Then they'll shew bright, And like us light, When leaving bodies with their care, They slide to us and air. THE INDIAN EMPEROR. 1665. I ΑΙ THE FOLLY OF MAKING TROUBLES. H fading joy! how quickly art thou past! As if the cares of human life were few, We seek out new: And follow fate, which would too fast pursue. See how on every bough the birds express They all enjoy and nothing spare, But on their mother nature lay their care: As none of all his subjects undergo? Hark, hark, the waters, fall, fall, fall, And with a murmuring sound Dash, dash, upon the ground, To gentle slumbers call. SECRET LOVE; OR, THE MAIDEN QUEEN. 1667. CONCEALED LOVE. FEED a flame within, which so torments me, That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: "Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die, than once remove it. Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel, On his gaze, While I conceal my love no frown can fright me: To be more happy, I dare not aspire; Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL; OR, THE FEIGNED INNOCENCE. 1667. DEEP IN LOVE. BLIND love, to this hour, Had ne'er, like me, a slave under his power: That he threw at my heart; For nothing can prove A joy so great, as to be wounded with love. My days, and my nights, Are filled to the purpose with sorrows and frights: And my eyes are ne'er dry; So that, Cupid be praised, I am to the top of love's happiness raised. My soul's all on fire, So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire: Such a pretty soft pain, That it tickles each vein; "Tis the dream of a smart, [heart. Which makes me breathe short, when it beats at my Sometimes, in a pet, When I'm despised, I my freedom would get: But straight a sweet smile Does my anger beguile, And my heart does recal; Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall. Heaven does not impart Such a grace as to love unto every one's heart; To be wounded, and miss: Then blessed be love's fire, And more blessed her eyes, that first taught me desire. TYRANNIC LOVE; OR, THE ROYAL MARTYR. 1669. ST. CATHERINE ASLEEP. You pleasing dreams of love and sweet delight, Appear before this slumbering Virgin's sight: Soft visions set her free From mournful piety; Let her sad thoughts from heaven retire; And let the melancholy love Of those remoter joys above Give place to your more sprightly fire; Let purling streams be in her fancy seen, And flowery meads, and vales of cheerful green; Soft sighing wishes lie, And smiling hopes fast by, And just beyond them ever-laughing loves. A THE COURSE OF LOVE. H, how sweet it is to love! Sighs, which are from lovers blown, Lovers when they lose their breath, Love and time with reverence use; Which in youth sincere they send: 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. WHO That never viewed a brave sea-fight! Hang up your bloody colours in the air, Up with your lights, and your nettings prepare; Your merry mates cheer with a lusty bold spright, Now each man his brindice, and then to the fight. St. George! St. George! we cry, The shouting Turks reply. Oh now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot, Hark, does it not thunder? no, 'tis the gun's roar, For here the coward cannot fly. Drums and trumpets toll the knell, And culverins the passing bell. Now, now they grapple, and now board amain; Give them a broadside, the dice run at all, Down comes the mast, and yard and tacklings fall; She grows giddy now, like blind Fortune's wheel, She sinks there, she sinks, she turns up her keel. Who ever beheld so noble a sight, As this so brave, so bloody sea-fight! ALBION AND ALBANUS. FROM 1685. NEREIDS RISING FROM THE SEA. ROM the low palace of old father Ocean, Every nymph of the flood, her tresses rending, KING ARTHUR; OR, THE BRITISH WORTHY. 1691. YOU HARVEST HOME.* OUR hay it is mowed, and your corn is reaped : Come, my boys, come; And merrily roar out harvest home! Harvest home, Harvest home; And merrily roar out harvest home! Come, my boys, come, &c. * This rustic madrigal, with its rant against the parsons, forms part of the enchantments of Merlin, and is sung by Comus and peasants. The introduction of Comus is as anomalous as the allusion to tithes. |