, a net of beams, would prove
Strong enough to imprison Jove
Dress'd in his eagle's shape; her brow
Is a spacious field of snow;
Her eyes so rich, so pure a grey,
Every look creates a day,

And if they close themselves (not when
The sun doth set) 'tis night again;
In her cheeks are to be seen

Of flowers both the king and queen,
Thither by all the Graces led
And smiling in their nuptial bed;
On whom, like pretty nymphs, do wait
Her twin-born lips, whose virgin state
They do deplore themselves, nor miss
To blush so often as they kiss

After a face who t'other day
Came and stole my heart away.
For your directions, in brief,

These are best marks to know the thief.

Her hair, a net of beams, would prove
Strong enough to captive Jove,
Playing the eagle; her clear brow
Is a comely field of snow;

A sparkling eye so pure a grey
As when it shines it needs no day;
Ivory dwelleth on her nose;
Lillies married to the rose

Have made her cheek the nuptial bed:
Her lips betray their virgin red
As they only blushed for this
That they one another kiss:
But observe! beside the rest,
You shall know this felon best
By her tongue-for if your ear
Shall once a heavenly music hear
Such as neither gods nor men
But from that voice shall hear again
That, that is She: O take her t'ye!
None can rock heaven asleep but She."

You shall know this felon best

By her tongue; for when your ear
Once a harmony shall hear
So ravishing, you do not know
Whether you be in heaven, or no,
That, that is She; O straight surprise
And bring her unto Love's assize!
But lose no time, for fear that she
Ruin all mankind like me,

Fate and philosophy controul,

And leave the world without a soul.

JAMES SHIRLEY

TO ONE WHO SAID HIS MISTRESS WAS OLD

ELL me not Time hath play'd the thief

TELL

Upon her beauty; my belief

Might have been mock'd, and I had been

An heretic, if I had not seen;

My Mistress is still fair to me,
And now I all those graces see
That did adorn her virgin brow.
Her eye hath the same flame in't now,
To kill or save, the chemist's fire
Equally burns, so my desire ;
Not any rose-bud less within

Her cheek, the same snow on her chin
Her voice that heavenly music bears,
First charm'd my soul, and in my ears
Did leave it trembling; her lips are
The self-same lovely twins they were ;—
After so many years I miss

No flower in all my paradise.

Time, I despise thy rage and thee :
Thieves do not always thrive, I see.

;

JAMES SHIRLEY

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD

PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl,
To purify the air;

Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of your hair.

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
And wakes the louder drum ;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb.

For I must go where lazy Peace
Will hide her drowsy head,
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft :
Can I in war delight,

Who being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight?

Thou know'st the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stolen away.

The payment shall but double be ;
O then with speed resign
My own seduced heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.

SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT

THE LARK NOW LEAVES

HE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,

THE

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings.
He takes this window for the East,

And to implore your light, he sings:
"Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes”.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT

1

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA 1

E blushing virgins happy are

YE

In the chaste nunnery 2 of her breasts,

For he'd profane so chaste a fair,

Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow,
How rich a perfume do ye yield?
In some close garden cowslips so

Are sweeter than i' th' open field.

In those white cloisters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.

1 From Castara.

2 Habington, Herrick and Lovelace were contemporaries. All compare, very beautifully, a girl's bosom to a nunnery.

Then that which living gave you room
Your glorious sepulchre shall be:
There wants no marble for a tomb,

Whose breast has marble been to me.

WILLIAM HABINGTON

THOU ART RETURNED, GREAT LIGHT

THOU

HOU art returned, great Light, to that blest hour In which I first by marriage, sacred power, Joined with Castara hearts; and as the same Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame: Which had increased, but that by love's decree, "Twas such at first, it ne'er could greater be. But tell me (glorious Lamp) in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness ? I since that have seen The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green And wither, and the beauty of the field With winter wrinkled. Even thy self dost yield Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher; But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.

WILLIAM HABINGTON

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

Go, lovely Rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's

young

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.