Beaumont and Fletcher

Cupid! turn thy Bow

OH, turn thy bow!

Thy power we feel and know;
Fair Cupid, turn away thy bow!
They be those golden arrows,
Bring ladies all their sorrows;
And, till there be more truth in men,

Never shoot at maid again!

The Lover's Legacy to his
Cruel Mistress

Go, happy heart! for thou shalt lie
Intombed in her for whom I die,
Example of her cruelty.

Tell her, if she chance to chide
Me for slowness, in her pride,
That it was for her I died.

If a tear escape her eye,
'Tis not for my memory,
But thy rights of obsequy.

The altar was my loving breast,

My heart the sacrificed beast,
And I was myself the priest.

Your body was the sacred shrine,
Your cruel mind the power divine,

Pleased with the hearts of men, not kine.

To his Mistress

(This song, usually regarded as the work of Francis Beaumont, is sometimes attributed to Carew.)

LET fools great Cupid's yoke disdain,
Loving their own wild freedom better,
While proud of my triumphant chain

I sit and court my beauteous fetter.

Her murd'ring glances, snaring hairs,
And her bewitching smiles, so please me,

As he brings ruin that repairs

The sweet afflictions that displease me.

Hide not those panting balls of snow

With envious veils from my beholding;

Unlock those lips their pearly row

In a sweet smile of love unfolding.

And let those eyes, whose motion wheels

The restless fate of every lover,

Survey the pains my sick-heart feels

And wounds themselves have made discover.

John Ford

was born at Ilsington in Devonshire in 1586. The law or the drama, or both, served him well for securing an independence. He is said to have returned to his native place and to have spent his later years in domestic comfort. He died about 1640. 'Ford,' says Charles Lamb, 'was of the first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence, in the heart of men, in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds.'

Since first I saw your Face

SINCE first I saw your face I resolved

To honour and renown you;

If now I be disdained I wish

My heart had never known you.

What! I that loved, and you that liked,

Shall we begin to wrangle?

No, no, no, my heart is fast

And cannot disentangle.

The sun whose beams most glorious are

Rejecteth no beholder,

And your sweet beauty past compare,

Made my poor eyes the bolder.

Where beauty moves, and wit delights
And signs of kindness bind me,

There, oh! there, where'er I go
I leave my heart behind me.

If I admire or praise you too much,
That fault you may forgive me,
Or if my hands had strayed but a touch,
Then justly might you leave me.

I asked you leave, you bade me love;
Is 't now a time to chide me?
No, no, no, I'll love you still,
What fortune e'er betide me.

No More

OH, no more, no more! too late Sighs are spent: the burning tapers Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burn'd out: no heat, no light

Now remains; 'tis ever night.

Love is dead: let lovers' eyes,

Lock'd in endless dreams,

The extremes of all extremes,

Ope no more! for now Love dies :

Now love dies, implying

Love's martyrs must be ever ever dying.

Sir Francis Kynaston

or Kinaston, was born at Otley in Shropshire in 1587. He translated Chaucer's Troilus and Cressida into Latin, became regent of a literary institute called 'The Museum Minervæ,' and was himself an English poet of some distinction in his day. He was knighted by Charles I. He died in 1642.

To Cynthia, on Concealment of
her Beauty

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes,
The star-light of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curl'd hair;
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost!