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TELL ME DEAREST.

P.

M.

Both.

P.

M.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Born 1586-Died 1615. Born 1576-Died 1625.

Both.

P.

M.

Tell me dearest what is love?
"Tis a lightning from above;

Both.

'Tis an arrow,

'tis a fire,

'Tis a boy they call Desire

'Tis a grave Gapes to have

Those poor

fools that long to prove.

Tell me more are women true?

Yes, some are, and some as you.

Some are

willing, some are strange, you men first taught to change And till troth

Since

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?
Yes, and sicken sore, but live!
And be wise, and delay

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From the Comedy of "The Captain," Act 2, Scene 2.

Part of it is

found in the "Knight of the Burning Pestle," Act 3, Scene 2, standing

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It is a very common question with our old poets, "What is love." See Greene's Works, vol. 2, p. 276. Drummond of Hawthornden's Poems, Ed. 1833, p. 250, and Raleigh's Poems, by Brydges, p. 20.]

DRINKING SONG.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Drink to day and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow.
Best while you have it use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.

Wine wakes the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure 'gainst age but it.
It helps the head-ache, cough and ptisic,
And is for all diseases physic.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober

Falls with the leaf, still in October.

From the "Bloody Brother, or Rollo, Duke of Normandy," Act 2,

Scene 2.1

TO LOVE.

JOHN FLETCHER.

Merciless love, whom Nature hath denied The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride, And glory in thy murders, why am I, That never yet transgress'd thy deity, Never broke vow, from whose eyes never flow Disdainful dart, whose hard heart never slow, Thus ill-rewarded? Thou art young and fair, Thy mother soft and gentle as the air, Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer: Then everlasting Love, restrain thy will; 'Tis godlike to have power but not to kill.

[From "The Chances," Act 2, Scene 2.1

LAY A GARLAND.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens willow branches bear-
Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth,
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.

[Sung by Aspatia in "The Maid's Tragedy."]

A SONG TO THE LUTE.

JOHN FLETCHER.

Dearest, do not you delay me,

Since, thou know'st, I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odours doth excel.

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair,

Kill not him that vows to serve thee;

But perfume this neighbouring air
Else dull silence sure, will starve me:
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrain'd, a heart is broken.

[From the "Spanish Curate," Act 2, Scene 4.]

MIRTH FILLS THE VEINS WITH BLOOD.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,
More than wine, or sleep, or food;
Let each man keep his heart at ease,
No man dies of that disease.
He that would his body keep
From diseases, must not weep;
But whoever laughs and sings,
Never he his body brings
Into fevers, gouts, or rheums,
Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes;
Or meets with aches in the bone,
Or catarrhs, or griping stone:

But contented lives for aye;

The more he laughs the more he may.

[Sung by Merrythought in "The Knight of the Burning Pestle," Act 2, Scene v.]

TO HIS MISTRESS.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

Let fools great Cupid's yoke disdain,
Loving their own wild freedom better,
Whilst proud of my triumphant chain
I sit and court my beauteous fetter.

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