« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
[From Alison's “ Hour's Recreation in Musick,"
In hope a king doth go to war,
In hope, a lover lives full long;
In hope, just men do suffer wrong:
Though wit bids will to blow retreat,
Will cannot work as wit could wish.
Too late to warn the hungry fish.
[From Wilbye's “ Second set of Madrigales," 1609.]
Love not me for comely grace,
So thou and I shall sever;
And love me still, but know not why,
To doat upon me ever.
[From the same.)
Draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares
That do arise from painful melancholy; My life so ill through want of comfort fares,
That unto thee I consecrate it wholly,
Sweet night, draw on! my griefs, when they be told To shades and darkness, find some ease from
paining; And while thou all in silence dost enfold,
I then shall have best time for my complaining. [From the same.]
So light is love, in matchless beauty shining,
When she revisits Cyprus' hallow'd bowers, Two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining,
Can draw her chariot ʼmidst the Paphian flowers. Lightness to love how ill it fitteth, So heavy on my heart she sitteth.
(From the same.]
HAPPY, oh happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind repos’d, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares ! Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.
Hymen's Eclogue between Admetus and Menalchas.
(From “ A new Spring, shadowed in sundry pithie Poems,"
printed by G. Eld, for Thomas Bailie, 1619. 4to. By Musophilus.]
Menalchas. What makes Admetus sad i-Whate'er it be, Some cause there is that thus hath alter'd thee! Is it the loss of substance? or of friends ? Or, thy content in discontentment ends ? Is it some scruple in thy conscience, Which, unresolved, doth leave thee in suspence? Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love shouldst leese! Admet. No, no Menalchas, it is none of these ! Men. Thou art not sick ? Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well. Men. Where lies thy grief? Admet. My countenance can tell ! Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy count'nance fresh
enough! Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind
as rough, Men. Of cares, Admetus ? Admet. Yes! I have
share ! Men. Yet, hope of cure ! Admet. No hope of cure to care !
Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth
wring. Admet. Thou err'st Menalchas, there is no such
thing. Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth, Want to enjoy thy love, nor want of health, If neither discontent, nor grief, do show Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow, If thou be free, as we all know thee free, Engaged to none,—what is it grieveth thee? Admet. Wouldst know Menalchas ? Men. Yes! Admet. I'll tell thee then: The case is alter'd! I'm a married man!
[From the same.) [This is inserted on account of the singularity of its versi
fication.] A TIME there was, and divers there be yet Whose riper years can well remember it, When folks were shriven for sins they did commit, And had their absolution, as was fit: ’Mongst which, as one crime doth another get, Where hope of pardon doth authorize it,