Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil.
[Printed also among Beaumont's Poems.] Go and catch a falling star . . . Tell me where all past hours are.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT. [1584-1616
[Printed also among the Works of Bishop King.] 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,
Or bubbles which on water stood,
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.
Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence
All my powers of care bereaving.
1579-1625] JOHN FLETCHER.
THE PASSIONATE MADMAN.
Hence all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights,
Wherein you spend your folly !
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy.
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fix-ed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
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 ;
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
SONG TO THE LUTE.
Dearest, do not you delay me,
Since thou know'st I must be gone;
Wind and Tide 'tis thought doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odours far excel.
PRIEST OF PAN
to the Shepherds.
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run;
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds down falling,
And bright Hesperus loud* calling
The dead night from underground.
Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eyelids! so farewell!
Thus I end my evening knell.
SOFTLY HE SLUMBERS.
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose, .
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain.
That dance upon the leaves and make them sing Gentle love-lays to the spring,
Gilding all the vales below
With your verdure, as ye blow.
Let no man fear to die. We love to sleep-all,
And Death is but the sounder sleep. All ages
And all hours call us; 'tis so common-easy,
That little children tread those paths before us.
Death is unwelcome never,
Unless it be to tortured minds, and sick souls,
That make their own Hells; it is such a benefit When it comes crowned with honour, shows so sweet too!
Though they paint it ugly, that's but to restrain us;
For every living thing would love it else;
Fly boldly to their peace ere Nature called them.
The rest we have from labour and from trouble
Is some incitement, every thing alike;
The poor slave that lies private has his liberty
As amply as his master, in that tomb;
The earth as light upon him, and the flowers
That grow about him smell as sweet and flourish;
But when we live with honour to our ends,
When Memory and Virtue are our mourners,
What pleasures there!
What need I outward garments
When I can clothe myself with understanding?
The stars and glorious planets have no tailors,
Yet ever new they are, and shine like courtiers :
The seasons of the year find no fond parents,
Yet some are armed in silver ice that glisters,
And some in gaudy green come in like masquers;
The silkworm spins her own suit and her lodging,
And has no aid nor partner in her labours!
Why should we care for anything but knowledge?
Who complains his fate's amiss,
When he has the wide world his ?
In every hamlet, town, and city,
He has lands, that was born witty.
Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan,
Sorrow 'calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again :
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as wing-ed dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe,
Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn no moe.
See the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtle fire, the wind blows cold,
Whilst the morning doth unfold;
Now the birds begin to rouse,
And the Squirrel from the boughs
Leaps to get him nuts and fruit.
The early Lark, that erst was mute,
Carols to the rising day
Many a note and many a lay.
Come hither, you that love, and hear me sing! Of joys still growing,
Green, fresh, and lusty, as the pride of Spring, And ever blowing.
Come hither, you that hope, and you
Leave off complaining;
Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,
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