Your dainty voice and warbling breath
Sounds like a sentence past for death;
Your dangling tresses are become
Like instruments of final doom
O, if an angel torture so,

When life is done where shall I go!

[From a MS. copy of Poems by William Browne, author of Britannia's Pastorals contained among the Lansdown papers. This song is found at the end of the volume among some pieces by Raleigh, Wotton and others. It has the signature Wm. Ste. It is also found in a little volume called Westminster Drollery, published in 1672, without any name.]

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Born 1596-Died 1666.

The glories of our blood* and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

* Percy reads "birth."

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:

All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

[This fine song is found in "The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, for the armour of Achilles," 1659. Shirley's Plays and Poems have been lately reprinted with notes by Mr. Gifford, and an account of his Life by Mr. Dyce. Dr. Percy gave to the last line, what Ritson calls one of his "brilliant touches," by altering the word "their" to "the," certainly an improvement.]

THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Woodmen, shepherds, come away,
This is Pan's great holiday,

Throw off cares,

With your heaven-aspiring airs
Help us to sing,

While valleys with your echoes ring.

Nymphs that dwell within these groves,

Leave your arbours, bring your loves,

Gather posies,

Crown your golden hair with roses;

As you pass,

Foot like fairies on the grass.

Joy crown our bowers! Philomel
Leave off Tereus' rape to tell.
Let trees dance,

As they at Thracian lyre did once :
Mountains play,

This is the shepherd's holiday.

[From "Love Tricks or the School of Complement," 1631.]

WHY DO YOU DWELL.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Why do you dwell so long in clouds,
And smother your best graces ?
'Tis time to cast away those shrouds,
And clear your manly faces.

Or not behave yourselves like spies
Upon the ladies here;

On even terms go meet their eyes,
Beauty and love shine there.

You tread dull measures thus alone,

Not satisfy delight;

Go kiss their hands, and make your own

With every touch more white.

[Found in Shirley's masque of "The Triumph of Peace," and sung while the masquers are in "their revels with the ladies."]

LOVE FLIES AWAY.

THOMAS MAY.

Born about 1596-Died 1652.

Dear, do not you fair beauty wrong,
In thinking still you are too young;
The rose and lilies in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek.

Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet;
Then lose no time, for love has wings,
And flies away from aged things.

[From "The Old Couple," 1658. 4to.]

DISDAIN RETURNED.

THOMAS CAREW.

Born about 1600-Died about 1639.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin❜d,
Kindle never dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolv❜d heart to return;
I have search'd thy soul within,
And find nought but pride, and scorn;
I have learn'd thy arts and now

Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power in my revenge convey,
That love to her I cast away.

[From "Poemes by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of the gentlemen of the Privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his Majesty (Charles I.) Lond. 1640." Carew is a very elegant writer-though not so much admired as he deserves. Mr. Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets after printing this very pretty song as Carew's-some hundred pages after strangely enough inserts it as an anonymous piece from "Lawes' Ayres and Dialogues, 1653." See Campbell's Specimens, vol. 3, p. 192, and Ib. p. 404.]

ASK ME NO MORE.

THOMAS CAREW.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deep,
These flowers as in their causes sleep.