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First direful Hate shall turn to peace,
And Love resent in deep disdain,
And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And Envy pity every pain,
And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.
First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with corn,
And snow bemoisten July's face,
And Winter spring, and Summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.
ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet: Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton, will ye!
And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight;
And makes his pillow of my knee
The live-long night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if I but sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting :
Ah, wanton, will ye!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip ye hence,
And bind ye, when ye long to play,
For your offence;
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin,
Alas! what hereby shall I win?
If he gainsay me.
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
Oh, Cupid, so thou pity me!
Spare not, but play thee.
When all is done and said,
In the end thus you shall find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss
That hath a quiet mind;
And clear from worldly cares
To deem can be content,
The sweetest time in all his life
In thinking to be spent.
The body subject is
To fickle Fortune's
power, And to a million of mishaps
Is casual every hour;
And death in time doth change
It to a clod of clay,
When as the mind which is divine
Runs never to decay.
Companion none is like
Unto the mind alone,
For many have been harm'd by speech,
Through thinking few or none.
Fear oftentimes restraineth words,
But makes not thoughts to cease;
And he speaks best that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.
Our wealth leaves us at death,
Our kinsmen at the grave,
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have;
Wherefore, for virtue's sake,
I can be well content
The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER,
Aspatia. Then, my good girls, be more than wom
en wise, At least be more than I was; and be sure You credit anything the light gives light to, Before a man. Rather believe the sea Weeps for the ruin'd merchant when he roars ; Rather the wind courts but the pregnant sails, When the strong cordage cracks; rather the sun Comes but to kiss the fruit in wealthy autumn, When all falls blasted. If you needs must love, Forced by ill fate, take to your maiden bosoms Two dead cold aspicks, and of them make lovers ; They cannot flatter nor forswear; one kiss
Makes a long peace for all. Come, let's be sad.
That downcast eye of thine, Olympias,
Shows a fine sorrow. Mark Antiphila ;
Just such another was the nymph Oenone,
When Paris brought home Helen. Now a tear,
And then thou art a piece expressing fully
The Carthage queen, when from a cold sea-rock,
Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes
To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them,
Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear. Antiphila !
What would this girl do if she were Aspatia?
Here she would stand till some more pitying god
Turn’d her to marble! 'Tis enough, my girl ;
Show me the piece of needlework you wrought.
Antiphila. Of Ariadne, madam?
Áspatia. Yes, that piece.
Fy, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila.
You're much mistaken, girl ;
These colours are not dull and pale enough
To show a soul so full of misery
As this sad lady's was; do it by me;
Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia,
And you shall find all true but the wild island.
Suppose I stand upon the sea-beach now,
Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind,
Wild as that desert; and let all about me
Tell that I am forsaken. Do my face,
If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow,
Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look
Like sorrow's monument; and the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges, and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, maidens,
A miserable life of this poor picture.
CARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud,
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud,
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain.
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss himinto slumbers like a bride!
HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened 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 housed, 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.