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Oft in a smile: oft in a silent tear:
And if all fail, yet virtue's self he'll hire.

Himself's a dart, when nothing else can move:

Who then the captive soul can well reprove, When love and virtue's self become the darts of love. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT,

Brother of Francis Beaumont, and author of “ Bosworth

“ Field," and other poems, 1629. According to Wood, he was entered at Oxford, in 1596, at the age of 14, consequently born in 1582.


Love is a region full of fires,
And burning with extreme desires ;

An object seeks, of which possess'd
The wheels are fix'd, the motions rest,

The flames in ashes lie oppress'd.
This meteor, striving high to rise,
(The fuel spent) falls down and dies.


Why then should lovers (most will say)
Expect so much th' enjoying day?

Love is like youth: he thirsts for age,
He scorns to be his mother's page;

But when proceeding times assuage
The former heat, he will complain,
And wish those pleasant hours again.

We know that Hope and Love are twins ;
Hope gone, fruition now begins :

But what is this ? unconstant, frail,
In nothing sure, but sure to fail,

Which, if we lose it, we bewail ;
And when we have it, still we bear
The worst of passions, daily fear !

When Love thus in his centre ends,
Desire and Hope, his inward friends,

Are shaken off; while Doubt and Grief,
The weakest givers of relief,

Stand in his council as the chief.
And now he to his period brought,
From Love becomes some other thought.

These lines I write not to remove
United souls from serious love :

The best attempts by mortals made
Reflect on things which quickly fade ;

Yet never will I men persuade
To leave affections, where may shine
Impressions of the love divine,

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(In the Nice Valour.)

HENCE all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly;
There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,

But only melancholy,
O sweetest melancholy !

Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies;
A look that’s fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound.

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd 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.


[In a Masque.)

Ye should stay longer if we durst-
Away. Alas, that he that first
Gave time wild wings to fly away,
Has now no power to make him stay!
And though these games must needs be play'd,
I wish this pair, when they are laid,

And not a creature nigh 'em,
Might catch his scythe as he doth pass,
And cut his wings, and break his glass,

And keep him ever by 'em.


[In the Queen of Corinth.]

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor gruan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone. Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully, Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see. VOL. III.


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