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THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad
vance See the chariot at hand here of Love, The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by Wherein my lady rideth!
10 Each that draws is a swan or a dove, Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And well the car Love guideth.
And think to ruin, where it seemed to As she goes, all hearts do duty
raise. Unto her beauty;
These are, as some infamous bawd or And enamored, do wish, so they might
whore But enjoy such a sight, Should praise a matron. What could hurt That they still were to run by her side,
her more? Through swords, through seas, whither she | But thou art proof against them, and, inwould ride.
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. Do but look on her eyes, they do light I therefore will begin. Soul of the age,
All that Love's world compriseth! The applause, delight, the wonder of our Do but look on her hair, it is bright
stage, As Love's star when it riseth!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 15
by Than words that soothe her; Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 And from her arched brows such a grace A little further, to make thee a room:
Sheds itself through the face, Thou art a monument without a tomb, As alone there triumphs to the life
And art alive still while thy book doth All the gain, all the good, of the elements' live, strife.
And we have wits to read and praise to
give. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, That I not mix thee so my brain excuses
Before rude hands have touched it? I mean with great, but disproportioned Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Muses;
26 Before the soil hath smutched it? For if I thought my judgment were of Have you felt the wool o' the beaver? 25 years,
Or swan's down ever? I should commit? thee surely with thy Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
peers, Or the nard' i' the fire? And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outOr have tasted the bag of the bee?
shine, O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! 30 Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED,
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy
these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
And though thou hadst small Latin and
less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to From A PINDARIC ODE
show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. It is not growing like a tree He was not of an age, but for all time!
In bulk, doth make men better be; And all the Muses still were in their prime, Or standing long an oak, three hundred When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
year, Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 46 | To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: Nature herself was proud of his designs
A lily of a day And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines, Is fairer far in May; Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, Although it fall and die that night, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit: It was the plant and flower of light. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 51 In small proportions we just beauties see, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not And in short measures life may perfect please,
10 But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 55 | AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: For though the poet's matter nature be, Weep with me all you that read His art doth give the fashion; and that he
This little story; Who casts to write a living line must And know, for whom a tear you shed sweat,
Death's self is sorry. (Such as thine are) and strike the second Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature, Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same As heaven and nature seemed to strive (And himself with it) that he thinks to 1 Which owned the creature. frame,
Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When fates turned cruel,
The stage's jewel; face
65 And did act, what now we moan, Lives in his issue, even so the race
Old men so duly, Of Shakespeare's mind and manners As, sooth, the Parcae thought him brightly shines
one, In his well turned and true filèd lines,
He played so truly.
They all consented,
They have repented;
In baths to steep him;
Heaven vows to keep him.
JOHN DONNE (1673-1631)
GO AND CATCH A FALLING STAR Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,
Go and catch a falling star, And despairs day, but for thy volume's Get with child a mandrake root, light.
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot;
polished. • captivate.
7 the Fates.
5 Queen Elizabeth.
That thou lovest me as thou say'st, 30 If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part And may thy fears fulfil.
But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep: They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER
Death, be not proud, though some have
called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost
overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou
kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pic
ture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more
must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do
goRest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou’rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and
desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness
dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as
well, And better than thy stroke; why swell'st
thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more: Death, thou
Mortality, behold and fear!
10 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, 15 Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1684-1616)
EVEN SUCH IS MAN
Like to the falling of a star,
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
HARK, NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL
A midnight bell, a parting groan, 16
These are the sounds we feed upon.
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all
Hark, now everything is still,
WILLIAM BROWNE (1691-1643?)
JOHN WEBSTER (16807-1626?)
SIR THOMAS NORTH (1636?-1601?) A DIRGE
THE DEATH OF CÆSAR
From THE LIFE OF JULIUS CÆSAR Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover,
The Romans inclining to Cæsar's prosAnd with leaves and flowers do cover perity, and taking the bit in the mouth, The friendless bodies of unburied men. supposing that to be ruled by one man Call unto his funeral dole
alone, it would be a good mean for them The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, to take breath a little, after so many To rear him hillocks that shall keep him troubles and miseries as they had abidden warm,
in these civil wars, they chose him perAnd, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain petual Dictator. This was a plain tyrno harm;
anny: for to this absolute power of DicBut keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to tator they added this, never to be (10 men,
0 afraid to be deposed. Cicero propounded For with his nails he'll dig them up again. before the Senate that they should give cup's.