SIR ROBERT AYTON. [1570-1638.] FAIR AND UNWORTHY. I DO confess thou 'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the lightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone, I do confess thou 'rt sweet; yet find That kisses everything it meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, THOMAS HEYWOOD. [About 1640.] GOOD-MORROW. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast; SEARCH AFTER GOD. No more her sweetness with her dwells, I SOUGHT thee round about, O thou my But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, Like sere flowers to be thrown aside: And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. WILLIAM STRODE. [1600-1644.] MUSIC. O LULL me, lull me, charming air! And slumbering die, And change his soul for harmony! God! Offended with my question, in full choir, I answered: The all-potent, sole, imAnswered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." mense, Surpassing sense; Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. Or like a wind that chafes the flood, ELEGY. SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed, My last good night! Thou wilt not wake It so much loves, and fill the room Stay for me there! I will not fail Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, The thought of this bids me go on, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. [1612-1650.] I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. That little world of thee Which virtuous souls abhor, As Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; He either fears his fate too much, JAMES SHIRLEY. [1596-1666.] DEATH THE LEVELLER. THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: SIR THOMAS BROWNE. Your heads must come Only the actions of the just EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF CHERBURY.) [1581-1648.] CELINDA. WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove, She bowed her gracious head to rest, Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, SIR THOMAS BROWNE. [1605-1682.] EVENING HYMN. THE night is come; like to the day, Whilst I do rest, my soul advance; RICHARD CRASHAW. [1605-1650.] WISHES. WHOE'ER she be, That not impossible She Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny, Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie: Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. |