ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

BY BEN JONSON.

HIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

TH

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire,

To honor, serve, and love, as poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned and a manly soul

I purposed her, that should, with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control
Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.
Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,
My Muse bade BEDFORD write, and that was she!

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

FROM WOMEN PLEASED," BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

O

H, fair sweet face! oh, eyes celestial bright,

Twin stars in Heaven, that now adorn the night!
Oh, fruitful lips, where cherries ever grow,

And damask cheeks, where all sweet beauties blow!
Oh, thou, from head to foot divinely fair!

Cupid's most cunning nets made of that hair;

FROM

And, as he weaves himself for curious eyes,
"Oh me, oh me, I'm caught myself!" he cries:
Sweet rest about thee, sweet and golden sleep,
Soft peaceful thoughts, your hourly watches keep,
Whilst I in wonder sing this sacrifice,

To beauty sacred, and those angel eyes!

SONG.

THE FALSE ONE," BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

OOK out, bright eyes, and bless the air!

Even in shadows you are fair.

Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.

Though your beauty be confined,

And soft Love a prisoner bound,

Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found.

Look out nobly, then, and dare

Ev'n the fetters that you wear!

THE SONG OF TAVY.

BY WILLIAM BROWNE.

S careful merchants do expecting stand

(After long time and merry gales of wind)

Upon the place where their brave ship must land,

So wait I for the vessel of my mind.

Upon a great adventure is it bound,

Whose safe return will valued be at more
Than all the wealthy prizes which have crowned
The golden wishes of an age before.

Out of the East jewels of wealth she brings,
Th' unvalued diamond of her sparkling eye
Wants in the treasure of all Europe's kings;

And were it mine they nor their crowns should buy.

The sapphires ringed on her panting breast

Run as rich veins of ore about the mold,
And are in sickness with a pale possest
So true, for them I should disvalue gold.

The melting rubies on her cherry lip

Are of such power to hold, that, as one day Cupid flew thirsty by, he stooped to sip,

And, fastened there, could never get away.

The sweets of Candie are no sweets to me,
When hers I taste, nor the perfumes of price,
Robbed from the happy shrubs of Araby,

As her sweet breath, so powerful to entice.

Oh, hasten then, and if thou be not gone

Unto that wishèd traffic through the main, My powerful sighs shall quickly drive thee on, And then begin to draw thee back again.

If in the mean rude waves have it opprest,
It shall suffice, I ventured at the best.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY SIR HENRY WOTTON.

́OU meaner beauties of the night,

YOU

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you, when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents! what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise ?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own!
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind;
By virtue first, then chofce, a Queen!
Tell me, if she were not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE BESTOWS.

A

SONG, BY THOMAS CAREW.

SK me no more where Jove bestows,

When June is passed, the fading rose;

For, in your beauty's orient deep,

These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray

The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare

Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is passed;
For in your sweet, dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downward fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixèd become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,

And in your fragrant bosom dies.

JULIA.

BY ROBERT HERRICK.

OME asked me where the rubies grew,

SOME

And nothing did I say,

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where,
Then spake I to my girl,

To part her lips, and shew me there
The quarelets of pearl.

One asked me where the roses grew,
I bade him not go seek;

But forthwith bade my Julia shew
A bud in either cheek.