« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Cold December hope retains,
That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving :
But thy scythe
Ends his strife,
(From Alison's “ Hour's Recreation in Musick," 1606.)
In hope a king doth go to war;
In hope a lover lives full long; In hope a merchant sails full far;
In hope just men do suffer wrong; In hope the ploughman sows his seed : Thus hope helps thousands at their need: Then faint not, heart, among the rest ; Whatever chance, hope thou the best.
Though Wit bids Will to blow retreat,
Will cannot work as Wit could wish. When that the roach doth taste the bait,
Too late to warn the hungry fish. When cities burn on fiery flame, Great rivers scarce may quench the same, If Will and Fancy be agreed, Too late for Wit to bid take heed,
[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 infold,
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 Eglogue between Admetus and Menalchas.
[From “ A New Spring, Shadowed in sundry Pithie Poems,"
signed “ Musophilus,” 1619. 4to.]
Menalchas. What makes Admetus sad ?-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 unresolv’d, doth leave thee in suspense? Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love should 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