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THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad
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
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
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.
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
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;
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to
From A PINDARIC ODE
In bulk, doth make men better be;
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
AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY
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
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
When fates turned cruel,
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
15 In his well turned and true filèd lines,
He played so truly.
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; : plans.
: polished. * captivate.
7 the Fates.
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
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER They who one another keep
ABBEY Alive, ne'er parted be.
Mortality, behold and fear!
Think how many royal bones
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,
But only melancholy; FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1684-1616)
O sweetest melancholy!
EVEN SUCH IS MAN
Like to the falling of a star,
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
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.
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.
End your groan, and come away.
WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643?) SONG TO BACCHUS
ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF
Underneath this sable herse 3
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learn'd and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
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
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.