Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Who God doth late and early pray With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. γου meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You curious chanters of the wood, By your weak accents; what's your praise, You violets that first appear, So, when my mistress shall be seen SIR JOHN WOTTON(?). (Fl. circa 1600.) Conjectured to be the half-brother of Sir Henry Wotton. The following poem appears in England's Helicon, 1600. DAMÆTAS' JIG IN PRAISE OF HIS LOVE. JOLLY LLY shepherd, shepherd on a hill, On a hill so cheerily, Fear not, shepherd, there to pipe thy fill; Jolly shepherd, shepherd on a green, On a green so cheerily, Be thy voice shrill, be thy mirth seen, Jolly shepherd, shepherd in the sun, In the sun so cheerily, Sing forth thy songs, and let thy rimes run Down to the dales from the hills above: Jolly shepherd, shepherd in the shade, In the shade so cheerily, Joy in thy life, life of shepherd's trade, Both sing and say; Sweet Love for me. P Jolly shepherd, shepherd here or there, Here or there so cheerily, Or in thy chat, either at thy cheer, Both sing and say; Love lasts for aye. Jolly shepherd, shepherd Daphne's love, Daphne's love so cheerily, Let thy fancy never more remove, Still sing and say; Love's yoke is sweet. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. (1584-1616.) ON THE LIFE OF MAN. From Poems, 1640 and 1653; written before 1616. LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER. ORTALITY, behold and fear! MORT 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; With the richest royal'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 ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate. JOHN FLETCHER. (1579-1625.) OR, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Dyce's is the standard modern edition of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher. Most of the lyrics occur in plays in which Beaumont doubtless had no share. SWEETEST MELANCHOLY. From the Nice Valour, in the folio of 1647 (acted 1613?). Compare Burton's verses introductory to his Anatomy of Melancholy, and Milton's Il Penseroso. HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! But only melancholy; O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, A midnight bell, a parting groan, These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; |