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THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad

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See the chariot at hand here of Love, The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by Wherein my lady rideth!

chance; 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

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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.

deed,

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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

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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?

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 line.

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And though thou hadst small Latin and TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, less Greek, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE From thence to honor thee, I would not

seek To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy For names, but call forth thundering name,

Æschylus, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; Euripides, and Sophocles to us, While I confess thy writings to be such Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 As neither man nor muse can praise too To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, much.

And shake a stage; or when thy socks were 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But

on,

Leave thee alone for the comparison Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; Of all that insolent Greece or haughty For silliest ignorance on these may light,

Rome Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes Sent forth, or since did from their ashes right;

I spikenard.

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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,

be.
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 heat

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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 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,

As, sooth, the Parcae? thought him brightly shines

one,

15 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 take4 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
age

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; : plans.

: polished. * captivate.

Queen Elizabeth.

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That thou lovest me as thou say'st, 30 Even such is man, whose borrowed light If in thine my life thou waste,

Is straight called in and paid to night. That art the best of me.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,

The spring intombed in autumn lies; Let not thy divining heart

The dew's dried up, the star is shot, Forethink me any ill;

The flight is past, and man forgot. Destiny may take thy part

35 And may thy fears fulfil.

But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep:

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER They who one another keep

ABBEY Alive, ne'er parted be.

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Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones
DEATH

Sleep within this heap of stones;

Here they lie had realms and lands, Death, be not proud, though some have

Who now want strength to stir their hands; called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; They preach, “In greatness is no trust.”

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust For those whom thou think'st thou dost

Here's an acre sown indeed overthrow

With the richest, royal'st seed Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou

That the earth did e'er suck in From rest and sleep, which but thy pic- Here the bones of birth have cried,

Since the first man died for sin; ture be,

“Though gods they were, as men they Much pleasure, then from thee much more

died.” must flow; Here are sands, ignoble things,

15 And soonest our best men with thee do

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. goRest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Here's a world of pomp and state Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and

Buried in dust, once dead by fate. desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

JOHN FLETCHER (1679-1626) And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

SWEETEST MELANCHOLY And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

Hence, all you vain delights, One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

As short as are the nights And death shall be no more: Death, thou

Wherein you spend your folly! shalt die!

There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,

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But only melancholy; FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1684-1616)

O sweetest melancholy!

kill me.

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EVEN SUCH IS MAN

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 5
Or bubbles which on water stood:

Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground, 10
A tongue chained up without a sound.
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale Passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls.

A midnight bell, a parting groan, 16 HARK, NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL

These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy Hark, now everything is still, valley;

The screech-owl and the whistler’ shrill, Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Call upon our dame aloud, melancholy.

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent,-

5 Your length in clay's now competent; CARE-CHARMING SLEEP

A long war disturbed your mind, -Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all

Here your perfect peace is signed.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 10

Their life a general mist of error, On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud

Their death a hideous storm of terror. In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud

Strew your hair with powders sweet,

Don clean linen, bathe your feet, Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet, 5

And—the foul fiend more to check

15 And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;

A crucifix let bless your neck.
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,

End your groan, and come away.
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride. 10

WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643?) SONG TO BACCHUS

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF

PEMBROKE
God Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honored, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,

Underneath this sable herse 3
In a thousand lusty shapes,

Lies the subject of all verse:

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Dance upon the mazer's brim, 5
In the crimson liquor swim;

Death, ere thou hast slain another

Fair and learn'd and good as she,
From thy plenteous hand divine

Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Let a river run with wine;
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!

ELIZABETHAN PROSE

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JOHN WEBSTER (15807-1626?)

SIR THOMAS NORTH (1635?-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

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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,

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. ? plover.

tomb.

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