Изображения страниц

When we have run our passions' heat
Love hither makes his best retreat :
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race ;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow ;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead !
Ripe apples drop about my head ;
The luscious clusters of the vire
Upon my mouth do crush their wine
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons, as I

Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness ;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas ;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside
My soul into the boughs does glide ;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-state
While man there walk'd without a mate ,
After a place so pure and swees,
What other help could yet be meet !
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander soli ary there

Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new !
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers !

A. Marvell


FORTUNATI NIMIUM Jack and Joan, they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still ; Do their week-day's work, and pray Devoutly on the holy-day : Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen ; Lash out at a country feast Their silver penny with the best. Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale ; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy :All their pleasure is, Content, And care, to pay their yearly rent. Joan can call by name her cows And deck her windows with green boughs ; She can wreaths and tutties make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss, And his long flail can stoutly toss : Makes the hedge which others break, And ever thinks what he doth speak.

--Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights,
Though you scorn the homespun gray,
And revel in your rich array ;
Though your tongues dissemble deep
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain !

T. Campion



Hence, loathéd Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights

unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings ;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore ;
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying-
There on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Test, and youthful jóllity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smiles Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides :Come, and trip it as you go On the light' fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; And if I give thee honour due Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine : While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets

his scythe,

And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasure
Whilst the landscape round it measures ;
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest ;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosom’d high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ;
And then in haste her bower she leaves
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade ;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sun-shine holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail :
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat :-.
She was pinch’d, and pull’d, she said ;
And he, by Friar's lantern led ;
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy fail hath thresh'd the corn

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »