From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odours far excel.

O, then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee,
But perfume this neighbouring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will sterve me!
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,

Which being restrained, a heart is broken.

IN PRAISE

180

OF MELANCHOLY

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spent your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only Melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan-
These are the sounds we feed upon,

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;
But to me thou art cruel,

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!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones;
Here they lie had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach :-'In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in,

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
My love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear!
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise;

If that ye, Winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;

Let Zephyr only breathe,

And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death!
The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair,
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

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
Everything that lives or grows :
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no med'cine can appease,
He burns the fishes in the seas.

Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench.

Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,

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,
How they all unleaved die,
Losing their virginity!

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,
Gather it, or it you lose!
All the sand of Tagus' shore
Into my bosom casts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine

Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine,
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my train have bow'd,