51

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!

chance;

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.

10 deed,

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

20

line.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED,
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy

name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too

much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But

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

seek
For names, but call forth thundering

Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were

on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty

Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes

5

be.

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

5 heat

60

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
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;

When fates turned cruel,
For a good poet's made, as well as born. | Yet three filled zodiacs6 had he been
And such wert thou; look how the father's

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.
In each of which he seems to shake a lance, So, by error, to his fate
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70

They all consented,
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were But viewing him since, alas, too late!
To see thee in our waters yet appear,

They have repented;
And make those flights upon the banks of | And have sought, to give new birth,
Thames,

In baths to steep him;
That so did taket Elizaand our James! But being so much too good for earth,
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75

Heaven vows to keep him.
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with
rage

JOHN DONNE (1673-1631)
Or influence chide or cheer the drooping
stage,

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;

10

15

20

HARK, NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL

A midnight bell, a parting groan, 16

These are the sounds we feed upon.
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy

valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely

melancholy.

CARE-CHARMING SLEEP

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all

woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is

loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet, 5
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride. 10

Hark, now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler2 shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent,-

5
Your length in clay's now competent;
A long war disturbed your mind,--
Here your perfect peace is signed.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 10
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And—the foul fiend more to check- 15
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan, and come away.

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.