O, I could still (Like melting snow upon some craggie hill), Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill. BEN JONSON. HER TRIUMPH, FROM UNDERWOODS SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove And enamour'd, doe wish, so they might That they still were, to run by her side, Through Swords, through Seas, whether she would ride. Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright Doe but marke her forhead's smoother As alone there triumphs to the life All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife. Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark't but the fall o' the Snow Or Swans Downe ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the Brier? Or have you tasted the bag of the Bee? TO CELIA, FROM THE FORREST DRINKE to me, onely with thine eyes, The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, But might I of Jove's Nectar sup, I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, But thou thereon did'st onely breath, Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, Not of it selfe but thee. · BEN JONSON. A DIRGE, FROM THE WHITE DIVEL CALL for the Robin-Red-Brest and the Wren, And with leaues and flowres do couer The friendlesse bodies of unburied men. The Ante, the field-mouse, and the mole To reare him hillockes, that shall keep him warme, And (when gay tombes are rob'd) sustaine no harme, But keepe the wolfe far thence: that's foe to men, For with his nailes hee'l dig them up agen. JOHN WEBSTER. GLIDE SOFT YE SILUER FLOODS, FROM BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS GLIDE soft ye siluer Floods, And eury Spring: Within the shady Woods, Let no Bird sing! Nor from the Groue a Turtle Doue, But silence on each Dale and Mountaine dwell But (of great Thetis' trayne) Ye Mermaides faire, As yee in tramels knit your locks In heauy murmures through the broade shores tell, How Willy bad his friend and ioy Farewell. Cease, cease, yee murdring winds To moue a waue; But if with troubled minds You seeke his graue; Know 'tis as various as your selues, Had he Arion like Been iudg'd to drowne, Hee on his Lute could strike So rare a sown'; A thousand Dolphins would haue come Great Neptune heare a Swaine! His Coffin take, And with a golden chaine It fast unto a rocke neere land! Where eu'ry calmy morne Ile stand And ere one sheepe out of my fold I tell Sad Willy's Pipe shall bid his friend Farewell. WILLIAM BROWNE. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES WHEN as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flowes The liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see O how that glittering taketh me! ROBERT HERRICK. TO MEADOWS YE have been fresh and green, |