Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast;
Sing birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush ;
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow!
JOHN MARSTON. [Living 1634
THE SCHOLAR.
In What You Will.
I was a scholar; seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations
Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt . .
Delight, my spaniel, slept; whilst I baused leaves,
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words; and still my spaniel slept,
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins; and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw
Of antique Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;
Then, an it were mortal. O hold! hold!
At that they're at brain-buffets, fell by the ears
Amain pell-mell together; still my spaniel slept.
Then whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt,
Ex traduce, but whether it had free will
Or no, hot philosophers
Stood banding factions; all so strongly propt,
I staggered, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observed and pryed,
Stufft noting books and still my spaniel slept.
At length he waked and yawned; and by yon sky,
For aught I know, he knew as much as Ì.
BEN. JONSON.
O Rare Ben Jonson.
[Monument in Westminster Abbey.]
TO CELIA.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither-ed be.
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
Farewell! thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy;
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all, Father, now! For why,
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace! and asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry,
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.
TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan, or a dove,
And, well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty,
And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes! they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that sooth her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the element's strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow;
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver ?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard* in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh! so sweet is she!
HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.
[From the Queen's Masques.]
A free Translation from Tasso.
[In Percy's Reliques.]
Beauties, have ye seen this toy
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind,
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' run-away.
He hath of marks about him plenty,
You shall know him among twenty ;
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart but not the skin.
At his sight the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned.
Wings he hath which though ye clip
He will leap from lip to lip . . .
And if chance his arrow misses
He will shoot himself in kisses.
Idle minutes are his reign,
Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys;
'Tis the ambition of the elfe,
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now we hope ye'll not abide him.
Since ye hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' run-away.
ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
[Sister to Sir Philip Sidney.]
Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister-Pembroke's mother-
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.
From "TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY AND FRIENDSHIP OF THAT NOBLE PAIR."
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day,
Although it fall, and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.
Would'st thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die ;
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
From The Silent Woman.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace.
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