From that breath, whose native smell O, then speak, thou fairest fair! Which being restrained, a heart is broken. IN PRAISE 180 OF MELANCHOLY HENCE, all you vain delights, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A look that's fastened to the ground, Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy ! 181 John Fletcher, INVOCATION WHY art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death, To stop a wretch's breath, That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart A prey unto thy dart? I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold: Sorrow hath made me old, Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave Is quiet in my grave. Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel; If thou end not my tedious misery And I soon cease to be. Strike, and strike home, then! Pity unto me, In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. Philip Massinger. 182 MEDITATION (On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey) MORTALITY, behold and fear ! What a change of flesh is here! Who now want strength to stir their hands; With the richest royall'st seed Since the first man died for sin ! Here the bones of birth have cried : 'Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Francis Beaumont. 183 ARISE PHOEBUS, PHOEBUS, arise, And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red! Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed, That she thy carrier may with roses spread; The nightingales thy coming each where sing; Make an eternal spring, Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And, emperor-like, decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair; Chase hence the ugly Night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn That day, long-wished day, Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And Fates not hope betray), Which, only white, deserves A diamond for ever should it mark : This is the morn should bring unto this grove But show thy blushing beams And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear! If that ye, Winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let Zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death! Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels; The fields with flow'rs are deck'd in every hue; The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue; Here is the pleasant place, And ev'ry thing, save her, who all should grace. 184 William Drummond. MADRIGAL My thoughts hold mortal strife: I detest my life, S, with lamenting cries, Defe to my soul to bring Is all that prince which here doth monarchise. Suche, grim-grinning king, Bu caitives scorns, and doth the blest surprise, If th having decked with beauty's rose his tomb, Alains to crop a weed, and will not come. Stri In o William Drummond. 185 WOOING SONG LOVE is the blossom where there blows Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Love did make the bloody spear While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play. And of all love's joyful flame, I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be! See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all the virgin rose That as bright Aurora shows, Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away. There is danger in delay. Come, come gather then the rose, Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine, |