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VOL. 1701. 


(FIR .S- T K E K 1 E i'; 



By Miss Amelia B. Edwards. 


MISS CAREW 2 vols. 



DEBENHAM'S vow 2 vols. 




BLACK FOREST . . . . . ;. . . 1 vol. 
















THESE series each in itself complete and separate 
have been compiled expressly for the Tauchnitz 
Collection. The First Series consists of poems, chiefly 
lyrical, selected from the works of the elder English 
Poets, beginning with Chaucer and ending with the 
school of Gray and Cowper. The Second Series, con- 
ceived on the same plan, will begin with Burns and end 
with the younger poets of to-day. Taken separately, it 
is hoped that each little volume may be found attractive 
and companionable; while taken together, they will, if 
they fulfil the design of Editor and Publisher, afford 
a pleasant bird's-eye view ranging over nearly five- 
hundred years of English Song. 

With regard to this First Series, it has seemed 
above all things important that the contents of the 
book should be choice and various; that no short 
poem (such as Milton's Lycidas or Gray's Elegy) which 
comes down to us stamped with the approval of 
generations, should be omitted; that fragments, political 
verses, and everything of a polemic or dramatic character 


should be deemed foreign to the general plan of the 
work; and that no poem, however beautiful, which 
could be supposed to have an objectionable tendency, 
should find a place in its pages. It is hoped that in 
so far as care and patience may be trusted to ensure 
the fulfilment of a long-cherished plan, these con- 
ditions have been scrupulously observed. 

Concerning the order in which the poems are 
presented, it must be remembered that a question of 
arrangement is in fact a question of taste, and that a 
question of taste will always be open to dispute. 
Campbell's seven learned volumes of "Specimens of 
English Poetry" follow a chronological order. The 
well-known "Elegant Extracts" are classified under 
headings "Didactic," "Pastoral," "Amatory," and the 
like. "The Golden Treasury" unapproachable for 
exquisite taste and scholarship, is divided into four 
parts designated as the Books of Shakespeare, Milton, 
Gray and Wordsworth. The Editor of this present 
collection has, however, preferred to consider English 
Poetry under only two aspects, and broadly to separate 
it into only two epochs namely the Past and the 
Present. The Past is held to begin at that critical 
period when our language, having just passed as it 
were from the fluid to the crystalline stage, found an 
exponent in the author of The Canterbury Tales; 
while the Present is dated from the advent of Robert 


Except, then, as the poems in this Series belong 
to the elder school of English verse, every chrono- 
logical consideration has been put aside, and the 
position of each piece determined solely by its relation 
to that which goes before and after it. Hence Waller 
and Ben Jonson, William Blake and Beaumont will be 
found side by side, according as each may illustrate 
or contrast with the other; while readers who care to 
observe the attitude of contemporary thought on 
certain universal subjects, such as Love, or Death, or 
the Influences of Nature, will elsewhere find grouped 
together poems which treat of a common theme. These 
groups, again, are for the most part linked with other 
groups in such wise as to carry on slight chains of 
connection between subjects far apart. To the few 
who may be interested in tracing them, these lines of 
association will perhaps convey an added sense of 
harmony; while for those who prefer dipping into the 
book wherever it may chance to open, each poem will 
have its individual and unassisted charm. Here and 
there, to suggest the intended sequence, the Editor, 
following the precedent of Mr. W. G. Palgrave,* has 
ventured, though with all diffidence, to give or alter a 
title. It may be as well to observe, however, that 
readers who desire to take the poets in strict order of 

* Some few of the titles here given are adopted from The Golden 
Treasury, and some of Mr. W. G. Palgrave's Notes, with due 
acknowledgment, have been quoted. 


succession, may do so by referring to the Table of 
Authors which has been chronologically arranged for 
that purpose. 

The notes at the end of the volume are given, not 
in the vain hope of offering anything new in the way of 
criticism, but in order to assist foreign readers, and to 
supply the place of those classical and other dictionaries 
which travellers are obliged to leave at home. 

Lastly, as regards the title of the book, some apology 
should perhaps be offered for its exceeding homeliness. 
But the taste for high-sounding titles has passed away; 
and the changes have been rung so long and so often 
upon "Gems," "Beauties," "Wreaths," "Caskets," and 
the like, that it is believed the old, plain, familiar 
nursery-name by which we have all designated the 
"poetry-books" of our childhood will find more favour, 
and call up pleasanter associations, than a more fanciful 
or elaborate title. 


Westbury on Trym, 

Gloucestershire, Novr 1877. 



Preface v 

Contents ix 

Elder English Poets i 

Love-Longing Anonymous . . . 3 

Rondeau ....... Geoffrey Chaucer . 3 

To Life's Pilgrim Ibid. .... 5 

To Maistres Margarete .... John Skelton . . 5 

My Swete Swetyng Anonymous ... 7 

A Carol of Spring Henry Howard, Earl of 

Surrey ... 8 

Madrigal James I. (of Scotland) . 8 

Spring ....... Thomas Nash . . 9 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . Christopher Marlowe . 10 

The Shepherdess's Reply .... Sir Walter Raleigh . n 

Samela ....... Robert Greene . . 13 

To his Lady ...... Thomas Carevu . . 14 

Cupid and Campaspe .... John Lylye . . . 15 

To Celia Ben Jonson ... 16 

Kissing the Air Robert Herrick . . 17 

A Ditty Sir Philip Sidney . 17 

The Lover groweth Old .... William Shakespeare . 18 

Love seeth no Change .... Ibid, . . . , 19 

The Lover promiseth Immortality . . Ibid. .... 20 

Love in Absence Edmund Spenser . . 21 

The Nightingale Richard Barnefield . 22 

Love's Perjuries W. Shakespeare . . 23 

The Lover's Appeal ..... Sir Thomas Wyatt . 24 


Love's Last Moments .... Michael Dray ton . 

To the Moon Sir P. Sidney 

To the Nightingale John Milton 

To his Lute William, Drummond . 

The Lover to his Lyre .... Abraham Cowley . . 

Lament for Astrophel .... Edtmind Spenser . 
The Shepherd's Elegy .... William Browne . 

Lycidas J. Milton 

The Dirge of Imogen W. Shakespeare . 

A Sea Dirge Ibid. .... 

A Land Dirge John Webster 

The Happy Life Henry Howard, Earl of 


The Quiet Life Alexander Pope . 

The Lord of Self Sir Henry Wotton 

The Moderate Wisher .... Abraham Cowley . 

The Stedfast Life George Herbert . 

The Perfect Life Benjonson . 

The Virtuous Soul . . . . . G. Herbert . 
The Sweetness of Content .... Thomas Dekker . 

Sweet Obscurity R. Greene 

Life Lord Bacon . 

Life a Bubble W. Drummond 

The Life of Man Francis Beaumont 

Man's Mortality Simon Wastell 

Life's Brevity A. Cowley 

Sic Vitae Dr. Henry King 

Sweet and Bitter E. Spenser . 

Illusions . - . . . . . W. Drummond . . 

Death's Bounties Sir T. Wyatt 

The Last Conqueror James Shirley 

Death's Triumph Ibid. . . 

Chances and Changes .... Robert Southwell 

The Golden Age Henry Vaughan . 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda . . Andrew Marvell . 

Pastoral ....... William Shenstone 

May-Day . . . . . . R. Herrick . . 

The Faithless Shepherd .... Sir Gilbert Elliot 

Winter W. SJtakespeare . 

June and January T. Carew 



Love's Springtime .... 

W. SJiaJtespeare 


A Spring Idyll 

SirH. Wotton 


May Morning . . . ... 

J. Milton . 


L' Allegro 

Ibid. .... 




Robert Burton 


F. Beaumont . . 


Memory and Melancholy . 

William Blake 


Love and Death .... 

John Ford . 

9 1 


Samuel Rowley 



John Fletcher 


To Echo 

J. Milton 


W. Shakespeare 


Praise of Music ..... 

William Strode . 


A Bridal Song 

F. Beaumont 


A Forest-Ditty 

W. Shakespeare . 


Archers Three 

Anonymous . 


To Diana 

Thomas Heywood 


Invocation to Diana .... 

Ben Jonson . 


To Apollo 

. J.Lylye . . . 


To Bacchus 

F. Beaumont 


Dancing Chorus .... 

Ibid. .... 


Holiday in Arcadia . . 

J. Shirley . 


Song of a Satyr 

J.FletcJter . 


Even Sone 1 



W. Shakespeare 

IO 5 


Sir William Davenant 


T. Heyioood . 

1 08 

Serenade to Sylvia .... 

W. Shakespeare . 


Serenade to Julia .... 

R. Herrick . 


The Lover to the Glow-worms . 

A. Marvell . 


To Elizabeth of Bohemia . 

SirH. Wotton 


The Roses in Castara's Bosom . 

William Habington 


Go, Happy Rose ! 

R. Herrick . 


The Rose's Message . . . . 

Edmund Waller . 


The Lover and the Rose . 

John Gay 


To Althea 

Colonel Lovelace . 


Beauty Concealed .... 

Sir Francis Kinaston . 


Tears of Price 

Richard Crashaw 


TJiomas Lodge 




The Silent Lover .... 

Sir W. Raleigh . 

To Anthea 

R. Herrick . 

Love's Unselfishness .... 

Sir Charles Sedley 

To his Love (on going a Journey) 

Dr. John Donne . 

To Lucasta (on going to the Wars) . 

Colonel Lovelace . 

The Battle of Agincourt 

Michael Dray ton . 

Sir Patrick Spence .... 

Anonymous . 

Burd Helen .... 


Edward of the Bloody Brand 

Sir David Dalrymple, 

Lord Hailes . 

A Song of Indifference . . . 

W. Shakespeare . 

All or None 

Sir W. Raleigh . 

Love's Requirements 

George Wither 

Love, Love's Due .... 

F. Greville, Lord Brooke 

The Boldness of Humility . 

A. Cov>ley . 

Sweet-and-Twenty .... 

W. Shakespeare . 

Counsel to Girls 

R. Herrick . 

Fair and False 

Dr. J. Donne 

Advice to a Lover .... 

Sir John Suckling 

Love or Disdain .... 

T. Careiv 

Little but Long 

Anonymous . 

Love brooks no Rival 

James Grahame, Mar- 

quis of Montrose 

T. Lodge 

The Nobler Love .... 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

The Poetry of Dress .... 

R. Herrick . 

The Sweet Neglect .... 

Ben Jonson . 

On a Girdle 

E. Waller 

To Daffodils 

R. Herrick . 

Life and the Flowers .... 

G. Herbert . 

To Blossoms ..... 

K. Herrick , 

The Sunflower 

W.Blake . 

IV. Shakespeare . 

J. Fletcher . 

Inconstancy ..... 

W. Shakespeare . 

Love Unreturned .... 


The Mad Maiden's Song . 

R. Herrick . 

Mad Song 

W. Blake 

Ariel's Song 

W. Shakespeare . 

A Fairy's Song . . . . 

W. Shakespeare , 



The Fairy Queen . 

Song of an Enchantress 

A Vision of " the Faery Queen " 

Herself all Treasure .... 

To his Love ..... 

The Lover Unbeloved laments by Night 

Love's Shadow 

Love's Omnipresence ... 

Truth the Soul of Beauty . 

The Pains of Memory 

On his Blindness .... 

To Mr. Lawrence .... 

In Praise of Daphne .... 

Her Golden Hair .... 

A Warning to Beauty 

Against Weeping .... 

A Welcome 

To Chloe 

Love's Omnipotence .... 

Tell me, my Heart .... 

To his Dead Love .... 

Friends Departed .... 
The Dying Man in his Garden . 
The Wisdom of Age .... 
The Gift of Rest .... 
Man the Microcosm . . . 

The Hermit 

Alexander Selkirk .... 

Ode to Leven Water .... 

A Rural Picture . 

Morning ...... 

Evening ....... 

Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard , 

The Poplar Field 

The Birks of Invermay . . . . 

To the Cuckoo 

The Bird 

The Tiger 

The Fly 


Anonymous . . . 169 

Giles Fletcher . . 171 

Sir W. Raleigh . . 173 

E. Spenser . . . 174 

W. Shakespeare . . 175 
Henry Howard, Earl of 

Surrey . . . 176 

W. Shakespeare . . 177 

Joshua Sylvestre . . 178 

W. Shakespeare . . 179 

W. Drummond . . 180 

J. Milton 181 

Ibid. . . . . 182 

J.Lylye ... 183 

Colonel Lovelace . . 183 

R. Herrick . . . 184 

Dr. H. King . . 184 

W. Browne . . . 185 

William. Cartwright . 186 

Owen Feltham . . 188 

Lord Lyttle ton . . 189 

James Thomson . . 190 

H. Vaughan . . 191 

George Sew ell . . 193 

E. Waller . . . 194 

G. Herbert . . . 195 

Ibid. . . . . 196 

James Seattle . . 198 

William Cowper . . 200 

Tobias Smollett . . 202 

Oliver Goldsmith . . 203 

J. Beattie . . . 204 

William Collins . . 205 

TJwmas Gray . . 207 

M^. Cowper . . . 212 

David Mallet . . 213 

John Logan . . . 214 

H. Vaughan . . . 215 

W. Blake ... 217 

Anonymous . . . 218 



The Bird's Message T. Heyitiood 

Exchange no Robbery .... Sir J. Stickling 

Phillis Sir Charles Sedley 

Ungrateful Nanny ..... Chas. Hamilton, Lord 

Binney . 

The Plague of Love Anonymous . 

On the Death of a Favourite Cat . . T. Gray 

Cupid's Mistake Matthew Prior 

How to make a Beauty .... Jonathan Sivift . 
Love's Patience , Henry Howard, Earl of 


Love's Might Beaumont and Fletcher 

The Heart of Stone Sir John Harrington . 

Cruel and Fair Thomas Stanley . 

Love's Prisoner W. Blake 

To Nancy Thomas Percy , Bishop 

of Dromore 

Sally in our Alley Henry Carey 

Black-eyed Susan J. Gay 

Ye Gentlemen of England . . . Martyn Parker 

To all you Ladies now on Land . . Charles Sackville , Earl 

of Dorset 

The Loss of the Royal George W. Cowper . 

The Death of the Brave W. Collins . 

A Dirge Thomas Chatterton 

Yarrow Stream J, Logan 

Bonnie George Campbell . . . . Anonymous . 

Love's Lamentation ..... Ibid. .... 

Auld Robin Gray Lady Anne Barnard . 

To Mary Unwin W. Cowper . 

To the Muses W. Blake 

Alexander's Feast . . . . John Dryden 

Ode on St. Cecilia's Day . . . . A. Pope .... 

Ode on the Universe .... Joseph Addison 

Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity . J. Milton 


Index of Authors and Subjects 

Chronological Table of Authors 




Elder Poets. 


FOR hir loue I carke and care 
For hir loue I droope and dare 
For hir alle my blisse is bare, 
And I wex wan. 

For hir loue in slepe I slake, 
For hir loue alle nighte I wajce, 
For hir loue I mournynge make 
More than any man. 



YOURE two eyn will sle me sodenly, 
I may the beaute of them not sustene, 
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene 


And but your words will helen hastely 
My hertis wound, while that it is grene, 
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly. 


Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully, 
That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene ; 
For with my deth the trouth shal be sene. 
Youre two eyn, &c. 




So hath youre beaute fro your herte chased 

Pitee, that me n'availeth not to pleyn : 

For daunger halt youre mercy in his cheyne. 


Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased; 

I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn: 

So hath youre beaute fro your herte chased. 


Alas, that nature hath in yow compassed 

So grete beaute that no man may atteyn 

To mercy, though he sterve for the peyn. 

So hath youre beaute &c. 



Syn I fro love escaped am so fat, 
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene; 
Syn I am fre, I count hym not a bene. 


He may answere, and sey this and that, 
I do no fors, I speke ryght as I mene ; 
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat. 


Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, 
And he is strike out of my bokes clene : 
For ever mo ther is non other mene, 
Syn I fro love escaped &c. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; 

Suffice unto thy good, though it be small, 
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ; 

Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all. 

Savor no more than thee behoven shall, 
Rede well thy self that other folk can'st rede, 
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede. 

That thee is sent receive in buxomness : 
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall. 

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. 
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall; 
Look up on high, and thank the God of all! 

Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, 

And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede. 

G. Chaucer. 


MlRRY Margaret 
As midsomer flowre, 
Genti] as faucoun 
Or hauke of the towre; 
With solace and gladnes 
Moch mirth and no madnes 
All good and no badnes 


So joyously, 

So maydenly, 

So womanly 

Her demenynge 

In every thynge, 

Far, far passynge 

That I can endite 

Or suffice to write 
Of mirry Margarete 
As midsomer flowre 
Gentil as faucoun 
Or hauke of the towre ! 

As pacient and as styll 

And as ful of good wil 

As fayre Isiphill, 
Swete Pomaunder, 
Good Cassander, 
Stedfast of thought, 
Wei made, wel wrought, 
Far may be soughte 
Erst ye can fynde 
So curteise, so kynde 
As mirry Margarete 

This midsomer flowre, 

Gentil as faucoun 
Or hauke of the towre ! 

John Skelton. 



AH! my swete swetyng, 
My lytyl pretie swetyng! 
My swetyng wyl I loue whereuer I goe : 
She is soe proper and pure, 
Stedfaste, stabyll, and demure, 
There is nonne suche, ye may be sure, 
As my swete swetyng. 

In all thys world e, as thynketh mee, 
Is nonne soe plesaunte to my 'ee, 
That I am gladde soe ofte to see, 
As my swete swetynge. 

When I beholde my swetyng swete, 
Her face, her haundes, her minion fete, 
They seeme to mee ther is nonne soe mete 
As my swete swetynge. 

Above alle others prayse must I, 
And loue my pretie pigsnye; 
For nonne I finde so womanlie 
As my swete swetynge. 

She is soe proper and pure, 
Stedfaste, stabyll, and demure, 
There is nonne suche, ye may be sure, 
As my swete swetynge. 





THE soote season, that bud and blome forth brings, 
With grene hath clad the hill, and eke the vale : 
The nightingale with fethers newe she sings : 
The turtle to her mate hath tolde her tale : 
Somer is come, for euery spray now springs : 
The hart hath hong his old hed on the pale; 
The bucke in brake his winter coate he flings : 
The fishes flete with new repaired scale : 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 
The swift swalow pursueth the flies smale; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 
Winter is worne, that was the floures bale ; 
And thus I see among these pleasaunt things 
Eche care decayes; and yet my sorow springs. 

Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey). 


WORSHIP, O ye that lovers be, this May ! 

For of your bliss the Calends are begun; 
And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away! 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun;' 
Awake for shame that have your heavens won; 
And amorously lift up your heades all, 
Thank Love that list you to his mercy call! 

King James I, (of Scotland), 



SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The palm and may make country houses gay, 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, 
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 
Spring! the sweet Spring! 

Thomas Nosh. 



COME live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 

There will we sit upon the rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 


Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall on an ivory table be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 

ChristopJier Marlowe. 


IF all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love ; 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
And age complains of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 


Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten; 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 
All these in me no means can move, 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

What should we talk of dainties, then, 
Of better meat than's fit for men? . 
These are but vain: that's only good 
Which God hath blessM and sent for food. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need; 
Then those delights my mind might move, 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



LIKE to Diana in her summer weed, 
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 

Goes fair Samela! 

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, 
When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, 

Is fair Samela! 

As fair Aurora in her morning gray, 
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, 

Is fair Samela! 

Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancies move, 

Shines fair Samela! 

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams ; 
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 

Of fair Samela! 

Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams ; 
Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony : 

Thus fair Samela 

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, 
And Juno in the show of majesty, 

For she's Samela! 

Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view, 
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity, 

Yield to Samela. 

Robert Greene. 



ASK me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your beauties' orient deep, 
These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
That downwards fall in dead of night; 
For, in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more, if east or west, 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Carew). 



CUPID and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too ; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these, the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple on his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win: 

At last he set her both his eyes 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love! has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 

John Lylye. 

1 6 TO CELIA, 


DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss within the cup, 

And HI not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 

Doth ask a drink divine : 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me, 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee. 

Ben Jonson. 



I DARE not ask a kiss, 

I dare not beg a smile; 
Lest, having that or this, 

I might grow proud the while. 

No, no ! the utmost share 

Of my desire shall be, 
Only to kiss the air 

That late kissed thee. 

Robert Herrick. 


MY true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven: 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides: 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

Eider Poets. 



THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie 
As the deathbed whereon it must expire, 
Consumed with that which it was nourished by: 

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 

William Shakespeare, 



To me, fair Friend, you never can be old, 
For as you were when first your eye I eyed 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; 

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turnM 
In process of the season have I seen, 
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, 
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. 

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, 

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; 

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, 
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. 

W. SJiakespeare. 



SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date : 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimnVd. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

W, Shakespeare. 



LIKE as the culver on the bared bough 

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate, 

And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 

For his return, that seems to linger late ; 

So I alone, now left disconsolate, 

Mourn to myself the absence of my love, 

And wandering here and there all desolate, 

Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove. 

Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove 

Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight 

Whose sweet aspect both god and man can move 

In her unspotted pleasance to delight: 

And in the heavens write your glorious name, 

Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue, 

Our love shall live, and later life renew. 

Edmund Spenser. 



As it fell upon a day 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 

Trees did grow and plants did spring, 

Every thing did banish moan 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast against a thorn, 

And there sung the dolefullest ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; 

Tereu, tereu, by and by : 

That to hear her so complain 

Scarce I could from tears refrain; 

For her griefs so lively shown 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah, thought I, thou mournst in vain, 

None takes pity on thy pain : 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, 

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 

All thy fellow birds do sing 

Careless of thy sorrowing: 

Even so, poor bird, like thee 

None alive will pity me. 

R ichard Bawfield* 



ON a day, alack the day ! 
Love, whose month is ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air: 
Through the velvet leaves the wind 
All unseen 'gan passage find; 
That the lover, sick to death, 
WishM himself the heaven's breath. 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; 
Air, would I might triumph so ! 
But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. 
Do not call it sin in me 
That I am forsworn for thee : 
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were, 
And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love. 

W. Shakespeare. 



AND wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame, 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among: 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath given thee my heart 
Never for to depart 
Neither for pain nor smart : 
And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee? 
Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 



SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part,- 
Nay I have done, you get no more of me; 
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, 
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
And innocence is closing up his eyes, 

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! 

Michael Dray ton. 



WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 

How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

What! may it be, that ev'n in heavenly place 

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? 

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feePst a lover's case; 

I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, 

To me that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 

Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 

Sir P. Sidney. 



O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray 
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart does fill, 
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
Portend success in love ; O, if Jove's will 
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 

Now timely sing, e'er the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; 
As thou from year to year hast sung too late 

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: 
Whether the muse, or love call thee his mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton 



MY lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
With thy green mother in some shady grove, 
When immelodious winds but made thee move, 
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. 

Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, 
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, 
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above, 
What art thou but a harbinger of woe? 

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
But orphans' waitings to the fainting ear; 
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; 
For which be silent as in woods before : 

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 

William Drummond. 



AWAKE, awake, my Lyre ! 
And tell thy silent master's humble tale 

In sounds that may prevail, 
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: 
Though so exalted she 
And I so lowly be, 
Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony. 

Hark ! how the strings awake ; 
And though the moving hand approach not near, 

Themselves with awful fear 
A kind of numerous trembling make. 
Now all thy forces try; 
Now all thy charms apply: 
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye! 

Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
Is useless here, since thou art only found 

To cure, but not to wound 
And she to wound, but not to cure. 
Too weak too wilt thou prove, 
My passion to remove : 
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
For thou canst never tell my humble tale 

In sounds that will prevail, 
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire. 
All thy vain mirth lay by, 
Bid thy strings silent lie: 
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die! 

Abraham Cmtiley. 



"WOODS, hills, and rivers, now are desolate, 
Sith he is gone, the which them all did grace; 
And all the fields do wail their widow state, 
Sith death their fairest flower did late deface : 
The fairest flower in field that ever grew 
Was Astrophel; that was we all may rue. 

"What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown 
Hath cropt the stalk which bore so fair a flower? 
Untimely cropt, before it well were grown, 
And clean defaced in untimely hour; 
Great loss to all that ever him did see, 
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me. 

"Break now your girlonds, O ye shepherds' lasses! 
Sith the fair flower which them adorn'd is gone; 
The flower which them adorn'd is gone to ashes, 
Never again let lass put girlond on: 
Instead of girlond wear sad cypress now, 
And bitter elder broken from the bough. 

"Ne ever sing the love-lays which he made; 
Who ever made such lays of love as he? 
Ne ever read the riddles which he said 
Unto yourselves to make you merry glee: 
Your merry glee is now laid all abed, 
Your merry maker now, alas ! is dead. 

* Sir Philip Sidney. 


" Death, the devourer of all world's delight, 
Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my joy; 
Both you and me, and all the world, he quite 
Hath robb'd of joyance, and left sad annoy. 
Joy of the world, and shepherds' pride, was he ; 
Shepherds, hope never like again to see. 

" O Death ! that hast us of such riches reft, 
Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done? 
What is become of him whose flower here left 
Is but the shadow of his likeness gone? 
Scarce like the shadow of that which he was, 
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass. 

"But that immortal spirit, which was deck'd 
With all the dowries of celestial grace, 
By sovereign choice from th ? heavenly quires select, 
And lineally derived from angels' race, 
O what is now of it become? aread: 
Aye me ! can so divine a thing be dead : 

"Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die, 
But lives for aye in blissful paradise, 
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie 
In bed of lilies, wrapt in tender wise, 
And compass'd all about with roses sweet, 
And dainty violets from head to feet. 

"There thousand birds, all of celestial brood, 
To him do sweetly carol day and night, 
And with strange notes, of him well understood, 
Lull him asleep in angel- like delight; 
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be 
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see. 


"But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure 
Of their divine aspects, appearing plain, 
And kindling love in him above all measure; 
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain: 
For what so goodly form he there doth see 
He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free. 

" There liveth he in everlasting bliss, 
Sweet Spirit! never fearing more to die, 
Ne dreading harm from any foes of his, 
Ne fearing savage beasts' more cruelty, 
Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack, 
And with vain vows do often call him back. 

"But live thou there still, happy, happy Spirit! 
And give us leave thee here thus to lament; 
Not thee that dost thy heaven's joy inherit, 
But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. 
Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, 
Mourning in others our own miseries." 

E. Spenser. 



GLIDE soft ye silver floods. 

And every spring : 
Within the shady woods 

Let no bird sing! 
Nor from the grove a turtle dove 
Be seen to couple with her love; 
But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, 
Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell. 

But (of great Thetis' train) 

Ye mermaids fair, 
That on the shores do plain 

Your sea-green hair, 
As ye in trammels knit your locks 
Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks 
In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell 
How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell. 

Cease, cease, ye murmuring winds 

To move a wave ; 
But if with troubled minds 

You seek his grave, 
Know 'tis as various as yourselves, 
Now in the deep, then on the shelves, 
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell, 
Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell. 

Elder Poets. 3 


Had he, Arion like. 

Been judg'd to drown, 
He on his lute could strike 

So rare a swon; 

A thousand dolphins would have come, 
And jointly strove to bring him home. 
But he on shipboard dyM, by sickness fell, 
Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell. 

Great Neptune hear a swain ! 

His coffin take. 
And with a golden chain 

(For pity) make 
It fast unto a rock near land ! 
Where ev'ry calmy morn Pll stand, 
And ere one sheep out of my flock I tell, 
Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell. 

William. Browne. 




YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 
And, with forced fingers rude, 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due : 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destined urn ; 
And as he passes, turn 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 



Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 

Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, 

We drove a-field, and both together heard 

What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn. 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night; 

Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, 

Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 

Tempered to the oaten flute; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 

From the glad sound would not be absent long; 

And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes, mourn : 
The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays: 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
Ay me! I fondly dream- 
Had ye been there for what could that have done? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 


Whom universal nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise " 
Phoebus replied, and touch' d my trembling ears ; 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood 
Smooth- sliding Mincius, crown' d with vocal reeds! 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea; 
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 


That blows from off each beaked promontory: 

They knew not of his story; 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark 

Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge 
Inwrought with figures dim, nd on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe : 
"Ah! who hath reft", quoth he, "my dearest pledge!" 
Last came, and last did go 
The pilot of the Galilean lake; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: 
'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest; 
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learn' d aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said: 


But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ; 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelPd eyes 
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed, 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears 
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 
For, so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; 
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurPd, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides 
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, 
Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold, 
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth : 
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 


Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves; 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
That sing, and singing, in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 
While the still morn went out with sandals gray; 
He touch 7 d the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay : 
At last he rose, and twitch' d his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 

J. Milton. 



FEAR no more the heat o' the sun 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 

Care no more to clothe, and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan: 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exerciser harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Quiet consummation have; 

And renowned be thy grave ! 

W. Shakespeare. 



FULL fathom five thy father lies : 
Of his bones are coral made; 

Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
Nothing of him that doth fade, 

But doth suffer a sea-change 

Into something rich and strange; 

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Hark ! now I hear them, 
Ding, dong, Bell. 

W. Shakespeare. 


CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 

Since o'er shady groves they hover 

And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of unburied men. 

Call unto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole 

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm 

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

John Webster. 



MARTIAL, the things that do attain 
The happy life, be these, I find, 

The riches left, not got with pain; 
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind; 

The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; 

No charge of rule, nor governance; 
Without disease, the healthful life; 

The household of continuance ; 

The mean diet, no delicate fare; 

The wisdom joined with simpleness; 
The night discharged of all care, 

Where wine the wit may not oppress. 

The faithful wife, without debate ; 

Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 
Contented with thine own estate, 

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 

H. Howard (Earl of Surrey) . 



HAPPY the man whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcernedly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body; peace of mind; 
Quiet by day; 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mix'd; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 
Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not ano ther's will; 
Whose armour is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice. Who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state; but rules of good: 

Who hath his life from rumours freed ; 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make accusers great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend; 

This Man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands, 
And having nothing, yet hath All. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



THIS only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honour I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone; 
Th' unknown are better than ill-known. 

Rumour can ope the grave : 
Acquaintance I would have; but when't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage, more 
Than palace, and should fitting be 
For all my use ; no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 

With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space, 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, that happy state, 
I would not fear nor wish my fate, 

But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day. 

A. C<nvley. 



WHO is the honest man? 
He that doth still, and strongly, good pursue; 
To God, his neighbour, and himself most true. 

Whom neither force nor fawning can 
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due. 

Whose honesty is not 
So loose or easy that a ruffling wind 
Can blow away, or glitt'ring look it blind. 

Who rides his sure and even trot, 
While the world now rides by, now lags behind. 

Who, when great trials come, 
Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay 
Till he the thing, and the example weigh. 

All being brought into a sum, 
What place, or person calls for, he doth pay. 

Whom none can work, or woo, 
To use in any thing a trick or sleight ; 
For above all things he abhors deceit. 

His words, and works, and fashion, too, 
All of one piece ; and all are clear and straight. 

Who never melts or thaws 
At close temptations. When the day is done, 
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run. 

The sun to others writeth laws, 
And is their virtue. Virtue is his sun. 


Who, when he is to treat 

With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, 
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way. 

Whom others' faults do not defeat; 
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play. 

Whom nothing can procure, 
When the wide world runs bias, from his will 
To writhe his limbs; and share, not mend, the ill. 

This is the mark-man, safe and sure, 
Who still is right, and prays to be so still. 

George Herbert. 


IT is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make Man better be ; 

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 

In small proportions we just beauties see; 

And in short measures life may perfect be. 

B. Jonson. 



SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night, 

For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My music shows you have your closes, 

And all must die. 
Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But when the whole world turns to coal, 

Then chiefly lives. 

G. Herbert. 

Eider Poets. 



ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 

Oh, sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

Oh, punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? 
O, sweet content! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face; 
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? 

O, sweet content! 
Swimmest thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears ? 

O, punishment! 

Then he that patiently want's burden bears, 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O, sweet content ! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face; 
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney! 

Thomas Dekker. 



SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content : 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown : 
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent : 
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown. 
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords nor pride, nor care, 
The mean that Agrees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare, 
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss; 
A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

Robert Greene, 


THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man 

Less than a span : 
In his conception wretched, from the womb 

So to the tomb; 
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years 

With cares and fears. 
Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 


52 LIFE. 

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, 

What life is best? 
Courts are but only superficial schools 

To dandle fools: 
The rural parts are turn'd into a den 

Of savage men : 

And where's a city from foul vice so free, 
But may be term'd the worst of all the three? 

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, 

Or pains his head : 
Those that live single, take it for a curse, 

Or do things worse: 
Some would have children : those that have them, moan 

Or wish them gone : 

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, 
But single thraldom, or a double strife? 

Our own affections still at home to please 

Is a disease: 
To cross the seas to any foreign soil, 

Peril and toil : 
Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, 

We are worse in peace; 
What then remains, but that we still should cry 
For being born, or, being born, to die? 

Lord Bacon. 



THIS Life, which seems so fair, 

Is like a bubble blown up in the air 

By sporting children's breath, 

Who chase it every where 

And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 

And though it sometimes seem of its own might 

Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there, 

And firm to hover in that empty height, 

That only is because it is so light. 

But in that pomp it doth not long appear; 

For when 'tis most admired, in a thought, 

Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. 

W. Drummond. 


LIKE to the falling off a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood: 
Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in and paid to night: 
The wind blowes out; the bubble dies; 
The spring intomb'd in autumn lies ; 
The dew's dry'd up; the star is shot; 
The flight is past; and man forgot! 

Francis Beaumont, 



LIKE as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossom on the tree, 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day, 

Or like the sun, or like the shade, 

Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 

E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, 

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth; 

The flower fades, the morning hasteth ; 

The sun sets, the shadow flies ; 

The gourd consumes, and man he dies ! 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, 

Or like a tale that's new begun, 

Or like the bird that's here to-day, 

Or like the pearled dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span, 

Or like the singing of a swan. 

E'en such is man; who lives by breath, 

Is here, now there, in life and death. 

The grass withers, the tale is ended; 

The bird is flown, the dew's ascended; 

The hour is short, the span is long; 

The swan's near death, man's life is done ! 

Simon WastelL 



MARK that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, 

How it outruns thy following eye ! 

Use all persuasions now, and try 
If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. 

That way it went ; but thou shalt find 

No track is left behind. 
Fool ! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. 

Of all the time thou'st shot away, 

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, 
And it shall be too hard a task to do. 

Besides repentance, what canst find 

That it hath left behind? 
Our life is carried with too strong a tide ; 

A doubtful cloud our substance bears, 

And is the horse of all our years. 
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride. 

We and our glass run out, and must 

Both render up our dust. 
But his past life who without grief can see ; 

Who never thinks his end too near; 

But says to Fame, "Thou art mine heir;" 
That man extends life's natural brevity 

This is, this is the only way 

To outlive Nestor in a day. 

A. Cowley. 

56 sic vim. 

sic VITJE. 

WHAT is the existence of man's life. 
But open war or slumbered strife ; 
Where sickness to his sense presents 
The combat of the elements ; 
And never feels a perfect peace 
Till Death's cold hand signs his release? 

It is a storm where the hot blood 
Outvies in rage the boiling flood; 
And each loose passion of the mind 
Is like a furious gust of wind, 
Which beats his bark with many a wave. 
Till he casts anchor in the grave. 

It is a flower which buds, and grows, 
And withers as the leaves disclose ; 
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 
Like fits of waking before sleep ; 
Then shrinks into that fatal mould 
Where its first being was enrolPd. 

It is a dream whose seeming truth 
Is moralised in age and youth ; 
Where all the comforts he can share 
Are wandering as his fancies are ; 
Till in a mist of dark decay 
The dreamer vanish quite away. 

sic VITVE. 

It is a dial which points out 
The sunset, as it moves about; 
And shadows out in lines of night 
The subtle stages of Time's flight; 
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid 
His body in perpetual shade. 

It is a weary interlude 
Which doth short joys, long woes, include; 
The world the stage; the prologue tears; 
The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 
The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
And leaves no epilogue but death. 

Dr. Henry King. 



SWEET is the rose, but grows upon a brere; 

Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; 

Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ; 

Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; 

Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough; 

Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; 

Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough; 

And sweet is moly, but his root is ill; 

So, every sweet with sour is tempered still, 

That maketh it be coveted the more : 

For easy things that may be got at will 

Most sorts of men do set but little store. 

Why then should I account of little pain, 

That endless pleasure shall unto me gain? 

. Spenser. 



A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 
A beauty fading like the April flow'rs, 
A sweet with floods of gall, that run combinM, 
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, 
An honour that more fickle is than wind, 
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, 
A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 
A vain delight our equals to command, 
A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 
A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name, 
Are the strange ends we toil for here below, 
Till wisest death make us our errors know. 

W. Drummond. 



THE longer life the more offence, 
The more offence the greater paine, 
The greater paine the lesse defence, 
The lesse defence the lesser gaine ; 
The loss of gaine long yll doth trye, 
Wherefore come death and let me dye. 

The shorter life, less count I finde, 
The less account the sooner made, 
The account soon made, the merier mind, 
The merier mind doth thought evade; 
Short life in truth this thing doth trye, 
Wherefore come death and let me dye. 

Come gentle death, the ebbe of care, 
The ebbe of care, the flood of life, 
The flood of life, the joyful fare, 
The joyful fare, the end of strife, 
The end of strife, that thing wish I, 
Wherefore come death and let me die. 

Sir T. IVyatt. 



VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more 
Proclaim how wide your empires are; 

Though you bind-in every shore 
And your triumphs reach as far 

As night or day, 
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey 

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 

Each able to undo mankind, 
Death's servile emissaries are; 

Nor to these alone confined, 
He hath at will 

More quaint and subtle ways to kill; 
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 

James Shirley. 



THE glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armour against fate : 
Death lays his icy hand on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 

And plant with laurels where they kill; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still; 
Early or late, 
They stoop to fate, 

And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives ! creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon death's purple altar, now, 
See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb, 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. 

J. Shirley. 




THE lopped tree in time may grow again, 
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 

The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower : 

Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, 

From foul to fair, from better times to worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; 

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; 
Her tides have equal times to come and go; 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web : 
No joy so great but runneth to an end, 
No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always full of leaf, nor ever spring, 
Not endless night, yet not eternal day : 

The saddest birds a season find to sing, 
The roughest storms a calm may soon allay. 

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 

That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 

That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all things none are crossed; 

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall; 
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. 

Robert Southwell. 



HAPPY that first White Age, when we 
Liv'd by the earth's mere charity ! 
No soft luxurious diet then 
Had effeminated men 
No other meat, nor wine, had any 
Than the coarse mast, or simple honey ; 
And, by the parents' care laid up, 
Cheap berries did the children sup. 
No pompous wear was in those days, 
Of gummy silks or scarlet baize. 
Their beds were on some flowery brink, 
And clear spring water was their drink. 
The shady pine, in the sun's heat, 
Was their cool and known retreat ; 
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood 
The youth and glory of the wood. 
The daring sailor with his slaves 
Then had not cut the swelling waves, 
Nor, for desire, of foreign store, 
Seen any but his native shore. 
No stirring drum had scarM that age, 
Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage ; 
No wounds by bitter hatred made 
With warm blood soiPd the shining blade; 
For how could hostile madness arm 
An Age of Love to public harm, 
When common Justice none withstood, 
Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? 


Oh that at length our Age would raise 
Into the temper of those days ! 
But worse than Etna's firesdebate 
And avarice inflame our state. 
Alas ! who was it that first found 
Gold (hid of purpose) underground 
That sought out pearls, and div'd to find 
Such precious perils for mankind? 

Henry Vanghan. 


WHERE the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along 
The listening winds received this song. 
"What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Where He the huge sea monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own? 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage : 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything, 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Orrnus shows : 

Elder Poets. 5 


He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at ou feet ; 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound His name. 
O let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
Which then perhaps rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!" 
Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew Marvell. 



MY banks they are furnished with bees 

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
My grottoes are shaded with trees, 

And my hills are white over with sheep. 
I seldom have met with a loss, 

Such health do my fountains bestow 
My fountains all bordered with moss. 

Where the harebells and violets grow. 

Not a pine in my grove is there seen 

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; 
Not a beech's more beautiful green 

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. 
Not my fields in the prime of the year 

More charms than my cattle unfold; 
Not a brook that is limpid and clear 

But it glitters with fishes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 

To the bow'r I have labored to rear; 
Not a shrub that I heard her admire 

But I hastened and planted it there. 
O how sudden the jessamine strove 

With the lilac, to render it gay ! 
Already it calls for my love, 

To prune the wild branches away. 



From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, 

What strains of wild melody flow ! 
How the nightingales warble their loves 

From thickets of roses that blow! 
And when her bright form shall appear, 

Each bird shall harmoniously join 
In a concert, so soft and so clear 

As she may not be fond to resign. 

I have found out a gift for my fair 

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; 
But let me that plunder forbear 

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er could be true, she averrM, 

Who would rob a poor bird of her young; 
And I loved her the more when I heard 

Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 

I have heard her with sweetness unfold 

How that Pity was due to a dove ; 
That it ever attended the bold, 

And she called it the sister of Love. 
But her words such a pleasure convey, 

So much I her accents adore, 
Let her speak, and whatever she say, 

Methinks I should love her the more. 

Can a bosom so gentle remain 

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs ? 
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, 

These plains and this valley despise? 
Dear regions of silence and shade! 

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! 
Where I could have pleasingly strayed, 

If aught in her absence could please. 

MAY-DAY. 69 

But where does my Phyllida stray? 

And where are her grots and her bowers? 
Are the groves and the valleys as gay, 

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? 
The groves may perhaps be as fair, 

And the face of the valleys as fine ; 
The swains may in manners compare 

But their love is not equal to mine. 

William Shenstone. 


GET up, get up for shame ! the blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 

See how Aurora throws her fair 

Fresh-quilted colors through the air! 

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed! and see 

The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, 
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest 

Nay, not so much as out of bed, 

When all the birds have matins said, 

And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, 

Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair: 

Fear not, the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you ; 


Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. 

Come, and receive them while the light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night ; 

And Titan on the eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying : 
Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come! and, coming, mark 
How each field turns a street, each street a park 

Made green, and trimmed with trees ; see how 

Devotion gives each house a bough, 

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this 

An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made up of white thorn neatly interwove ; 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 

Can such delights be in the street 

And open fields, and we not see't? 

Come! we'll abroad, and let's obey 

The proclamation made for May; 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, 
But, my Corinna, come ! let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 

Back, and with white thorn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cakes and cream 

Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept and wooed and plighted troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth. 

Many a green gown has been given ; 

Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 

Many a glance, too, has been sent 

From out the eye, love's firmament; 

MAY-DAY. 7 1 

Many a jest told of the key's betraying 

This night, and locks picked: yet w' are not a-Maying. 

Come ! let us go while we are in our prime, 
And take the harmless folly of the time; 

We shall grow old apace, and die 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun; 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again: 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 

All love, all liking, all delight 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
Come, my Corinna, come ! let's go a-Maying. 

Robert Herrick. 



MY sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, 
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove : 
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 

Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 

Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow? 

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, 

And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. 

Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love! 
Oh fool! to imagine that aught could subdue 
A love so well founded, a passion so true ! 
Oh, what had my youth etc. 

Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; 
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : 
Thy tears are all fruitless^ thy wishes are vain, 
The moments neglected return not again. 
Oh, what had my youth etc. 

Sir Gilbert Elliot. 



WHEN icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 

And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home in pail ; 

When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl 
Tuwhoo ! 

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all around the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw; 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl- 
Then nightly sings the staring owl 

Tuwhoo ! 

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

\V, Shakespeare. 



Now that the winter's gone, the earth has lost 
Her snow-white robes : and now no more the frost 
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream 
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream : 
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth 
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth 
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree 
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee. 
Now do a choir of chirping Minstrels bring, 
In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring; 
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, 
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May. 
Now all things smile only my love doth lour : 
Nor hath the scalding noon- day sun the pow'r 
To melt that marble ice which still doth hold 
Her heart congeal' d, and makes her pity cold. 
The ox which lately did for shelter fly 
Into the stall, doth now securely lie 
In open fields ; and love no more is made 
By the fireside; but in the cooler shade 
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep 
Under a sycamore, and all things keep 
Time with the season only she doth carry 
June in her eyes, in her heart January. 

T. Carew. 



IT was a lover and his lass 

With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino ! 
That o'er the green cornfield did pass 
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing hey ding a ding: 

Sweet lovers love the Spring. 

Between the acres of the rye 

These pretty country folks would lie : 

This carol they began that hour, 
How that life was but a flower ! 

And therefore take the present time 

With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino ! 
For love is crowned with the prime 
In spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing hey ding a ding : 
Sweet lovers love the Spring. 

W. Shakespeare. 



THIS day, Dame Nature seem'd in love ! 
The lusty sap began to move; 
Fresh juice did stir th'embracing vines ; 
And birds had drawn their valentines. 
Already were the eaves possessed 
With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest; 
The groves already did rejoice 
In Philomel's triumphing voice; 
The show'rs were short; the weather mild; 
The morning fresh; the evening smilM. 

Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now 
She trips to milk the sand-red cow, 
Where, for some sturdy foot-ball swain, 
She strokes a syllabub or twain. 
The fields and garden were beset 
With tulip, crocus, violet; 
And now, though late, the modest rose 
Did more than half a blush disclose. 

Thus all looks gay and full of cheer, 

To welcome the new-liveried year. 

Sir H. Woiton. 



Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her 
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail bounteous May ! that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee and wish thee long. 

J. Milton. 


HENCE, loathed 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 yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more 
To ivy-crowned 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 washM in dew 
FilPd her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed 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 

L ; ALLEGRO. 79 

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 ev'ry shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
While the landscape round it measures, 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied; 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
Tow'rs and battlements it sees 
Bosom' d high in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 


Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 

Are at their sav'ry dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes, 

Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses : 

And then in haste her bow'r 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 chequered shade; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday. 
Till the livelong daylight fail; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How fairy Mab the junkets ate; 
She was pinchM, 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 flail had thresh'd the corn 
That ten day-labourers could not end; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 
And, stretch' d out all the chimney's length 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength; 
And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
By whispering winds soon lulPd asleep. 

Tower'd cities please us then 
And the busy hum of men, 


Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus 7 self may heave his head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain' d Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

y. Milton. 

Elder Poet*. 



HENCE vain deluding joys, 

The brood of Folly, without father bred! 

How little you bestead, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
Or likest hov'ring dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy! 
Hail divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
Overlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue: 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starr' d Ethiop queen, that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended, 
Yet thou art higher far descended; 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glim'ring bow'rs and glades 
He met her a and in secret shades 


Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train, 
And sable stole of cypress lawn, 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast, 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, 
And hear the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
But first and chiefest with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
The cherub Contemplation; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
In his sweetest, saddest plight, 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak; 
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among, 
I woo to hear thy ev'ning song; 


And missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wand'ring Moon, 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the Heav'ns' wide pathless way; 
And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft on a plat of rising ground 
I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
Over some wide- water' d shore 
Swinging slow with sullen roar. 

Or if the air will not permit, 
Some still, removed place will fit, 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the belman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine; 


Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek 
And made Hell grant what Love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung; 
Of forests and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trick' d and frounc'd as she was wont 
With the Attic Boy to hunt, 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher' d with a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 

And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine or monumental oak, 
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 


Was never heard, the Nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honey' d thigh, 
That at her flow'ry work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring, 
With such concert as they keep 
Entice the dewy-feather 7 d Sleep ; 
And let some strange mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed, 
Softly on my eyelids laid : 
And as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high- emb owed roof, 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight 
Casting a dim religious light: 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew; 


Till old experience do attain 

To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

J. Milton. 


WHEN I go musing all alone, 
Thinking of divers things foreknown ; 
When I build castles in the air, 
Void of sorrow, void of care, 
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, 
Methinks the time runs very fleet. 

All my joys to this are folly; 

Naught so sweet as melancholy! 


When I go walking all alone, 
Recounting what I have ill- done, 
My thoughts on me then tyrannise, 
Fear and sorrow me surprise, 
Whether I tarry still, or go, 
Methinks the time moves very slow. 

All my griefs to this are jolly; 

Naught so sad as melancholy. 


When to myself I act and smile, 
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, 
By a brookside or wood so green, 
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, 
A thousand pleasures do me bless, 
And crown my soul with happiness. 

All my joys besides are folly; 

None so sweet as melancholy. 



When I lie, sit, or walk alone, 

I sigh, I grieve, making great moan; 

In a dark grove or irksome den, 

With discontents and furies then, 

A thousand miseries at once 

Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. 

All my griefs to this are jolly; 

None so sour as melancholy. 


Methinks I hear, methinks I see 
Sweet music, wondrous melody, 
Towns, palaces and cities fine; 
Here now, then there, the world is mine ; 
Rare beauties, gallants, ladies shine, 
WhateVer is lovely, is divine. 

All other joys to this are folly; 

None so sweet as melancholy. 


Methinks I hear, methinks I see 
Ghosts, goblins, fiends : my fantasy 
Presents a thousand ugly shapes ; 
Headless bears, black men, and apes ; 
Doleful outcries, fearful sights 
My sad and dismal soul affrights. 

All my griefs to this are jolly; 

None so damn'd as melancholy. 

Robert Brcrton. 



HENCE, all you vain delights, 

As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly : 

There's nought in this life sweet, 

If man were wise to see't, 

But only melancholy, 

O sweetest Melancholy ! 
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fasten'd 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. 

f. Beaumont. 



MEMORY, hither come, 

And tune your merry notes : 
And while upon the wind 

Your music floats, 
Fll pore upon the stream 
Where sighing lovers dream, 

And fish for fancies as they pass 

Within the watery glass. 

Fll drink of the clear stream, 

And hear the linnet' s song, 
And then Fll lie and dream 

The day along: 
And when night comes, Fll go 
To places fit for woe, 

Walking along the darkened valley 

With silent melancholy. 

William Blake. 



GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights and ease, 

Can but please 

The outward senses, when the mind 
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined. 
Crowns may flourish and decay, 
Beauties shine, but fade away. 
Youth may revel, yet it must 
Lie down in a bed of dust. 
Earthly honours flow and waste, 
Time alone doth change and last. 
Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare 

Rest for care ; 

Love only reigns in death; though art 
Can find no comfort for a broken heart. 

John Ford. 



OH, sorrow, sorrow, say where dost thou dwell? 

In the lowest room of hell. 
Art thou born of human race? 
No, no, I have a furier face. 
Art thou in city, town, or court? 

I to every place resort. 
Oh, why into the world is sorrow sent? 

Men afflicted best repent. 
What dost thou feed on? 

Broken sleep. 

What tak'st thou pleasure in? 
To weep, 

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan, 
To wring my hands, to sit alone. 
Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have? 
Never, never, never, never. 
Never till she finds a grave. 

Samuel Rowley. 



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 him into slumbers like a bride! 

John Fletcher. 


SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 

Within thy aery shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green, 
And in the violet-embroider' d vale, 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are? 
O, if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave, 

Tell me but where, 

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! 
So may'st thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies. 

J. Milton. 



ORPHEUS with his lute made trees, 
And the mountain-tops that freeze, 

Bow themselves when he did sing. 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung; as sun and showers 

There had made a lasting spring. 

Everything that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 
Killing Care and Grief of Heart 

Fall asleep, or hearing, die ! 

IV. Shakespeare. 



WHEN whispering strains do softly steal 

With creeping passion through the heart, 
And when at ev'ry touch we feel 
Our pulses beat and bear a part; 
When threads can make 
A heart-string quake, 
Can scarce deny 
The soul consists of harmony. 

O lull me, lull me, charming air, 

My sense is rock'd with wonder sweet! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are 
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet. 
Grief who need fear 
That hath an ear? 
Down let him lie, 
And slumb'ring die, 
And change his soul for harmony. 

William Strode. 



ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, 
Not royal in their smells alone, 

But in their hue ; 
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint, 
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 

And sweet thyme true ; 

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
Merry spring-time's harbinger, 

With her bells dim; 
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
Marigolds on death-beds blowing, 

Lark-heels trim. 

All, dear Nature's children sweet, 
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, 

Blessing their sense! 
Not an angel of the air, 
Bird melodious, or bird fair, 

Be absent hence! 

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 

Nor chattering pie, 

May on our bride-house perch or sing, 
Or with them any discord bring, 

But from it fly ! 

F. Beaumont. 



UNDER the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun, 

And loves to lie i ? the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats, 

And pleasM with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

W. Shakespeare. 




WE three Archers be, 

Rangers that rove through the north countree, 
Lovers of ven'son and liberty, 

That value not honours or money. 

We three good fellows be, 
That never yet ran from three times three. 
Quarterstaff, broadsword, or bowmanry, 

But give us fair play for our money. 

We three merry men be, 
At a lass or a glass under greenwood tree ; 
Jocundly chaunting our ancient glee, 

Though we had not a penny of money. 




HAIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades, 
That dwelFst beneath these shadowy glades, 
Mistress of all those beauteous maids 

That are by her allowed. 
Virginity we all profess, 
Abjure the worldly vain excess, 
And will to Dian yield no less 

Than we to her have vowed. 
The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns, 
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns. 

Come, to the forest let us go, 
And trip it like the barren doe; 
The fawns and satyrs still do so, 

And freely thus they may. 
The fairies dance and satyrs sing, 
And on the grass tread many a ring, 
And to their caves their ven'son bring; 

And we will do as they. 

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c. 

Our food is honey from the bees, 

And mellow fruits that drop from trees; 

In chace we climb the high degrees 

Of every steepy mountain. 
And when the weary day is past, 
We at the evening hie us fast, 
And after this, our field repast, 

We drink the pleasant fountain. 

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c. 

Thomas Heywood. 



QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair, 
State in wonted manner keep. 

Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess excellently bright! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 
Dare itself to interpose; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 
Heaven to clear, when day did close. 

Bless us then with wished sight, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
And thy crystal-shining quiver: 
Give unto the flying hart 
Space to breathe how short soever ; 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 

Goddess excellently bright! 

B. fonson. 



SiNG to Apollo, god of day, 

Whose golden beams with morning play, 

And make her eyes so brightly shine, 

Aurora's face is called divine. 

Sing to Phoebus and that throne 

Of diamonds which he sets upon. 

lo Paeans let us sing 

To Physic and to Poesy's king. 

Crown all his altars with bright fire, 
Laurels bind about his lyre, 
A Daphnean coronet for his head, 
The Muses dance about his bed ; 
When on his ravishing lute he plays, 
Strew his temple round with bays, 
lo Paeans let us sing 
To the glittering Delian king. 

7. Lylye. 



GOD Lyaeus ever young, 
Ever renowned, ever sung, 
Stain' d with blood of lusty grapes 
In a thousand lusty shapes; 
Dance upon the mazer's brim; 
In the crimson liquor swim ! 
From thy plenteous hand divine 
Let a river run with wine ! 

F. Beaumont. 


SHAKE off your heavy trance, 
And leap into a dance 

Such as no mortals use to tread; 
Fit only for Apollo 

To play to, for the moon to lead, 
And all the stars to follow ! 

F, Beaumont. 



WOODMEN, shepherds, come away, 
This is Pan's great holiday, 

Throw off cares, 
With your heaven-aspiring airs 

Help us to sing, 
While valleys with your echoes ring. 

Nymphs that dwell within these groves, 
Leave your arbours, bring your loves, 

Gather posies, 
Crown your golden hair with roses; 

As you pass 
Foot like fairies on the grass. 

Joy crown our bowers ! Philomel, 
Leave of Tereus' rape to tell. 

Let trees dance, 
As they at Thracian lyre did once ; 

Mountains play, 
This is the shepherds' holiday. 

y. Shirley. 



THROUGH yon same bending plain 
That flings his arms down to the main, 
And through these thick woods, have I run, 
Whose bottom never kissed the sun 
Since the lusty spring began; 
All to please my Master Pan, 
Have I trotted without rest 
To get him fruit; for at a feast 
He entertains, this coming night, 
His paramour, the Syrinx bright. 

* * * * 

Here be grapes, whose lusty blood 
Is the learned poet's good; 
Sweeter yet did never crown 
The head of Bacchus ! nuts more brown 
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them; 
Deign, oh fairest fair, to take them! 
For these black-eyed Dryope 
Hath often-times commanded me 
With my clasped knee to climb : 
See how well the lusty time 
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red, 
Such as on your lips is spread! 
Here be berries for a queen, 
Some be red, some be green; 
These are of that luscious meat, 
The great god Pan himself doth eat : 
All these, and what the woods can yield, 
The hanging mountain, or the field, 


I freely offer, and ere long 

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; 

Till when, numbly leave I take, 

Lest the great Pan do awake, 

That sleeping lies in a deep glade, 

Under a broad beech's shade. 

I must go, I must run 

Swifter than the fiery sun. 

y. Fletcher. 


SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, 
Fold your flocks up, for the air 
'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 
See the dew-drops how they kiss 
Every little flower that is, 
Hanging on their velvet heads, 
Like a rope of crystal beads : 
See the heavy clouds low falling, 
And bright Hesperus down calling 
The dead Night from under ground ; 
At whose rising, mists unsound, 
Damps and vapours fly apace, 
Hovering o'er the wanton face 
Of these pastures, where they come, 
Striking dead both bud and bloom: 
Therefore, from such danger lock 
Every one his loved flock; 
And let your dogs lie loose without, 
Lest the wolf come as a scout 
From the mountain, and, ere day, 
Bear a lamb or kid away; 


Or the crafty thievish fox 
Break upon your simple flocks. 
To secure yourselves from these, 
Be not too secure in ease; 
Let one eye his watches keep, 
Whilst the other eye doth sleep ; 
So you shall good shepherds prove, 
And for ever hold the love 
Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers, 
And soft silence, fall in numbers 
On your eye-lids ! So, farewell! 
Thus I end my evening's knell. 

J. Fletcher. 


HARK ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phcebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chalic'd flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes, 
With every thing that pretty bin ; 

My lady sweet, arise! 

W. Shakespeare. 



THE lark now leaves his watery nest 

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings, 
He takes this window for the East, 

And to implore your light, he sings. 

Awake ! awake ! the morn will never rise 
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star; 

The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; 
But still the lover wonders what they are 

Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 

Awake ! awake ! break through your veils of lawn ! 
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. 

Sir William Davenant* 



PACK clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow; 
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark Til borrow; 
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, 

To give my love good-morrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast; 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow; 
You pretty elves, among yourselves 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

T. Heywood. 



WHO is Sylvia? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; 

The heavens such grace did lend her, 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind, as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness ; 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing, 

That Sylvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let us garlands bring. 

W. Shakespeare. 



HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee; 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! 

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, 
Nor snake or slow- worm bite thee ! 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; 

What though the moon does slumber? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then Julia let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And, when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul Til pour into thee. 

R. Herrick. 



YE living lamps ! by whose dear light 
The nightingale doth sit so late, 

And, studying all the summer night, 
Her matchless songs doth meditate! 

Ye country comets ! that portend 
No war, nor prince's funeral, 

Shining unto no other end 
Than to presage the grass's fall ! 

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame 
To wandering mowers shows the way, 

That in the night have lost their aim, 
And after foolish fires do stray 

Your courteous lights in vain you waste, 

Since Juliana here is come ; 
For she my mind hath so displaced, 

That I shall never find my home. 

A. Mar-veil. 



YOU meaner beauties of the night, 

Which poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light, 

You common people of the skies, 
What are you, when the Moon shall rise? 

Ye violets that first appear, 
By your pure purple mantles known 

Like the proud virgins of the year 
As if the spring were all your own, 

What are you, when the Rose is blown? 

Ye curious chanters of the wood 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents; what's your praise 

When Philomel her voice doth raise? 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 
In sweetness of her looks and mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 

Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 

Sir PL Wottott. 



YE blushing virgins happy are 

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts, 

For he'd profane so chaste a fair, 

Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests. 

Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow! 
How rich a perfume do ye yield ! 
In some close garden, cowslips so 
Are sweeter than i' the open field. 

In those white cloisters live secure 
From the rude blasts of wanton breath, 
Each hour more innocent and pure, 
Till you shall wither into death. 

Then that which living gave you room, 
Your glorious sepulchre shall be. 
There wants no marble for a tomb 
Whose breast hath marble been to me. 

William Habington* 

r Poets. 

ii4 G0 > HAPPV ROSE! 


Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove 

With other flowers, bind my love I 

Tell her, too, she must not be 

Longer flowing, longer free, 

That so oft hath fettered me. 

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods at will, 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take then my blessing thus, and go, 
And tell her this, but do not so ! 
Lest a handsome anger fly, 
Like a lightning from her eye. 
And burn thee up, as well as I. 

R. Hert-ick, 



Go, lovely Rose! 
Tell her, that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 

How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 

Edmund Waller. 



Go, rose! my Chloe's bosom grace! 

How happy should I prove, 
Might I supply that envied place 

With never-fading love : 
There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye, 
Involved in fragrance, burn and die ! 

Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 

More fragrant roses there : 
I see thy withering head reclined 

With envy and despair. 
One common fate we both must prove, 
You die with envy, I with love. 

John Gay, 



WHEN Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter' d to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free- 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 


Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Colonel Lovelace. 


Do not conceal thy radiant eyes, 
The starlight of serenest skies ; 
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, 
They turn to Chaos' endless night ! 

Do not conceal those tresses fair, 
The silken snares of thy curPd hair; 
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, 
The curious silk-worm work no more ! 

Do not conceal those breasts of thine, 
More snow-white than the Apennine; 
Lest, if there be like snow and frost, 
The lily be forever lost ! 

Do not conceal that fragrant scent, 
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent 
Perfumes ; lest it being supprest, 
No spices grow in all the East! 


Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, 
Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; 
Lest, Music hearing no such thing, 
The nightingale forget to sing ! 

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, 
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips ; 
Lest that the seas cease to bring forth 
Gems which from thee have all their worth ! 

Do not conceal no beauty, grace, 
That's either in thy mind or face; 
Lest virtue overcome by vice 
Make men believe no Paradise ! 

Sir Francis Kinastcn. 



THE dew no more shall weep, 

The primrose's pale cheek to deck 

The dew no more shall sleep, 
Nuzzled in the lily's neck: 

Much rather would it tremble here, 

And leave them both to be thy tear. 

Not the soft gold which 

Steals from the amber-weeping tree, 
Makes sorrow half so rich, 

As the drops distilPd from thee : 
Sorrow's best jewels be in these 
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. 

When sorrow would be seen 

In her bright majesty, 
For she is a Queen! 

Then is she dress'd by none but thee ; 
Then, and only then, she wears 
Her richest pearls; I mean thy tears 

Not in the evening's eyes 
When they red with weeping are 

For the sun that dies, 

Sits Sorrow with a face so fair : 

No where but here doth meet, 

Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 

R ichard Cra$ha%u. 



FIRST shall the heav'ns want starry light, 
The seas be robb'd of their waves, 

The day want sun, the sun want bright, 

The night want shade, the dead men graves, 

The April flowers, and leaves, and tree, 

Before I false my faith to thee. 

First shall the top of highest hill 

By humble plains be overpry'd, 
And poets scorn the Muses' quill, 

And fish forsake the water glide, 
And Iris lose her coloured weed, 
Before I false thee at thy need. 

First direful Hate shall turn to peace, 
And Love relent 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 sing, and Summer mourn, 

Before my pen, by help of Fame, 

Cease to recite thy sacred name ! 

Thomas Lodge. 



PASSIONS are liken' d best to floods and streams, 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 

So when affections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 

They that are rich in words must needs discover 

They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion, 
With thinking that he feels no smart 

That sues for no compassion. 

Since if my plaints were not t'approve 
The conquest of thy beauty, 

It comes not from defect of love, 
But fear t'exceed my duty. 

For knowing that I sue to serve 
A saint of such perfection 

As all desire, but none deserve 
A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want reliet 
Than venture the revealing ; 

Where glory recommends the grief, 
Despair disdains the healing. 


Silence in love betrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty; 

A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 

My love for secret passion; 
He smarteth most who hides his smart, 

And sues for no compassion. 

Sir W. Raleigh. 



BID me to live, and I will live 

Thy Protestant to be : 
Or bid me love, and I will give 

A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 
A heart as sound and free 

As in the whole world thou canst find- 
That heart Pll give to thee. 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 

To honour thy decree : 
Or bid it languish quite away, 

And 't shall do so for thee. 

Bid me to weep, and I will weep 

While I have eyes to see : 
And having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I'll despair 

Under that cypress tree : 
Or bid me die, and I will dare 

E'en Death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me ; 
And hast command of every part, 

To live and die for thee. 

R. Her rick. 



PHILLIS, men say that all my vows 
Are to thy fortune paid : 

Alas ! my heart he little knows, 
Who thinks my love a trade. 

Were I of all these woods the lord, 
One berry from thy hand 

More real pleasure would afford 
Than all my large command. 

My humble love has learned to live 

On what the nicest maid, 
Without a conscious blush, may give 

Beneath the myrtle shade. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 



SWEETEST love, I do not go 

For weariness of thee, 
Nor in hope the world can show 
A fitter love for me ; 

But since that I 
Must die at last, 'tis best 
Thus to use myself in jest 

By feigned death to die. 


Yesternight the sun went hence, 

And yet is here to-day; 
He hath no desire nor sense, 
Nor half so short a way : 

Then fear not me, 
But believe that I shall make 
Hastier journeys, since I take 

More wings and spurs than he. 


O how feeble is man's pow'r! 
That, if good fortune fall, 
Cannot add another hour, 
Nor a lost hour recall ; 

But come bad chance, 
And we join to it our strength, 
And we teach it art and length 

Itself o'er us to advance. 


When thou sigh'st thou sigh'st not wind, 

But sigh'st my soul away; 
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, 
My life's blood doth decay. 

It cannot be 

That thou lov'st me as thou say'st 
If in thine my life thou waste, 

Which art the life of me. 


Let not thy divining heart 
Forethink me any ill; 
Destiny may take thy part 
And may thy fears fulfill; 
But think that we 
Are but laid aside to sleep. 
They who one another keep 

Alive, ne'er parted be ! 

Dr. John Donne. 



TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 
The first foe in the field; 

And with a stronger faith embrace 
A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 

Colonel Lovelace. 



FAIR stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnish' d in warlike sort 
March' d towards Agincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 

With all his power. 

The Duke of York so dread, 
The eager vanward led ; 
With the main Henry sped, 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there, 
O Lord how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

EJder Poets 


They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear, was wonder; 
That with cries they make, 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true .English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw 
And forth their bilbows drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy; 
Arms were from shoulders setn, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went, 

Our men were hardy ! 


This while our noble king, 
His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to overwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother, 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up ; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay, 

To England to carry; 
O when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 

M. Dray ton. 




THE king sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine : 
" O where will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this ship o' mine?" 

Then up and spake an eldern knight 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor 
That sails upon the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter 
And sealed it with his hand, 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence 
Was walking on the sand. 

"To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the foam, 
The king's daughter to Noroway, 
'Tis thou must take her home." 

"Be it wind or wet, be it hail or sleet, 

Our ship must sail the foam ; 
The king's daughter to Noroway, 
'Tis we must bring her home." 

They hoisted sail on Monday morn 
With all the speed they may; 

They have landed safe in Noroway 
Upon the Wednesday. 


They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords of Noroway 

Began aloud to say: 

"Ye Scotsmen spend all our king's goud 

And all of our queen's fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, 

Full loud I hear ye lie!" 

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all, 

Our good ship sails the morn!" 
"Now ever alack! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm. 

I saw the new moon late yestreen, 

With the old moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we come to harm." 

They hadna sailed upon the sea 

A day but barely three, 
When loud and boist'rous blew the wind, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

" O where will I get a gude sailor 

To take my helm in hand, 
While I go up the tall topmast 
To see if I spy land?" 

" O here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 
While you go up the tall topmast ; 
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land. 


He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 
When a bolt flew out from our goodly ship 

And the salt sea in it came. 

"Go fetch a web o' the silken cloth, 

And another o' the twine, 
And wap them into our ship's side, 
And letna the sea come in!" 

They fetched a web o' the silken cloth, 

And another o' the twine, 
And they wapped them into that gude ship's side, 

But still the sea came in. 

O loath, loath were our gude Scots lords 

To wet their cork-heel' d shoon; 
But long ere all the play was played 

They wet their hats aboon. 

O long, long may their ladies sit 

Wi' their fans into their hand, 
Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spence 

Come sailing to the land ! 

And long, long may their maidens stand 
Wi' their gold combs in their hair, 

Awaiting for their ain dear loves, 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Have o'er, have o'er to Aberdour ! 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep ; 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



I WISH I were where Helen lies; 

Night and day on me she cries ; 

O that I were where Helen lies 

On fair Kirconnell lea! 

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
And died to succour me! 

think na but my heart was sair 

When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 

1 laid her down wi' meikle care 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

As I went down the water-side. 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
On fair Kirconnell lea; 

I lighted down my sword to draw, 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 

For her sake that died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
Fll make a garland of thy hair, 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I die. 


O that I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise, 

Says, "Haste, and come to me!" 

Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 
If I were with thee, I were blest, 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 

On fair Kirconnell Lee. 

1 wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding sheet drawn ouer my een, 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 

On fair Kirconnell Lee. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
And I am weary of the skies, 

For her sake that died for me. 

A nony moils. 



"WHY does your brand so drop with blood? 

Edward! Edward! 

Why does your brand so drop with blood, 
And why so sad go ye, O?" 

"O! I have killed my hawk so good, 
Mother! Mother! 

O ! I have killed my hawk so good, 
And I have no more but he, O!" 

"Your hawk's blood was never so red, 
Edward! Edward! 

Your hawk's blood was never so red, 
My dear son, I tell thee, O!" 

"O! I have killed my red roan steed, 
Mother! Mother! 

O ! I have killed my red roan steed, 
That once was fair and free, O!" 

"Your steed was old and ye have got more, 

Edward! Edward! 

Your steed was old and ye have got more, 
Some other dule you drie, 0!" 


"O! I have killed my father dear, 

Mother! Mother! 
O ! I have killed my father dear, 
Alas, and woe is me, O ! " 

"And what penance will ye drie for that? 

Edward! Edward! 

And what penance will ye drie for that? 
My dear son, now tell me, O ! " 

"I'll set my feet in yonder boat, 

Mother! Mother! 
I'll set my feet in yonder boat, 
And I'll fare over the sea, O !" 

"And what will you do with your towers and your hall? 

Edward! Edward! 

And what will you do with your towers and your hall, 
That were so fair to see, O?" 

"I'll let them stand till they down fall, 
Mother! Mother! 

I'll let them stand till they down fall, 
For here never more must I be, O \" 

"And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? 

Edward! Edward! 

And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife, 
When you go over the sea, O?" 

"The world's room, let them beg through life, 

Mother! Mother! 

The world's room, let them beg through life, 
For them never more will I see, O !" 


"And what will you leave to your own mother dear? 

Edward! Edward! 

And what will you leave to your own mother dear? 
My dear son, now tell me, O ! " 

"The curse of hell from me shall you bear, 

Mother! Mother! 

The curse of hell from me shall you bear, 
Such counsels you gave to me, O!" 

Sir David Dairy mple (Lord Hailes), 


BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 

Then, heigh ho! the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

W. Shakespeare, 



SHALL I like a hermit dwell, 
On a rock or in a cell, 
Calling home the smallest part 
That is missing of my heart, 
To bestow it where I may 
Meet a rival every day ? 
If she undervalue me, 
What care I how fair she be? 

Were her tresses angel-gold, 
If a stranger may be bold, 
Unrebuked, unafraid, 
To convert them to a braid ; 
And with little more ado 
Work them into bracelets, too; 
If the mine be grown so free, 
What care I how rich it be? 

Were her hands as rich a prize 
As her hairs or precious eyes ; 
If she lay them out to take 
Kisses for good manners' sake; 
And let every lover skip 
From her hand unto her lip ; 
If she be not chaste to me, 
What care I how chaste she be? 


No; she must be perfect snow, 

In effect as well as show, 

Warming but as snow-balls do, 

Not like fire, by burning too ; 

But when she by change hath got 

To her heart a second lot ; 

Then, if others share with me, 
Farewell her, whatever she be! 

Sir W. Raleigh. 


SHALL I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flow'ry meads' in May, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be? 

Should my heart be griey'd or pin'd 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 
Be she meeker, kinder than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how kind she be? 


Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her well-deservings, known, 
Make me quite forget my own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of best, 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
Those that bear a noble mind, 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do 
That without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair: 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve : 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be? 

George Wither. 



AWAY with these self-loving lads 
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads ! 
Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep, 
In love of them that lie and sleep ! 
For Cupid is a merry god, 
And forceth none to kiss the rod. 

Sweet Cupid's shafts, like destiny, 

Do causeless good or ill decree: 

Desert is borne out of his bow, 

Reward upon his wing doth go. 

What fools are they that have not known 
That love likes no laws but his own ! 

My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise: 
I wear her rings on holy-days ; 
On every tree I write her name, 
And every day I read the same. 
Where Honor Cupid's rival is, 
There miracles are seen of his. 


If Cynthia crave her ring of me, 
I blot her name out of the tree. 
If doubt do darken things held dear, 
Then well-fare nothing once a year. 
For many run, but one must win: 
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in. 

The worth that worthiness should move 
Is love, which is the due of love; 
And love as well the shepherd can 
As can the mighty nobleman. 

Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be ; 

Yet, without love, naught worth to me. 

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. 



BY Heaven! I'll tell her boldly that 't is she! 
Why should she shamed or angry be 

To be beloved by me? 
The gods may give their altars o'er, 
They'll smoke but seldom any more, 

If none but happy men must them adore. 

The lightning, which tall oaks oppose in vain, 
To strike sometimes does not disdain 
The humble furzes of the plain. 
She being so high, and I so low, 
Her power by this does greater show, 

Who at such distance gives so sure a blow. 

Compared with her all things so worthless prove, 

That naught on earth can toward her move, 

Till 't be exalted by her love. 

Equal to her, alas ! there's none ; 

She like a deity is grown, 
That must create, or else must be alone. 

If there be man who thinks himself so high 

As to pretend equality, 

He deserves her less than I; 

For he would cheat for his relief, 

And one would give with lesser grief 
To an undeserving beggar than a thief. 

A. Cowley 



O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low. 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

W, Shakespeare. 



GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a getting 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time; 

And while ye may, go marry : 
For having lost but once your prime, 

You may for ever tarry. 

R. Herrick, 



IF thou beest born to strange sights, 

Things invisible to see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights 

Till age snow white hairs on thee ; 
Thou, when thou return'st wilt tell me 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 
And swear, 
No where, 
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find one, let me know, 

Such a pilgrimage were sweet; 
Yet do not ! I would not go, 

Though at next door we might meet. 
Though she were true when you met her, 
And lasted till you wrote your letter, 
Yet she, 
Will be, 
False ere I come, to two or three ! 

Dr. J. Donne. 



WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prithee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee, why so mute? 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move. 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her. 

The devil take her! 

Sir John Suckling. 



GIVE me more love, or more disdain; 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Brings equal ease unto my pain; 

The temperate affords me none : 
Either extreme, of love or hate, 

Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm; if it be love 
Like Danae in a golden shower, 

I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
Disdain, that torrent will devour 

My vulture hopes ; and he's possessed 
Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd. 

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; 

Give me more love, or more disdain. 

T. Care. 



LOVE me little, love me long, 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 

Burneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth not in haste. 

If thou lovest me too much, 

It will not prove as true as touch; 

Love me little, more than such, 

For I fear the end. 
I am with little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent, 

To be steadfast, friend. 

Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give, 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures : 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now, when in my May of youth, 

This my love assures. 


Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever; 
Give me that with true endeavour 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers ; that for me, 
For the land or for the sea, 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat, 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel. 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain; 

So to thee farewell. 

Anonymous (1570). 



MY dear and only love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy; 
For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
I'll call a synod in my heart, 

And never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

But I will reign and govern still, 

And always give the law, 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe ; 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou storm or vex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 


And in the empire of thy heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to share with me ; 
Or committees if thou erect, 

Or go on such a score 
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if no faithless action stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make thee famous by my pen, 

And glorious by my sword; 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before; 
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 

James Grahame, Marquis of Montrose. 



"WHEN Love was first begot, 

And by the mover's will 
Did fall to humane lot 

His solace to fulfill, 
Devoid of all deceipt, 

A chast and holy fire 
Did quicken man's conceipt, 

And women's brest inspire ; 
The Gods that saw the good 

That mortals did approve 
With kind and holy mood, 

Began to talke of Love. 

But during this accord, 

A wonder strange to heare; 
Whilest Love in deed and word 

Most faythfull did appeare, 
False semblance came in place, 

By jealousie attended, 
And with a double face 

Both love and fancie blended ; 
Which make the Gods forsake, 

And men from fancie flie, 
And maidens' scorne a make, 

Forsooth, and so will I." 

T. Lodge. 



ADIEU, fond love! Farewell, you wanton powers! 

I am free again. 

Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours, 
Bewitching pain, 

Fly to fools, that sigh away their time : 

My nobler love to heaven doth climb, 
And there behold beauty still young, 

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy, 
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung, 

And honoured by eternity and joy : 
There lies my love; thither my hopes aspire; 
Fond love declines this heavenly love grows higher. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 



A SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction, 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly, 
A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat, 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility, 
Do more bewitch me, then when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

R. Herrick. 



STILL to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast: 

Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd : 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a looke, give me a face, 
That makes simplicitie a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all th' adulteries of art 
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

B. Jon son. 


THAT which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind: 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what this has done. 
It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely dear. 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move ! 
A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound ; 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

E. Waller. 



FAIR daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained his noon. 

Stay, stay. 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 

But to the even-song! 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a spring, 
As quick a breath to meet decay, 
As you, or any thing. 

We die 
As your hours do, and dry 


Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

/?. Herrick, 



I MADE a posy while the day ran by : 
"Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
My life within this band." 

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
By noon most cunningly did steal away, 
And withered in my hand. 

My hand was next to them, and then my heart. 
I took, without more thinking, in good part 
Time's gentle admonition; 

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 
Yet sugaring the suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flow'rs! sweetly your time ye spent: 
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament; 
And after death, for cures. 

I follow straight, without complaints or grief; 
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
It be as short as yours. 

G. Herbert. 



FAIR pledges of a frwitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast? 

Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be, 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night? 
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 
And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

R. Her rick. 

Poets. I t 



AH ! Sunflower, weary of time, 
Who countest the steps of the sun ; 

Seeking after that sweet golden clime 
Where the traveller's journey is done; 

Where the Youth pined away with desire, 
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, 

Arise from their graves, and aspire 
Where my Sunflower wishes to go ! 

W. Blake. 


COME away, come away, Death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 

Fly away, fly away, breath; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

O, prepare it! 

My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
On my black coffin let there be strown ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, 
To weep there. 

W. Shakespeare. 



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! 

J. Fletcher. 


TAKE, O take those lips away, 
That so sweetly were forsworn; 

And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn : 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain. 

Hide, O hide those hills of snow, 
Which thy frozen bosom bears, 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears : 

But first set my poor heart free, 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

W, Shakespeare. 



MY silks and fine array, 

My smiles and languished air, 
By love are driven away; 

And mournful lean Despair 
Brings me yew to deck my grave : 
Such end true lovers have. 

His face is fair as heaven 

When springing buds unfold ; 
Oh, why to him was't given, 

Whose heart is wintry cold? 
His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb, 
Where all love's pilgrims come. 

Bring me an axe and spade, 

Bring me a winding sheet; 
When I my grave have made, 

Let winds and tempests beat: 
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. 
True love doth pass away! 

W. Blake. 



GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair, 
Good-morrow, sir, to you; 

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, 
Bedabbled all with dew. 

Good-morrow to this primrose, too ; 

Good-morrow to each maid 
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew 

Wherein my love is laid. 

Ah, woe is me woe, woe is me, 

Alack and well-a-day! 
For pity, sir, find out that bee 

Which bore my love away. 

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; 

I'll seek him in your eyes ; 
Nay, now I think they've made his grave 

In the bed of strawberries. 

I'll seek him there ! I know ere this 
The cold, cold earth doth shake him; 

But I will go, or send a kiss 
By you, sir, to awake him. 


Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, 
He knows well who do love him, 

And who with green turfs rear his head, 
And who so rudely move him. 

He's soft and tender, pray take heed; 

With bands of cowslips bind him, 
And bring him home ; but 'tis decreed 

That I shall never find him. 

R. Herrick. 

MAD SONG. 167 


"THE wild winds weep, 

And the night is a-cold; 
Come hither, sleep, 

And my griefs enfold ! . . . 
But lo ! the morning peeps 
Over the eastern steeps, 
And the rustling beds of dawn 
The earth do scorn. 

Lo ! to the vault 

Of paved heaven, 
With sorrow fraught, 

My notes are driven : 
They strike the ear of Night, 

Make weep the eyes of Day; 
They make mad the roaring winds 

And with tempests play. 

Like a fiend in a cloud, 

With howling woe 
After night I do crowd, 

And with night do go ; 
I turn my back to th'e East 
From whence comforts have increased; 
For light doth seize my brain 
With frantic pain." 

W. Blake. 



WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 
There I couch when owls do cry; 
On the bat's back do I fly 

After sunset merrily : 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! 

IV. Shakespeare. 


OVER hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 

Over park, over pale, 
Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere, 

Swifter than the moon's sphere; 

And I serve the fairy queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green; 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 

In their gold coats spots you see ; 

These be rubies, fairy favours, 

In those freckles live their savours : 
I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

IV. Shakespeare. 



COME follow, follow me, 
You, fairy elves that be : 
Which circle on the greene, 
Come follow Mab your queene. 
Hand in hand let's dance around, 
For this place is fairye ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest; 

Unheard, and unespy'd, 

Through key-holes we do glide; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves, 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

Upon a mushroome's head 

Our table-cloth we spread; 

A grain of rye, or wheat, 

Is manchet, which we eat; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink, 
In acorn cups filPd to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snailes, 
Between two cockles stew'd, 
Is meat that's easily chew'd; 
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, 
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. 


The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 

Serve for our minstrelsie ; 

Grace said, we dance a while, 

And so the time beguile : 
And if the moon doth hide her head, 
The gloe-worm lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewie grasse 
So nimbly do we passe, 
The young and tender stalk 
Ne'er bends when we do walk: 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 




LOVE is the blossom where there blows 
Every thing that lives or grows; 
Love doth make the heavens to move, 
And the sun doth burn in love : 
Love, the strong and weak doth yoke, 
And makes the ivy climb the oak 
Under whose shadows lions wild, 
SoftenM by love, grow tame and mild. 
Love, no med'cine can appease; 
He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
Not all the skill his wounds can stanch. 
Not all the sea his thirst can quench. 
Love did make the bloody spear 
Once a leafy coat to wear, 
While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
Sweet birds, for loVe that sing and play; 
And of all love's joyful flame 
I the bud and blossom am. 
Only lend thy knee to me, 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be ! 

See, see, the flowers that below 
Now freshly as the morning blow, 
And of all, the virgin rose, 
That as bright Aurora shows ; 
How they all unleaved die, 
Losing their virginity: 


Like unto a summer shade, 
But now born, and now they fade ! 
Every thing doth pass away; 
There is danger in delay. 
Come, come, gather then the rose; 
Gather it, or it you lose. 
All the sand of Tagus' shore 
In my bosom casts its ore : 
All the valleys' swimming corn 
To my house is yearly borne : 
Every grape of every vine 
Is gladly bruised to make me wine; 
While ten thousand kings, as proud 
To carry up my train, have bow'd, 
And a world of ladies send me 
In my chamber to attend me : 
All the stars in heaven that shine, 
And ten thousand more, are mine. 
Only bend thy knee to me, 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be! 

Giles Fletcher. 



METHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay, 
Within that temple where the vestal flame 
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way, 
To see that buried dust of living fame 
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen: 
At whose approach the soul of Petrarke wept, 
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen 
(For they this Queen attended) ; in whose stead 
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. 
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did perse ; 
Where Homer's sprighte did tremble all for grief, 
And curst the access of that celestial thief. 

Sir W. Raleigh. 



YE tradefull Merchants, that, with weary toyle 
Do seeke most pretious things to make your gain; 
And both the Indias of their treasure spoile; 
What needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? 
For loe, my Love doth in herselfe containe 
All this world's riches that may farre be found: 
If Saphyres, loe, her eies be Saphyres plaine ; 
If Rubies, loe, hir lips be Rubies sound; 
If Pearles, hir teeth be Pearles, both pure and round; 
If Ivorie, her forhead Ivorie weene ; 
If Gold, her locks are finest Gold on ground : 
If Silver, her faire hands are Silver sheene : 
But that which fairest is, but few behold 
Her mind adornd with vertues manifold. 

E. Spenser. 



WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; 
And for they looked but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 

For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 

W, Shakespeare. 



ALAS ! so all things now do hold their peace ! 

Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing; 

The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease; 

The nightes car the stars about doth bring. 

Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less: 

So am not I, whom love, alas ! doth wring, 

Bringing before my face the great increase 

Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, 

In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. 

For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring; 

But by and by, the cause of my disease 

Gives me a pang, that inwardly doth sting 
When that I think what grief it is again 
To live, and lack the thing should rid my pain. 

H. Howard (Earl of Surrey), 



FROM you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied April, dressM in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything ; 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leap'd with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose : 
They, were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you, pattern of all those. 
Yet seemM it winter still, and you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 

W. Shakespeare. 

EMcr Poets. T2 



WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, 
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain 
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. 

Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go. 

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 

My love should shine on you like to the sun, 

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. 

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, 
Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 

Joshua Sylveshc. 



O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament that truth doth give ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly 
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; 
But, for their virtue only is their show, 
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so : 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. 

W. Shakespeare. 



ALEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines, 
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; 
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, 
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines ; 
She sat her by these musked eglantines, 
(The happy place the print seems yet to bear) 
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines, 
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear; 
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn 
Of bright carnations did overspread her face ; 
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, 
And first I got a pledge of promised grace; 
But ah ! what served it to be happy so, 
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe? 

W. Drntnmond. 



WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide, 
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? 
I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies ; God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts : who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state 

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest: 
They also serve who only stand and wait. 

J. Milton. 



LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, 
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

From the hard season gaining? Time will run 
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
To hear the lute well touch' d, or artful voice 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 

J. Milton. 



MY Daphne's hair is twisted gold, 

Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold, 

My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces, 

My Daphne's beauty stains all faces, 

On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, 

But Daphne's lip a sweeter berry; 

Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt, 

And then no heavenlier warmth is felt; 

My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres, 

My Daphne's music charms all ears ; 

Fond am I thus to sing her praise, 

These glories now are turned to bays. 

J. Lylye. 


AMARANTHA, sweet and fair, 

O braid no more that shining hair ! 

Let it fly, as unconfined 

As its calm ravisher, the wind ; 

Who hath left his darling east 

To wanton o'er that spicy nest. 

Ev'ry tress must be confest, 

But neatly tangled at the best 

Like a clew of golden thread 

Most excellently ravelled; 

Do not, then, wind up that light 

In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night, 

Like the sun's in early ray ; 

But shake your head, and scatter day! 

Colonel Lovelace. 



SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes 
Which star-like sparkle in their skies; 
Nor be you proud that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free. 
Be you not proud of that rich hair 
Which wantons with the love-sick air; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 

R. Herrick. 


DRY those fair, those crystal eyes, 

Which like growing fountains rise 

To drown their banks; griefs sullen brooks 

Would better flow in furrowed looks. 

Thy lovely face was never meant 

To be the shore of discontent. 

Then clear those waterish stars again, 
Which else portend a lasting rain; 
Lest the clouds which settle there 
Prolong my winter all the year, 
And thy example others make 
In love with sorrow for thy sake. 

Dr. H. King. 



Welcome, welcome! do I sing 
Far more welcome than the spring: 
He that parteih from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring forever. 

Love, that to the voice is near, 
Breaking from your ivory pale, 

Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 

Love, that looks still on your eyes, 
Though the winter have begun 

To benumb our arteries, 

Shall not want the summer's sun. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks, 
Where all rareness still reposes, 

Is a fool if e'er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields, 
And perceives your breath in kissing, 

All the odors of the fields 
Never, never shall be missing. 

Love, that question would renew 

What fair Eden was of old, 
Let him rightly study you, 

And a brief of that behold. 

W. Browne. 

1 86 TO CHLOE. 



CHLOE, why wish you that your years 

Would backwards run till they met mine,- 

That perfect likeness, which endears 
Things unto things, might us combine? 

Our ages so in date agree, 

That twins do differ more than we. 

There are two births : the one when light 
First strikes the new awakened sense ; 

The other when two souls unite ; 

And we must count our life from thence: 

When you loved me, and I loved you, 

Then both of us were born anew. 

Love then to us did new souls give, 
And in those souls did plant new powers : 

Since when another life we live, 
The breath we breathe is his, not ours; 

Love makes those young whom age doth chill, 

And whom he finds young, keeps young still. 

TO CHLOE. 187 

Love, like that angel that shall call 
Our bodies from the silent grave, 

Unto one age doth raise us all; 
None too much, none too little have ; 

Nay, that the difference may be none, 

He makes two not alike, but one. 

And now, since you and I are such, 
Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? 

Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, 
Do, like our souls, in one combine: 

So, by this, I as well may be 

Too old for you, as you for me. 

William Carfavright. 



WHEN, dearest, I but think on thee, 
Methinks all things that lovely be 

Are present, and my soul 's delighted; 
For beauties that from worth arise 
Are like the grace of deities, 

Still present with us, though unsighted. 

Thus while I sit and sigh the day 
With all his spreading lights away, 

Till night's black wings do overtake me, 
Thinking on thee; thy beauties then, 
As sudden lights do sleeping men, 

So they by their bright rays awake me. 

Thus absence dies, and dying proves 
No absence can consist with loves 

That do partake of fair perfection; 
Since in the darkest night they may, 
By their quick motion, find a way 

To see each other by reflection. 

The waving sea can with such flood 
Bathe some high palace that hath stood 

Far from the main up in the river ; 
Oh, think not then but love can do 
As much, for that's an ocean too 

That flows not every day, but ever. 

Owen Feltham. 



WHEN Delia on the plain appears, 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move; 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish' d ear 
No other voice than her's can hear; 
No other wit but her's approve; 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

If she some other swain commend, 
Tho' I was once his fondest friend, 
His instant enemy I prove ; 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before, 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ;- 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

When fond of power, of beauty vain, 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove; 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love? 

Lord Lyttleton. 



TELL me, thou soul of her I love, 
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled; 

To what delightful world above, 
Appointed for the happy dead? 

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam, 
And sometimes share thy lover's woe; 

Where, void of thee, his cheerless home 
Can now, alas! no comfort know? 

Oh ! if thou hover'st round my walk, 
While, under every well-known tree, 

I to thy fancy'd shadow talk, 
And every tear is full of thee ; 

Should then the weary eye of grief, 
Beside some sympathetic stream, 

In slumber find a short relief, 

Oh, visit thou my soothing dream ! 

James Thomson. 



THEY are all gone into the world of light ! 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
After the Sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 

Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy Hope! and high Humility! 

High as the Heavens above ! 

These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death; the Jewel of the Just! 

Shining no where but in the dark: 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 


He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may knov/ 

At first sight if the bird be flown; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there; 
But when the hand that locked her up gives room, 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under thee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
Into true liberty! 

Either disperse these mists which blot and fill 

My perspective still as they pass ; 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass, 

H, Vaughan. 



WHY, Damon, with the forward day 
Dost thou thy little spot survey, 
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 
Pursue the progress of the year, 
What winds arise, what rains descend, 
When thou before that year shalt end? 

What do thy noontide walks avail, 
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect usefuller than thee? 
Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 
As low, as earthy, and as blind. 

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see 

The downy peach make court to thee? 

Or that thy sense shall ever meet 

The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet 

Exhaling with an evening blast? 

Thy evenings then will all be past! 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green 
(For vanity's in little seen), 
All must be left when Death appears, 
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
Nor one of all thy plants that grow, 
But Rosemary, will with thee go. 

George Sewell. 

Elder Poets. 



THE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 
So calm are we when passions are no more. 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decayed, 

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made ; 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become 

As they draw near to their eternal home. 

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 

That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

E. Waller. 



WHEN God at first made Man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by; 
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can: 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 

Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way; 

Then beauty flowM ; then wisdom, honour, pleasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said he) 
Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness: 
Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to my breast. 

G. Herbert. 




MY God, I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habitation 
But he that means to dwell therein. 
What house more stately hath there been, 
Or can be, than is Man, to whose creation 
All things are in decay? 

For Man is everything; 
And more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit. 
A beast; yet is, or should be more. 
Reason and speech we only bring. 
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute ; 
They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetry, 
Full of proportions, one limb to another, 
And to all the world besides. 
Each part may call the farthest brother; 
For head with foot hath private amity, 
And both, with moons and tides. 

Nothing hath got so far 
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 
His eyes dismount the highest star; 
He is, in little, all the sphere. 
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
Find their acquaintance there. 


For us the winds do blow, 

The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow. 
Nothing we see, but means our good, 
As our delight or as our treasure. 
The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed; 

Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws. 
Music and light attend our head. 
All things unto our flesh are kind 
In their descent and being; to our mind, 
In their ascent and cause. 

Each thing is full of duty : 
Waters united are our navigation; 
Distinguished, our habitation ; 
Below, our drink; above, our meat; 
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? 
Then how are all things neat ! 

More servants wait on Man 
Than he'll take notice of. In ev'ry path 

He treads down that which doth befriend him, 
When sickness makes him pale and wan. 
Oh, mighty love ! Man is one world, and hath 
Another to attend him. 

Since, then, my God, thou hast 
So brave a palace built, oh, dwell in it, 
That it may dwell with thee at last ! 
Till then, afford us so much wit 
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, 
And both thy servants be. 

G. Herbert. 



AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 

While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; 
No more with himself, or with nature, at war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 

:< Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe? 

Why lone Philomela, that languishing fall? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay; 

Mourn, sweetest complainer; man calls thee to mourn. 
O, soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: 

Full quickly they pass but they never return. 

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 

The moon half extinguished her crescent displays; 
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendour again : 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew? 

Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 


" J Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 

I mourn; but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; 
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew: 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? 

O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave? 

"'Twas thus, by the light of false science betray'd, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
" O, pity, great Father of light/ then I cried, 

'Thy creature, that fain would not wander from Thee: 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 
From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free ! ' 

;< And darkness and doubt are now flying away; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn: 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! 
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, 
'And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!" 

James Beattie. 



I AM monarch of all I survey; 
My right there is none to dispute; 
From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
O Solitude! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

I am out of humanity's reach, 
I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech; 
I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 
My form with indifference see; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 
Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, Friendship, and Love 
Divinely bestowed upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove 
How soon would I taste you again! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 
In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 


Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more : 

My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 

O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind! 
Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 
And the swift- winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land 
In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But alas ! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the seafowl is gone to her nest, 
The beast is laid down in his lair; 
Even here is a season of rest, 
And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place, 
And mercy, encouraging thought! 
Gives even affliction a grace 
And reconciles man to his lot. 




ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave; 
No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polish' d pebbles spread; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; 
The springing trout in speckled pride; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch and groves of pine, 
And edges flowered with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks so gaily green 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen ; 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail; 
And shepherds piping in the dale; 
And ancient faith that knows no guile ; 
And industry embrowned with toil; 
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard! 

Tobias Smollett. 



SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer' d the labouring swain ; 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear' d each scene ! 
How often have I paus'd on every charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

* % * -jf 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool; 
The playful children just let loose from school; 
The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 

# # # # 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 

A youth of labour with an age of ease; 


Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Oliver Goldsmith, 


WHAT tongue the melodies of morn can tell? 
The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side; 
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; 
The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'dwith her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; 
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

J. Beattie. 



IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair' d sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed, 

Now air is hushM, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some softenM strain 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit; 

As musing slow I hail 

Thy genial loved return. 

For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day, 


And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge 
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still 

The pensive Pleasures sweet, 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; 
And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And love thy favourite name ! 

William Collins. 



THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 


For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the Poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave 
Await alike th' inevitable hour : 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 


But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th ? applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Elder Poeis. 14 


Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noon- tide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babb les by. 


Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woeful- wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossM in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; 
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church- way path we saw him borne, 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 


Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 
Fair Science frownM not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear; 

He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 




THE poplars are felPd, farewell to the shade 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew: 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ; 
And the scene where his melody charm' d me before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Short-lived as we are, our enj oyments, I see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 

W. Cmper. 



THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, 

Invite the tuneful birds to sing; 

And, while they warble from the spray, 

Love melts the universal lay. 

Let us, Amanda, timely wise, 

Like them improve the hour that flies; 

And in soft raptures waste the day 

Among the birks of Inverrnay. 

For soon the winter of the year, 
And age, life's winter, will appear : 
At this thy living bloom will fade, 
As that will strip the verdant shade. 
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er 
The feathered songsters are no more; 
And when they drop and we decay, 
Adieu the birks of Invermay! 

David Mallet. 

2 1. 1 TO THE CUCKOO. 


HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 
Thy certain voice we hear ; 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant! with thee 
I hail the time of flowers. 

And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 
Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 

An annual guest in other lands, 
Another Spring to hail. 

THE BIRD. 215 

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in thy year! 

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 

We'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spring. 

John Logan. 


HITHER thou com'st. The busie wind all night 
Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing 
Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, 
For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, 

Rain'd on thy bed 

And harmless head; 

And now as fresh and cheerful as the light 

Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 

Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm 

Curb'd them, and clothed thee well and warm. 
All things that be praise Him ; and had 
Their lesson taught them when first made. 

So hills and valleys into singing break ; 

And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue, 

While active winds and streams both run and speak, 

Yet stones are deep in admiration. 

Thus Praise and Prayer here beneath the sun 

Make lesser mornings, when the great are done. 

2l6 THE BIRD. 

For each inclosed spirit is a star 

Inlightning his own little sphere, 
Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far, 

Both mornings makes and evenings there. 

But as these Birds of light make a land glad, 
Chirping their solemn matins on each tree : 
So in the shades of night some dark fowls be, 

Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad. 

The turtle then in palm-trees mourns, 

While owls and satyrs howl; 
The pleasant land to brimstone turns, 

And all her streams grow foul. 

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all flye, 
Till the day-spring breaks forth again from high. 

H. Vanghan. 



TIGER! Tiger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Fram'd thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burn'd the fervour of thine eyes? 
On what wings dar'd he aspire 
What the hand dar'd seize the fire? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
When thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand form'd thy dread feet? 

What the hammer, what the chain 
Formed thy strength and forged thy brain? 
What the anvil? What dread grasp 
Dar'd thy deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And sprinkled heav'n with shining tears, 
Did He smile, his work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

W. Blake. 

2l8 THE FLY. 


BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, 
Drink with me, and drink as I; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up. 
Make the most of life you may; 
Life is short, and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine, 
Hastening quick to their decline ; 
Thine's a summer, mine's no more, 
Though repeated to threescore ; 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
Will appear as short as one. 



YE little birds that sit and sing 

Amidst the shady valleys, 
And see how Phillis sweetly walks 

Within her garden- alleys ; 
Go, pretty birds, about her bower; 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; 
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 


Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, 

As you by me are bidden, 
To her is only known my love, 

Which from the world is hidden. 
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; 
See that your notes strain not too low; 
For still, methinks, I see her frown ! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Go, tune your voices' harmony, 

And sing, I am her lover; 
Strain loud and sweet, that every note 

With sweet content may move her. 
And she that hath the sweetest voice, 
Tell her I will not change my choice ; 
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls 

Into a pretty slumber. 
Sing round about her rosy bed, 

That waking, she may wonder. 
Say to her, His her lover true 
That sendeth love to you, to you ; 
And when you hear her kind reply, 

Return with pleasant warblings. 

T. Heywood. 



I PRITHEE send me back my heart, 

Since I cannot have thine ; 
For if from yours you will not part, 

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie, 

To find it were in vain ; 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And yet not lodge together? 

O Love! where is thy sympathy, 
If thus our breasts thou sever? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out ; 
For when I think I'm best resolv'd, 

Then I am most in doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe; 

I will no longer pine; 
For I'll believe I have her heart, 

As much as she has mine. 

Sir J. Suckling. 



PHILLIS is my only joy, 

Faithless as the winds or seas ; 
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to please. 
If with a frown 
I am cast down, 
Phillis smiling 
And beguiling, 
Makes me happier than before. 

Though, alas ! too late I find 
Nothing can her fancy fix, 
Yet the moment she is kind, 
I forgive her all her tricks ; 
Which though I see, 
I can't get free ; 
She deceiving, 
I believing, 
What need lovers wish for more? 

Sir C. Sedley. 



DID ever swain a nymph adore 

As I ungrateful Nanny do? 
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore 

Was ever broken heart so true? 
My eyes are swelled with tears ; but she 
Has never shed a tear for me. 

If Nanny called did Robin stay, 
Or linger when she bade me run? 

She only had the word to say, 
And all she asked was quickly done : 

I always thought on her ; but she 

Would ne'er bestow a thought on me. 

To let her cows my clover taste, 
Have I not rose by break of day? 

When did her heifers ever fast, 
If Robin in his yard had hay? 

Though to my fields they welcome were, 

I never welcome was to her! 

If Nanny ever lost a sheep, 
I cheerfully did give her two : 

Did not her lambs in safety sleep 
Within my folds in frost and snow? 

Have they not there from cold been free? 

But Nanny still is cold to me. 


Whene'er I climb'd our orchard trees, 

The ripest fruit was kept for Nan ; 
Oh, how those hands that drown'd her bees 

Were stung, Fll ne'er forget the pain ! 
Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be ; 
But Nanny ne'er look'd sweet on me. 

If Nanny to the well did come, 

'Twas I that did her pitchers fill; 
Full as they were, I brought them home ; 

Her corn I carried to the mill; 
My back did bear her sacks ; but she 
Would never bear the sight of me. 

To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, 

I'm sure they always had the best; 
Within this week her pigeons have 

Eat up a peck of peas at least ; 
Her little pigeons kiss ; but she 
Would never take a kiss from me. 

Must Robin always Nanny woo, 

And Nanny still on Robin frown? 
Alas, poor wretch! what shall I do, 

If Nanny does not love me soon? 
If no relief to me she'll bring, 
I'll hang me in her apron string. 

Charles Hamilton. (Lord Binney). 



O, WHAT a plague is love ! 

I cannot bear it; 
She will unconstant prove, 

I greatly fear it : 
It so torments my mind 

That my heart faileth ; 
She wavers with the wind 

As a ship saileth. 
Please her the best I may, 
She loves still to gainsay ; 
Alack, and well-a day! 
Phillida flouts me. 

At the fair, t'other day, 

As she passed by me, 
She looked another way, 

And would not spy me. 
I wooed her for to dine, 

But could not get her; 
Dick had her to The Vine 

He might intreat her; 
With Daniel she did dance, 
On me she would not glance : 
O, thrice unhappy chance ! 
Phillida flouts me. 


Fair maid, be not so coy 

Do not disdain me; 
I am my mother's joy, 

Sweet, entertain me ! 
I shall have, when she dies, 

All things that's fitting, 
Her poultry and her bees, 

And her goose sitting; 
A pair of mattress beds, 
A barrelful of shreds ; 
And yet, for all these gauds, 
Phillida flouts me ! 

I often heard her say 

That she loved posies : 
In the last month of May 

I gave her roses ; 
Cowslips and gillyflowers, 

And the sweet lily, 
I got to deck the bowers 

Of my dear Philly: 
She did them all disdain, 
And threw them back again : 
Therefore 'tis flat and plain, 
Phillida flouts me. 

Thou shalt eat curds and cream 

All the year lasting , 
And drink the crystal stream, 

Pleasant in tasting ; 
Swig whey until thou burst, 

Eat bramble-berries, 
Pye-lid and pastry crust, 

Pears, plums, and cherries ; 
Thy garments shall be thin, 
Made of a wether's skin : 
Yet, all's not worth a pin,~ 
Phillida flouts me! 

Elder Poets* 15 


Which way soe'er I go, 

She still torments me; 
And whatsoever I do, 

Nothing contents me. 
I fade and pine away, 

With grief and sorrow; 
I fall quite to decay, 

Like any shadow: 
I shall be dead, I fear, 
Within a thousand year; 
And all because my dear 
Phillida flouts me. 

Fair maiden, have a care ! 

And in time take me ; 
I can have those as fair, 

If you forsake me : 
There's Doll, the dairy-maid, 

Smiled on me lately ; 
And Wanton Winifred 

Favors me greatly: 
She throws milk on my clothes, 
Th' other plays with my nose : 
What pretty toys are those ! 
Phillida flouts me. 

She has a cloth of mine, 

Wrought with blue Coventry, 
Which she keeps as a sign 

Of my fidelity; 
But if she frowns on me, 

She ne'er shall wear it : 
I'll give it my maid Joan, 

And she shall tear it. 
Since 'twill no better be, 
I'll bear it patiently ; 
Yet all the world may see 
Phillida flouts me. 





'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, 
Where China's gayest art had dyed 

The azure flowers, that blow; 
Demurest of the tabby kind, 
The pensive Selima, reclined, 

Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared; 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, 

She saw ; and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed; but midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 

The Genii of the stream : 
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple to the view 

Betray'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw : 
A whisker first, and then a claw, 

With many an ardent wish, 
She stretched in vain, to reach the prize : 
What female heart can gold despise? 

What Cat's averse to fish? 



Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent 
Again she stretch' d, again she bent, 

Nor knew the gulf between : 
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled:) 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled, 

She tumbled headlong in. 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mewM to every watery God 

Some speedy aid to send: 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, 
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard 

A favourite has no friend ! 

From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceived 
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 

And be with caution bold : 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 

Nor all that glisters, gold! 

T. Gray. 



As after noon, one summer's day 
Venus stood bathing in a river, 

Cupid a-shooting went that way, 
New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. 

With skill he chose his sharpest dart; 

With all his might his bow he drew; 
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 

The too-well guided arrow flew, 

"I faint! I die!" the goddess cried: 
"Oh, cruel! couldst thou find no other 
To wreak thy spleen on, Parricide? 
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother! 

Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; 
"Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye. 
Alas ! how easy my mistake ! 

I took you for your likeness Chloe." 

Mattfuw Prior. 



WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat 
To form some Beauty by a new receipt, 
Jove sent and found, far in a country scene, 
Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene; 
From which ingredients first the dexterous boy 
Picked the demure, the awkward, and the coy. 
The Graces from the court did next provide 
Breeding and wit, and air, and decent pride : 
These Venus clears from every spurious grain 
Of nice, coquette, affected, pert, and vain. 

Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employed; 

Then called the happy composition FLOYD. 

Jonathan Swift. 


WHEN raging love with extreme pain 
Most cruelly distrains my heart; 

When that my tears, as floods of rain, 
Bear witness of my woful smart; 

When sighs have wasted so my breath, 

That I lie at the point of death : 


I call to mind the navy great 

That the Greeks brought to Troy town: 
And how the boisterous winds did beat 

Their ships, and rent their sails adown; 
Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood 
Appeas'd the gods that them withstood; 

And how that in those ten years war 

Full many bloody deed was done; 
And many a lord that came full far, 

There caught his bane, alas ! too soon ; 
And many a good knight overrun, 
Before the Greeks had Helen won. 

Then think I thus: "Sith such repair, 

So long time war of valiant men, 
Was all to win a lady fair, 

Shall I not learn to suffer, then? 
And think my life well spent to be 
Serving a worthier wight than she ? 

Therefore I never will repent, 

But pains contented still endure; 
For like as when, rough winter spent, 

The pleasing spring straight draweth in ure; 
So after raging storms of care, 
Joyful at length may be my fare. 

H* H&ivard (Earl of Surrey) 



HEAR, ye ladies that despise. 

What the mighty love has done; 
Fear examples, and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun; 
Leda, sailing on the stream 

To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 

Doated on a silver swan; 
Danae, in a brazen tower 
Where no love was, loved a shower. 

Hear, ye ladies that are coy, 

What the mighty love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy : 

The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled round about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 

Doting at the altar dies; 

Ilion, in a short hour, higher 

He can build, and once more fire. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



WHENCE comes my love? O heart, disclose; 
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, 
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, 
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
Whence comes my wo? As freely own; 
Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. 

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
The lips befitting words most kind, 
The eye does tempt to love's desire, 
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire; 
Yet all so fair but speak my moan, 
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. 

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 

Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek 

Yet not a heart to save my pain! 

Oh Venus, take thy gifts again ! 

Make not so fair to cause our moan, 

Or make a heart that's like our own. 

Sir John Harrington. 



WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain 

By thy disdain, 
And, as a trophy of thy scorn, 

To some old tomb am borne, 
Thy fetters must their power bequeath 
To those of Death; 

Nor can thy flame immortal burn, 
Like monumental fires within an urn : 
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove 
There is more liberty in Death than Love. 

And when forsaken lovers come 

To see my tomb, 
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, 

And, as a victor proud 
To view the spoils thy beauty made- 
Press near my shade, 

Lest thy too cruel breath or name 
Should fan my ashes back into a flame, 
And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire, 
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. 

But if cold earth or marble must 

Conceal my dust, 
Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I 

Dumb and forgotten lie, 
The pride of all thy victory 

Will sleep with me; 


And they who should attest thy glory 
Will or forget or not believe this story. 
Then, to increase the triumph, let me rest 
Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. 

Thomas Stanley. 


How sweet I roamed from field to field 
And tasted all the summer's pride, 

Till I the Prince of Love beheld 
Who in the sunny beams did glide. 

He show'd me lilies for my hair, 
And blushing roses for my brow; 

He led me through his gardens fair 
Where all his golden pleasures grow. 

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 
And Phcebus fired my vocal rage ; 

He caught me in his silken net, 
And shut me in his golden cage. 

He loves to sit and hear me sing, 

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; 
Then stretches out my golden wing, 

And mocks my loss of liberty. 

W. Blake. 

236 TO NANCY. 


O NANCY wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee, 

The lowly cot and russet gown? 
No longer drest in silken sheen, 

No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away, 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind? 
O can that soft and gentle mien, 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, 
Nor sad regret each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go, 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, 

To share with him the pang of woe? 
Say, should disease or pain befall, 

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 


And when at last thy love shall die. 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath? 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

Thomas Percy. 


OF all the girls that are so smart 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em; 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally! 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 


When she is by I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely. 
But let him bang his bellyful 

I'll bear it all for Sally; 
For she's the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week 

I dearly love but one day, 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

The Saturday and Monday; 
For then I'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named : 
I leave the church in sermon-rtime, 

And slink away to Sally, 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 

O then I shall have money ! 
I'll hoard it up, and box and all, 

I'll give it to my honey; 
O, would it were ten thousand pound! 

I'd give it all to Sally; 
For she's the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 


My master and the neighbors all 
Make game of me and Sally, 

And but for her I'd better be 
A slave, and row a galley; 

But when my seven long years are out, 
O then I'll marry Sally! 

O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed- 
But not in our alley! 

Harry Carey. 


ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

When black-eyed Susan came on board, 
"Oh, where shall I my true-love find? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 

Does my sweet William sail among your crew?" 

William, who high upon the yard 

Rock'd by the billows to and fro, 
Soon as the well-known voice he heard, 

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below; 
The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 
And drops at once into her nest: 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 


"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 

My vows shall ever true remain; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

"Believe not what the landsmen say 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, 

In every port a mistress find : 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
The sails their swelling bosom spread; 

No longer must she stay aboard; 
They kissM, she sigh'd, he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; 
"Adieu!" she cries; and waves her lily hand. 

J. Gay. 



YE gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease, 
Ah! little do you think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly shew 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us 

When England is at war 
With any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 7 em 

Our valour for to know, 
Whilst they .reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 

And never be dismayed; 
While we have bold adventurers, 

We ne'er shall want a trade : 
Our merchants will employ us 

To fetch them wealth, we know; 
Then be bold work for gold, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Martyn Parker. 
Elder Poets. 1 6 



To all you ladies now on land, 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The muses now, and Neptune, too, 
We must implore to write to you. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

For though the muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
Roll up and down in ships at sea. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Then if we write not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind : 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 


The king, with wonder and surprise, 

Will swear the seas grow bold; 
Because the tides will higher rise 

Than e'er they did of old : 
But let him know it is our tears 
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree : 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind? 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Let wind and weather do its worst, 

Be ye to us but kind; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 

No sorrow shall we find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

To pass our tedious hours away, 

We throw a merry main, 
Or else at serious ombre play; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue? 
We were undone when we left you. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 



But now our fears tempestuous grow, 
And cast our hopes away; 

Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 
Sit careless at a play; 

Perhaps permit some happier man 

To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

When any mournful tune you hear 

That dies in ev'ry note, 
As if it sighed with each man's care, 

For being so remote : 
Then think how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were play'd! 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Injustice you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress, 
When we, for hopes of honour, lose 

Our certain happiness ! 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love ! 
With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears ; 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears ; 
Let's hear of no inconstancy 
We have too much of that at sea. 

With a fa, la, la, la, la. 

Charles Sackville, Lord Dorset. 



TOLL for the Brave! 
The brave that are no more! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave 
Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave! 
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 
No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak, 
She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath, 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 


Weigh the vessel up 
Once dreaded by our foes! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 
His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 

W. Cowper. 


How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When spring, with dewy ringers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 

W. Collins. 

A DIRGE. 247 


O SING unto my roundelay, 

O drop the briny tear with me; 
Dance no more at holyday, 
Like a running river be : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Black his cryne as the winter night, 

White his rode as the summer snow, 
Red his face as the morning light, 
Cold he lies in the grave below : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 

Quick in dance as thought can be, 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; 
O ! he lies by the willow-tree : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing 

In the brier' d dell below; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the night-mares as they go : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

248 A DIRGE. 

See! the white moon shines on high; 

Whiter is my true love's shroud, 
Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Here upon my true love's grave 

Shall the barren flowers be laid, 
Not one holy Saint to save 
All the calness of a maid: 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

With my hands I'll dent the briars 

Round his holy corse to gree; 
Ouphant fairy, light your fires 
Here my body still shall be: 
My love is dead, 
Gon^to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 
Drain my hearte's blood away; 
Life and all its goods I scorn, 
Dance by night, or feast by day : 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Water-witches crowned with reytes, 
Bear me to your Lethal tide. 

I die! I come! my true love waits! 
Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

TJwmas Chatterton. 



THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream, 
When first on thee I met my lover; 
Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
When now thy waves his body cover! 

For ever now, O Yarrow stream, 
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; 
For never on thy banks shall I 
Behold my love the flower of Yarrow! 

He promised me a milk-white horse, 
To bear me to his father's bowers; 
He promised me a little page, 
To squire me to his father's towers. 

He promised me a wedding-ring, 
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 
Alas ! a watery grave in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met; 
My passion as I freely told him; 
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
That I should never more behold him. 

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost- 
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; 
Thrice did the Water Wraith ascend, 
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 


His mother from the window looked, 

With all the longing of a mother ; 

His little sister, weeping, walked 

The greenwood path to meet her brother. 

They sought him east, they sought him west 
They sought him all the forest thorough; 
They only saw the clouds of night 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 

No longer from thy window look 
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid 
Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 

No longer seek him east or west, 
No longer search the forest thorough, 
For, murdered in the night so dark, 
He lies a lifeless corpse in Yarrow! 

The tears shall never leave my cheek 
No other youth shall be my marrow; 
I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow! 

The tear did never leave her cheek, 
No other youth -became her marrow; 
She found his body in the stream, 
And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. 

J. Logan. 




HIGH upon Highlands, 

And low upon Tay, 
Bonnie George Campbell 

Rode out on a day, 
Saddled and bridled, 

And gallant to see; 
Hame cam' his gude horse, 

But hame came not he. 

Out ran his auld mither, 

Greeting full sair; 
Out ran his bonnie bride 

Reaving her hair. 
He rode saddled and bridled, 

Wi' boots to the knee : 
Hame cam' his gude horse 

But never cam' he. 

"My meadow lies green, 

And my corn is unshorn, 
My barn is unbuilt, 

And my babe is unborn !" 
He rode saddled and bridled, 

Careless and free : 
Hame cam' his gude horse, 

And never cam' he. 




WALY waly up the bank, 
And waly waly down the brae, 

And waly waly yon burn-side 
Where I and my Love were wont to gae! 

1 leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bow'd and syne it brake, 
Sae my true Love did lichtly me. 

O waly waly, but love be bonny 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld 

And fades awa' like morning dew. 
O wherefore should 1 busk my head? 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true Love has me forsook, 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed; 

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true Love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw 

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? 
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? 

For of my life I am wearie. 


'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. 
When we came in by Glasgow town 

We were a comely sight to see; 
My Love was clad in the black velvet, 

And I mysell in cramasie. 

But had I wist, before I kist, 

That love had been sae ill to win; 
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd 

And pinn'd it with a siller pin. 
And, O ! if my young babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee, 
And I mysell were dead and gane, 

And the green grass growing over me ! 



WHEN the sheep are in the fauld and the kye's come hame, 
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, 
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel and sought me for his bride, 
But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; 
To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me. 

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, 

When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; 

My mither she fell sick my Jamie was at sea, 

And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. 


My father couldna wark my mother couldna spin 
I toiled night and day, but their bread I couldna win; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e, 
Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" 

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship it was a wrack ; 
His ship was a wrack why didna Jamie die, 
Or why am I spared to cry wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair my mither didna speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; 
They gied him my hand my heart was in the sea 
And so auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 

When, mournfu' I sat on the stane at my door, 

I saw my Jamie's ghaist for I couldna think it he 

Till he said " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee ! " 

Oh, sair, sair did me greet, and mickle say of a', 

I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' 

I wist that I were dead, but I'm na like to die, 

For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that would be a sin; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be 
To auld Robin Gray, for he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



THE twentieth year is well nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah would that this might be the last! 
My Mary ! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more; 
My Mary! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language utter' d in a dream; 
Yet me they charm, whatever the theme, 
My Mary! 


Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 
My Mary ! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 
My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet gently pressM, press gently mine, 
My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st 
That now at every step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, 
My Mary! 

And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 
My Mary ! 

But ah! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last 
My Mary ! 

W. Cwper. 



WHETHER on Ida's shady brow, 
Or in the chambers of the East, 

The chambers of the Sun, that now 
From ancient melody have ceased; 

Whether in heaven ye wander fair, 
Or the green corners of the earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air 
Where the melodious winds have birth ; 

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 
Beneath the bosom of the sea, 

Wandering in many a coral grove, 
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; 

How have you left the ancient love 
That bards of old enjoyed in you ! 

The languid strings do scarcely move, 
The sound is forced, the notes are few ! 

W. Blake. 

K2der Poets. If 




'TWAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 

Aloft in awful state 

The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne : 

His valiant peers were placed around ; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound, 

(So should desert in arms be crown' d) : 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate, like a blooming Eastern bride, 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre : 

The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 

The song began from Jove, 

Who left his blissful seats above 

(Such is the power of mighty Love!), 


A dragon's fiery form belied the god, 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 

When he to fair Olympia press'd, 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 

A present deity! they shout around: 

A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound : 

With ravished ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung: 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
Flush'd with a purple grace, 
He shows his honest face; 

Now give the hautboys breath : he comes ! he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes : 
And while he Heaven and Earth defied, 
Changed his hand and check'd his pride. 



He chose a mournful Muse 

Soft pity to infuse : 

He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 

And weltering in his blood ; 

Deserted at his utmost need 

By those his former bounty fed, 

On the bare earth exposed he lies 

With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 

Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of Chance below ; 

And now and then a sigh he stole, 

And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honour but an empty bubble, 
Never ending, still beginning; 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 
If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, O think, it worth enjoying: 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
Take the good the gods provide thee ! 
- -The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So Love was crownM, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused bis care, 


And sigh'd and look'd, sighM and lookM, 
SighM and lookM, and sigh'd again : 
At length, with love and wine at once opprest, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head : 
As awaked from the dead 
And amazed he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
See the Furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band 
Each a torch in his hand ! 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew! 

Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
The princes applaud with a furious joy: 
And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 
And like another Helen, fired another Troy! 

Thus, long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learnM to blow, 


While organs yet were mute; 
Timotheus to his breathing flute 

And sounding lyre. 

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 
He raised a mortal to the skies, 
She drew an angel down. 

John Dryden. 


DESCEND, ye Nine ! descend and sing, 
The breathing instruments inspire; 
Wake into voice each silent string, 
And sweep the sounding lyre ! 
In a sadly pleasing strain 
Let the warbling lute complain ; 
Let the loud trumpet sound, 
Till the roofs all around 
The shrill echoes rebound : 
While in more lengthened notes and slow 
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 
Hark! the numbers soft and clear 
Gently steal upon the ear; 
Now louder, and yet louder rise, 
And fill with spreading sounds the skies ; 


Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, 
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats 
Till, by degrees, remote and small, 
The strains decay, 
And melt away 
In a dying, dying fall. 

By Music, minds an equal temper know, 

Not swell too high, nor sink too low; 
If in the brief tumultuous joys arise, 
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies; 
Or, when the soul is press'd with cares, 
Exalts her in enlivening airs : 
Warriors she fires with animated sounds, 
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds ; 
Melancholy lifts her head, 
Morpheus rouses from his bed, 
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, 
Listening Envy drops her snakes, 
Intestine war no more our Passions wage, 
And giddy Factions hear away their rage. 

But when our country's cause provokes to arms, 
How martial music ev'ry bosom warms ! 
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas, 
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain, 

While Argo saw her kindred trees 

Descend from Pelion to the main, 

Transported demigods stood round, 

And men grew heroes at the sound, 
Inflam'd with glory's charms : 

Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, 

And half unsheath'd the shining blade : 

And seas, and rock, and skies rebound; 
To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! 


But when through all the infernal bounds, 
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 

Love, strong as Death, the poet led 

To the pale nations of the dead, 
What sounds were heard, 
What scenes appeared, 
O'er all the dreary coasts? 

Dreadful gleams, 

Dismal screams, 

Fires that glow, 

Shrieks of wo, 

Sullen moans, 

Hollow groans, 
And cries of tortured ghosts, 
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; 
And see! the tortured ghosts respire, 

See, shady forms advance! 
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, 
Ixion rests upon his wheel, 

And the pale spectres dance! 

The Furies sink upon their iron beds, 

And snakes uncurPd hang list'ning round their heads. 

By the streams that ever flow, 

By the fragrant winds that blow 
O'er th' Elysian flow'rs ; 

By those happy souls who dwell 

In yellow meads of asphodel, 
Or amaranthine bow'rs; 

By the heroes' armed shades, 

Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades, 

By the youths that died for love, 

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ; 
Restore, restore Eurydice to life : 
O, take the Husband, or return the Wife! 


He sung, and Hell consented 
To hear the poet's prayer : 
Stern Proserpine relented, 
And gave him back the fair: 
Thus song could prevail 
O'er Death and o'er Hell, 
A conquest how hard, and how glorious ! 
Though Fate had fast bound her, 
With Styx nine times round her, 
Yet Music and Love were victorious. 

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes, 
Again she falls again she dies she dies ! 
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? 
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. 
Now under hanging mountains, 
Beside the falls of fountains, 
Or where Hebrus wanders, 
Rolling in meanders, 

All alone, 

Unheard, unknown, 
He makes his moan; 
And calls her ghost, 
For ever, ever, ever lost! 
Now with Furies surrounded, 
Despairing, confounded, 
He trembles, he glows, 
Amidst Rhodope's snows : 
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; 
Hark! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries 
Ah see, he dies ! 

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung, 
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, 

Eurydice the woods, 

Eurydice the floods, 


Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung. 

Music the fiercest grief can charm, 

And fate's severest rage disarm; 

Music can soften pain to ease, 

And make despair and madness please; 

Our joys below it can improve, 

And antedate the bliss above. 

This the divine Cecilia found, 
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. 
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, 

Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear 
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, 
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire; 

And angels lean from Heav'n to hear. 
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, 
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n; 

His numbers rais'd a shade from Hell, 

Hers lift the soul to Heav'n. 

A. Pope. 



THE spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky 
And spangled heavens (a shining frame) 
Their great Original proclaim. 
The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display, 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 
Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale ; 
And nightly to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings, as they roll 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
What, though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; 
What, though no real voice, nor sound, 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found; 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice : 
For ever singing as they shine: 
"The Hand that made us is divine." 

Joseph Addison, 



THIS is the month, and this the happy morn 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King 
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
For so the holy sages once did sing 
That he our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, 

And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty 

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council- table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside ; and, here with us to be, 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 

Afford a present to the Infant God? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 

To welcome him to this his new abode, 

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? 

See how from far, upon the eastern road, 
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: 
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode 


And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; 

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the angel quire 

From out his secret altar touch' d with hallow'd fire. 


It was the winter wild 

While the heaven-born Child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 

Nature in awe to him 

Had doffd her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But he, her fears to cease, 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; 

She, crown' d with olive green, came softly sliding 

Down through the turning sphere, 

His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand, 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war, or battle's sound 
Was heard the world around : 


The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 

The hooked chariot stood 

UnstahVd with hostile blood; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 

And kings sat still with awful eye, 

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began : 

The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kist 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean 

Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze, 

Stand fix'd in stedfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influence ; 

And will not take their flight 

For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence ; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow 

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 

And hid his head for shame, 

As his inferior flame 

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need : 

He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn 
Or ere the point of dawn 


Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they then 

That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below ; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

When such music sweet 

Their hearts and ears did greet 

As never was by mortal finger strook 

Divinely-warbled voice 

Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 

The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

Natuie that heard such sound 

Beneath the hollow round 

Of Cynthia's seat the aery region thrilling, 

Now was almost won 

To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; 

She knew such harmony alone 

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 

A globe of circular light 

That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd ; 

The helmed Cherubim 

And sworded Seraphim 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, 

Harping in loud and solemn quire 

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. 

Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made 


But when of old the sons of morning sung, 

While the Creator great 

His constellations set 

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; 

And cast the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 

Once bless our human ears, 

If ye have power to touch our senses so; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time; 

And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow; 

And with your ninefold harmony 

Make up full conceit to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Enwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; 

And speckled vanity 

Will sicken soon and die, 

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; 

And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 

Will down return to men, 

Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 

Mercy will sit between 

Throned in celestial sheen, 

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; 

And Heaven, as at some festival, 

Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest Fate says No; 
This must not yet be so; 


The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss; 

So both himself and us to glorify: 

Yet first, to those ychainM in sleep 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; 

With such a horrid clang 

As on mount Sinai rang 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: 

The aged Earth aghast 

With terror of that blast 

Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 

When, at the world's last session, 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 

Full and perfect is, 

But now begins ; for from this happy day 

The old Dragon, under ground 

In straiter limits bound, 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 

Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb ; 

No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving: 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: 

No nightly trance or breathed spell 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o'er 
And the resounding shore 

Elder Poet*. 1 8 


A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 

From haunted spring and dale 

Edged with poplar pale 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 

With flower-inwoven tresses torn 

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth 

And on the holy hearth 

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; 

In urns, and altars round 

A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 

And the chill marble seems to sweat, 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. 

Peor and Baalim 

Forsake their temples dim, 

With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ; 

And mooned Ashtaroth 

Heaven's queen and mother both, 

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; 

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 

And sullen Moloch, fled, 

Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue; 

In vain with cymbals' ring 

They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 

The brutish gods of Nile as fast 

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove, or green, 


Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud; 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest; 

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; 

In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark 

The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded infant's hand; 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 

Nor all the gods beside 

Longer dare abide, 

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bed 

Curtained with cloudy red 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 

The flocking shadows pale 

Troop to the infernal jail, 

Each fetter' d ghost slips to his several grave; 

And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 

But see, the Virgin blest 

Hath laid her Babe to rest; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: 

Heaven's youngest-teemed star 

Hath fixed her polish'd car, 

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: 

And all about the courtly stable 

Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. 

J. Milton. 



Page 3. " LOVE-LONGING." One of the very few English love-songs extant 
of so early a period. Campbell, selecting it as a specimen of thirteenth century 
versification, observes that "such a stanza would not disgrace the lyric poetry 
of a refined age." Line 4. wex wax. L. 5. in sleep I slake am deprived 
of sleep. 

Pages. " RONDEAU" G. Chaticer. This little ballad was printed for 
the first time by Bishop Percy (see 'Reliques') from a MS. in the Pepysian 
Library. "The versification," he remarks, "is of that species which the 
French call Rondeau; very naturally Englished by our honest countrymen, 
Round O. Though so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the 
honour of inventing it. Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, 
among the neighbouring nations," Line i. sle slay. L. 3. wendeth goeth. 
L. 4. helen heal. L. 8 quene Queen. L. n. pleyn complain. L. 12. 
cheyne chain. L. 14. soth sooth. L. i\. fayn feign. L. 18. peyn pain. 
L. 20. ben be. L. 20. lene lean. L. 21. fre free. L. 21. bene boon. 
L. 23. fors force. L. 25. sclat state. L. 26. dene clean. L. 27. Forever 
mo for evermore. L. 27. mene means. 

Page 5. "To LIFE'S PILGRIM" G. Chaiicer. The original contains three 
verses, of which the second is here omitted; the poem being given merely as a 
specimen of early versification. Stanza I. Line i. press crowd. L. 3. /ward 
treasure. L. 3. climbing tickleness means that advancement is beset with un- 
certainty. L. 4. preise praise. L. 5. Savor desire. L. 6. Rede counsel. 
L. 7. 'tis no drede there is no cause for fear. Stanza II. L. i. That thee is 
sent receive in buxomness that which is sent to thee, receive cheerfully. 
L. 6. Weivith thy lust subdue thy desires. L. 6. ghost spirit. 

Page 5. "To MAISTRES MARGARETE" J. Skelton. There is a musical 
lilt in the versification of this little complimentary poem rarely found in the 
productions of this period. Skelton was author of the famous "Boke of 
Colin Clout" and of some of the early moralities. Southey says, alluding to his 
political and satirical writings, " the power, the strangeness, the volubility of 
his language, the intrepidity of his satire, and the perfect originality of his 
manner, render Skelton one of the most extraordinary poets of any age or 
country." The present poem was addressed to one Mistress Margaret Hussey. 

NOTES. 277 

Verse 2. Line 3. fayre Isipkillia.\v Isabel, probably some amous beauty of 
the day. L. 5. Sivete Pomaunde? a ball of perfumes used in the toilette of 
a sixteenth century belle ; from the French pomme d"ambre. L. 10. Erst 

Page 7. " MY SWETE SWETYNG." Tempo Henry VIII ; author unknown. 
" Pigsnye" is a term of endearment derived from the old Saxon word piga, 
or girl. 

Page 8. "A CAROL OF SPRING" H. Hcnvard, Earl of Surrey. Line i. 
soote sweet. L. n. mings mixes. 

Page 8. "MADRIGAL" James I. (of Scotland). From the beautiful poem 
entitled " The Kings Quair," (i. e. The King's Book) in which he describes 
his captivity in Windsor Castle and his passion for the Lady Jane Beaufort, 
whom he afterwards married. James I. perished by assassination in the forty- 
fourth year of his age. A.D. 1473. 

Page 10. "THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD" C. Marlowe. This elegant 
little poem belongs to that school of Euphuistic Pastoral of which SirP. Sidney's 
Arcadia is the most elaborate specimen. Mr. Palgrave observes that "it 
would be ludicrous to criticise it on the ground of the unshepherdlike or unreal 
chai'acter of some images suggested." Notes to Golden Treasury. 

Page 13. " SAMELA " fancies is here conjecturally substituted for 
"fancy" Line n. 

Page 14. "To His LADY" T. Care-w. An exquisite specimen of the 
Elizabethan school of love-poetry : an elaborate and ornate school founded on 
the still more elaborate and ornate style of Petrarch and his contemporaries. 

Page 18. " THE LOVER GROWETH OLD" W. Shakespeare. The necessity 
of maintaining a uniform plan has compelled the Editor to prefix titles to this 
and the two following Sonnets, as well as to others by the same immortal hand. 
These titles, such as they are, are offered reluctantly, and with diffidence. 

Page 22. "THE NIGHTINGALE" R. Barnefield. The motif of this 
charming little poem (set to music in later days by Sir Henry Bishop) is founded 
on an old Greek legend related by Ovid Met. vi. 565. Pandion, King of 
Attica, having appealed for military aid to Tereus, King of the Thracians in 
Daulis, bestowed upon this ally the hand of his daughter Procne, who became 
the mother of a son named Itys, or Itylus. Tereus, however, wearied of 
Procne, and having fallen in love with her sister Philomena, or Philomela, con- 
cealed Procne and spread the report of her death. Philomela, however, dis- 
covered his treachery; but having been deprived of her tongue by Tereus, in 
the fear that she should betray him, conveyed the truth to Procne by means of 
certain words woven into the pattern of a peplum. Procne, in her despair and 
rage, then slew heryoung son; served up his flesh to Tereus in adish; and fled 
with Philomela. Being pursued by Tereus, the sisters prayed to the gods to 
change them into birds; and Procne was accordingly transformed into a 
swallow, and Philomela into a nightingale. The story, however, is told some- 
what differently by Pausanias and others, who maintain that the sisters wept 
themselves to death in Attica, whither they escaped, and that Tereus killed 
himself in Megara- The cry "Tereu, tereu! " is an ingenious invention of the 
poet, and besides being an adaptation of the name of Tereus, is curiously like 


2 7 8 

one of the notes of the nightingale. See "Itylus" by A. C. Swinburne, in our 
" Poetry-Book of Modern Poets." 

Page 24. "THE LOVER'S APPEAL" Sir T. Wvatt. Line 4. Grame 

Page 26. "To THE MOON" Sir P. Sidney. This beautiful Sonnet is 
marred by the awkward inversion in the last line. The poet means to say 
" do they there call ungratefulness, virtue ? " 

Page 28. "To HIS LUTE" W. Druinmond. Line 4. ramage, the wood- 
song, or wild-song of an untamed bird; from the French ramage. See Richard- 
son's Dictionary. In this charming Sonnet we find the germ of an idea after- 
wards developed by Shelley in his Lines sent with a guitar. 

Page 30. "LAMENT FOR ASTROPHEL " E. Spenser. This poem (entitled 
in Spenser's collected works "The Doleftill Lay of Clorinda") has by some 
critics been attributed to Mary Countess of Pembroke, sister to Sir Philip Sidney. 
The poem, however, bears the impress of Spenser's hand throughout. See 
particularly the seventh and eighth verses, closely imitated by Shelley in his 
"Adonais" more than two hundred and forty years later. The Editor has 
ventured to omit six verses which form no part of the Lament, and serve only 
to link the poem with others which precede and follow it. Astrophel is the 
pastoral name given by the poet to his friend Sir Philip Sidney, who died of a 
wound received at the Battle of Zutphen, Oct. i7th, 1586. 

Page 33. "THE SHEPHERD'S ELEGY" W. Browne. Written in memory 
of his friend Mr. Thomas Man wood. This elegy is supposed to have suggested 
to Milton the form of his Lycidas. 

Page 35. "LYCIDAS" J. Milton. The Lycidas in memory of whom 
this elegy was penned, was one Mr. Edward King (a college friend of the 
poet), who was drowned in 1637 between Chester and the coast of Ireland. 
"The material structure of this glorious poem," says Mr. Palgrave, "is partly 
derived from Italian models." Line 15. " The sisters of the sacred well 
the Muses, whose favorite haunt was supposed to be the fountain of Helicon 
on Mount Parnassus. L. 36. Damoetas , an allusion to some friend, figured 
under a pastoral name. L. 54. Mona the isle of Anglesea, formerly densely 
wooded, and a chief residence (according to Selden) of the Druids. L. 55. 
Deva the river Dee, long the ancient boundary between England and Wales, 
and the scene of numerous traditions. This river, and the neighbouring island are 
introduced because near the scene of the shipwreck. L. 58. The Muse her- 
self that Orpheus lore. Orpheus was son of the Muse Calliope. He was torn 
to pieces by the Thracian women, who flung his head into the Hebrus, a river 
of Thrace, whence it was carried out to sea. His fate was thus indicated by 
Milton in allusion to that of his lost friend. L. 68 and 69. Amaryllis and 
Ne&ra fanciful names for imaginary shepherdesses. L. 75. The blind Fury 
Atropos, the Fate who severs the thread of human life. L. 85. O fountain 
Arethuse'a. fountain in the island of Ortygia, near Syracuse. The nymph 
of this fountain is reckoned by Virgil (Eclogue IV.) among the nymphs of Sicily, 
and as the one who inspired pastoral poetry. Mincius named in the next 
line, is an Italian stream which flows through the Lake of Garda and joins the Po 
near Mantua. L. 06. Hippntades a name for ^Eolus; see the Odyssey of 

NOTES. 279 

Homer, where it is frequently used. L. 99. "sleek Panofie" a Nereid. Mr. 
Palgrave's note upon this passage is so lucid and scholarly that the Editor 
ventures to quote it entire. "The names of local deities in the Hellenic 
mythology express generally some feature in the natural landscape, which the 
Greeks studied and analysed with their usual unequalled insight and feeling. 
Panofie represents the boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when seen from a 
height, as compared with the limited horizon of the land in hilly countries 
such as Greece or Asia Minor." Notes to The Golden Treasury. L. 103. 
Camus the river Cam ; Mr. King having been a student in the University of 
Cambridge. L. 106. that sangiiine flowter inscribed with woe the ancient 
poetical hyacinth, which, according to Professor Martyn on Virgil's Eclogues, 
is the Turkscap lily, the markings of which resemble the characters of the 
Greek cry of woe, " AI-AI." The idea is borrowed by Milton from Moschus, 
who says in his elegy to Bion Nvy, vaziv&e, hafai tec aa yQccpfiafa, xai 
rtteov a'i at jBdufia/.s ao'is Ttstdloiai. "Now, hyacinth, more than ever say 
Ai, Ai, and proclaim your inscribed sorrows ! " L. 109. the pilot of the 
Galilean lake St. Peter, the fisherman of Galilee and doorkeeper of Heaven. 
L. 128. the grim -wolf the. Papal church. L. 132. Alpheus a stream of Arcady 
which appears and disappears, like our river Mole, at various points of its 
course, and was supposed by the ancients to flow under the sea and join the 
fountain of Arethusa in Ortygia. The river-god Alpheus, according to the 
legend, loved and thus pursued the nymph Arethusa. L. 138. the swart-star 
the dog-star, Sirius. L 159. moist vows, commentators are divided as to 
the intention of the poet, some interpreting the phrase as tearful vows, vota 
lacrymosas; and others as watery vows, or vows relating to the sea. L. 160. 
Bellerusa. giant personification of Bellerium, the antique name for the 
Land's End. L. 161. The great Vision of the Guarded Mount. The 
Archangel Michael, the guardian of mariners, is said to have appeared on St. 
Michael's Mount, Cornwall, as also upon Mont St. Michel, a similar rock lying 
off the opposite coast of Finisterre. Namancos and Bayona, mentioned in 
the next line, are two places on the coast of Finisterre. Milton here implores 
the angel to look towards the Irish Channel, and pity the fate of his friend. 
L. 173. Him that walked the waves a beautiful allusion to the miracle upon 
lake Tiberias, involving a subtle reference to the temporal loss by sea, and 
the spiritual salvation of his friend. L. 189. Doric lay Warton observes that 
" this is a Doric lay because Theocritus and Moschus had respectively written 
a bucolic elegy on Daphnis and Bion." 

Page 42. "A SEA DIRGE" followed by "A LAND DIRGE." The Editor 
has here followed the sequence and repeated the titles given to these poems by 
Mr. Palgrave, who also quotes the following well-known criticism of Charles Lamb: 
" I never saw anything like this funeral dirge, except the ditty which reminds 
Ferdinand of his drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, 
watery ; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feel- 
ing which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates. 

Page 44. "THE QUIET LIFE" said to have been written by Pope when 
he was only twelve years of age. 

Page 51. "LIFE" Lord Bacon. This, together with the five following 

280 NOTES. 

poems, maybe regarded as more or less versions of a well-known Greek epigram 
attributed by some to Poseidippus and by some to Plato Cornicus. Of the 
original Greek Mr. J. A. Symonds says, "it may take rank with the most 
elevated sonnets of modern literature." (Studies of Greek Poets, ist Series, 1873.) 
The poem here given, by Lord Bacon, is interesting as the work of one who was 
a "mighty mouthed" master of prose. The figure of the Bubble is a lieu 
commun among Elizabethan writers. 

Page 58. " SWEET AND BITTER ". Spenser. Line 6. pill peel, or husk. 
L. 8. sweet is moly a fabled herb with fair white blossom, but a black root, 
said by Homer to have been given to Odysseus by Hermes as a countercharm 
against the arts of Circe. See Milton: "That moly 

That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave." 

Page 65. "So_\G OF THE EMIGRANTS" A. Marvel. This fine fragment 
is semi-political, semi-polemical, but abounding in rich imaginative colour. 
The emigrants are fictitious exiles from the intolerant court of Charles I. 

Page 72. "THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERD" Sir G. Elliot was father of 
the first Lord Minto, and held various offices under the crown. He was also 
distinguished as a Parliamentary orator. He died in 1777. Sir W. Scott warmly 
admired "The Faithless Shepherd," and speaks of it as "that beautiful 
pastoral song." 

Page 73. "WINTER" W. Shakespeare. Line 2. nail2>. cow-horn. 
L. 9. &eeZskim. 

Page 76. "A SPRING IDYLL" Sir H. Wotton, This Idyll is introduced 
by Waltoninhis 'Complete Angler' with these words "Ido easily believe that 
peace and patience, and a calm content, did cohabit in the cheerful heart of 
Sir H. Wotton, because I know that when he was beyond seventy years of 
age he made this description of a part of the present pleasure that possessed 
him as he sat quietly, in a summer's evening, on a bank a-fishing." 

Page 77- "L' ALLEGRO" J. Milton. Of this ode and its companion, 
Mr. Palgrave observes : " It is a striking proof of Milton's astonishing power, 
that these, the earliest pure Descriptive Lyrics in our language, should still 
remain the best in a style which so many great poets have since attempted. 
The Bright and the Thoughtful aspects of Nature are their subjects; but each 
is preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixed Classical and Italian 
manner. The meaning of the first is that Gaiety is the child of Nature ; of 
the second, that Pensiveness is the daughter of Sorrow and Genius." Notes 
to Golden Treasury \ Line 2. of Cerberus and blackest midnight born. Some 
commentators read for Cerberus, Erebus, who according to Hesiod, married 
with his sister, Night ; but the offspring of this union was not Melancholy, but 
Day and ^ther. That Milton wrote and meant Cerberus is sufficiently 
proved by the allusion to his den, the " Stygian cave," usually placed on the 
further side of the Styx, at the spot where Charon landed the shades of the 
dead. L. 10. Cimmerian the mythical Cimmerii of Homer dwelt in the 
farthest West, on the ocean, enveloped in perpetual mist and darkness. L. 67. 
tells his talc tale, a technical word for numbering sheep. L. 80. cynosure, the 
polestar, or load-star. L. 132. Jonsoris learned sock the sock was a light 
shoe worn by the Roman comedians, as the buskin by the tragedians. L. 136. 

NOTES. 28l 

Soft Lydian airs Mr. Palgrave describes the Lydian as "a light and festive 
style of ancient music." Other commentators assign to it a soft and pathetic 
character. Milton seems to have conceived of it as sweet and soothing, 
neither gay nor melancholy. 

Page 82. " IL PENSEROSO." Line 18. Prince Memnoris sister. Memnon 
was an apocryphal King of Ethiopia, whom Homer makes an ally of the 
Trojans. He was the son of Tithonus and Aurora, and was killed by Achilles 
in revenge for the slaying of Antilochus. By a curious confusion of names, 
the later Greek travellers gave the name of Memnon to the broken colossus of 
Amenhotep III. at Thebes (see an able article on The Siatue of Memnon in 
No. 276 of the Quarterly Review, April, 1875.) No mention of Memnon's 
sister occurs in any of the Classic writers ; so that, as Dunster observes, "this 
lady is a creation of the poet." Line 19. starrd Ethiop queen Cassiope, queen 
of Ethiopia, who, having incurred the displeasure of the Nereids for claiming to 
surpass them in beauty, was by Perseus transported to heaven, where she 
became a constellation. Line 54. the Cherub contemplation the Cherubs were 
the angels of Knowledge, the Seraphs, of Love. L. 59. Cynthia the moon- 
Her chariot is sometimes represented drawn by dragons. L. 88. thrice-great 
Hermes Hermes Trismegistus, the reputed author of a whole system of 
religious and philosophical literature written by the school of New Platonists, 
about the 4th century of our era. The New Platonists, identifying the Greek 
Hermes with the Egyptian Thoth, the patron Deity of Letters, regarded the 
latter as the original source of all knowledge in fact as the embodied ldyo 
gave to him the name of Trismegistus ; and affirmed that he was the teacher of 
Pythagoras and Plato. Inasmuch as the earliest ethical and religious treatises 
in the world are those of ancient Egypt, there is a certain basis of truth in this 
theory. L. 99. Thebes or Peloj>s line an allusion to the subject-matter of 
the tragedies ofyEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. L. 102. buskin dstage 
see note to line 132 of L' Allegro. L. 104. Musozus a poet spoken of by Plato 
as an actual personage, but supposed by modern commentators to be mythical. 
L. 109. him that left half told Chaucer, who left his "Squire's Tale" 
unfinished. Leigh Hunt says : " But why did Milton turn Cambus the Khan 
in to Cambuscan? The accent in Chaucer is never thrown on the second 
syllable." Imagination and Fancy. L. 116. great bards Ariosto, Tasso, 
and Spenser are here alluded to. L. 123. frounced Warton derives this 
word from the French froncer, to curb, wrinkle, or contract. L. 124. The Attic 
boy Cephalus. L. 134. Sylvan, i. e. Silvanus, a Latin deity of woods and 

Page 87. "ON MELANCHOLY/?. Burton. From that rare old treasure- 
house of wit, humour, and learning. "The Anatomy of Melancholy." The 
fifth line of the fifth verse stands in the original "Rare beauties, gallant ladies, 
shine," which the Editor has, with much diffidence, ventured to print thus 
"Rare beauties, gallants, ladies, shine." 

Page 89. "MELANCOLIA" F. Beaumont. Leigh Hunt who, with the 
single exception of Charles Lamb, had perhaps the nicest ear for Elizabethan 
poetry of any critic who ever lived, attributes these lines to Fletcher, Tradition 
gives them to Beaumont, 

252 NOTES. 

Page 91. "LovE AND DEATH" J. Ford. From "The Broken Heart." 
Of his life scarcely any particulars are known. His plays were all published 
between 1629 and 1639. 

Page 92. "SoRROW-SoNG"' S. Rowley. Of this writer we know no more 
than that he was one of the players in the service of Henry Prince of Wales. 
He appears in Henslow's list of authors. His best known production is a play 
called "The Spanish Writer," from which this song is taken. 

Page 93. "SLUMBER SONG" J. Fletcher. From Valentinian, a joint 
production of Beaumont and Fletcher. L. Hunt ascribes these verses with 
great show of probability to Fletcher, certain of the lines being reproduced in 
his play "An Honest Man's Fortune." 

Page 101. "To APOLLO" J. Lylye. Line 8. To Physic and to 
Poesy s king. Allusion is here made to Apollo as the father of Esculapifts. 
He was also identified in later times with Paje'on, the god of the healing art in 

Page 102. "To BACCHUS" F. Beaumont. Line i. Lya^ a Roman 
surname of Bacchus. 

Page 103. "HOLIDAY IN ARCADIA" 7. Shirley. Lines 13. and 14. 
Philomel, leave of Tereus rape to tell. See preceding note to "The Nightingale " 
by R. Barnefield. L. 16. Thracian lyre the lyre of Orpheus, which was given 
to him by Apollo, and from which he drew sounds so enchanting that the trees 
on Mount Olympus came down to listen to him. 

Page 104. " SONG OF A SATYR" J. Fletcher. From Fletcher's Faith- 
Jul Shepherdess. Mr. Seward traces an imitation (which was possibly uncon- 
scious) in this song to Shakespeare's Song of a Fairy, (see p. 168;) whereupon 
Mr. R. Bell remarks, in the notes to his Songs of the Dramatists, that "a still 
closer imitation of Fletcher himself may be found in the Comus of Milton, 
which owes large obligations not only to the imagery and general treatment, 
but to the plan of the Faithful Shepherdess." 

Page 112. "To ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA" Sir H. Wotton. Elizabeth, 
daughter of James I. and Anne of Denmark, married the Elector Palatine, after- 
wards the unlucky King of Bohemia. From the marriage of her youngest 
daughter with the Duke of Brunswick we derive the Georges and the 
Hanoverian line. 

Page 113. "THE ROSES IN CASTARA'S BOSOM" W. Habington. This 
poet, described by Southey as "amiable and irreproachable," addressed all 
his verses to Castara, the lady whom he apparently courted long, and after- 
wards happily married. Castara's real name was Lucy, and she was a daughter 
of W. Herbert, first Lord Powis. 

Page 117. "To ALTHEA" Colonel Lovelace. Written literally in the 
prison to which he was twice consigned by the Puritan government. Having 
spent his whole fortune in the Royal cause, he died in great poverty A.D. 1658. 

Page 118. "BEAUTY CONCEALED" Sir F. Kinaston. A poem conceived 
in the costliest strain of hyperbole, at a time when the imagination of poets 
and speculators alike ran upon spice-islands, corals, pearls, and all the new 
found riches of the Spanish Main. 

Page 121. "SONETTO" -T. Lodge. Line 9. the Muses' quill quill is 

NOTES. 283 

here used in the sen.-e of pipe, as for instance in Lycidas, "he touch'd the 
tender stops of various quills." L. n. weed garment. 

Page 126. "To HIS LOVE : ON GOING A JOURNEY" Dr. Donne. Professor 
Craik remarks of this poem that " somewhat fantastic as it may be thought, it 
is notwithstanding full of feeling, and nothing can be more delicate than the 

Page 128. "To LUCASTA" Col. Lovelace. Lucasta is said to have been 
a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, who, hearing a false report of his death when gone 
"to the Wars," married another suitor. 

Page 129. "THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT" M. Dray ton. Verse 8. 
Line 6. besprent besprinkled. The battle of Agincourt, in which a com- 
paratively small English force under Henry V. defeated the Dauphin of 
France on French ground at the head of a large army, was fought on the 
25th Oct. 1415. This martial lyric by the author of the Polyolbion (an ela- 
borate descriptive and topographical poem in something like 100,000 lines,) is 
less known than it deserves to be. It breathes an ardent military and patriotic 
spirit which more than compensates for some defects of style, and which is too 
inadequately represented in our poetic literature. Thomas Heywood's almost 
forgotten play of King Edward IV. has the following short lyric on the same 

"Agincourt, Agincourt! know ye not Agincourt? 
Where the English slew and hurt 

All the French foemen ? 
With our guns and bills brown 
Oh, the French were beat down, 
Morris pikes and bowmen ! " 

Page 132. "SiR PATRICK SPENCE" Anonymoris. It seems to be an open 
question whether this poem be old or modern. The best authorities hold quite 
opposite opinions on the matter. Mr. Motherwell considers that it records 
"the fate of certain Scottish nobles who accompanied Margaret, daughter of 
Alexander III. of Scotland, to her nuptials with Eric king of Norway, and 
were drowned on their homeward voyage." This event happened A.D. 1285. 
Line i. The King sits in Dunfermline toitm. There was a palace of the 
Scottish kings at Dunfermline, on the N. side of the Frith of Forth. Line 3. 
skeely skilly, or skilful. L. 9. Braid open, or patent. L. 13. To Norcnuay 
Norway. L. 25. hadna had not. L. 26. twae two. L. 29. goud gold. 
L. 30. jee dowry. L. 44. grtrly rough. L. 45. gude good. L. 54. atie 
one. L. 59. ivap wrap; i. e. to stop a gap. L. 60. letna let not. L. 66. 
shoon shoes. L. 68. aboon above. L. 71. or ere or ever, i. e. before. 
L. 77. Aberdour Aberdour is a little port about five miles distant from 
Dunfermline, now a favorite watering-place. So dangerous to mariners is all 
this part of the entrance to the river Forth that, according to Percy, it was 
called De mortuo Mart. 

Page 135. " BURD HELEN " Anonymous. " Adam Fleming, says tradition, 
loved Helen Irving, or Helen Bell (for this surname is uncertain, as well as the 
date of the occurrence) daughter of the Laird of Kirconnel in Dumfriesshire. 

28 4 


The lovers being together one day by the river Kirtle, a rival suitor suddenly 
appeared on the opposite bank, and pointed his gun; Helen threw herself 
before her sweetheart, received the bullet in her breast, and died in his arms. 
Then Adam Fleming fought with his guilty rival, and slew him." W. Allingham. 
Notes to The Book of Ballads. Verse 2. Line 3. burd Helen maiden Helen. 
Verse 3. L. i. sair sore. Ibid. L. 2. mair more. Ibid. L. 3. meikle 
much. Verse. 5. L. 2. sma small. Verse 9. L. 2. een eyes; from eyen. 

Page 137. "EDWARD OF THE BLOODY BRAND" Sir D. Dalrymple. This 
striking ballad was first printed in Percy's Religues, and there announced as 
"transmitted in MS. from Scotland by Sir D. Dalrymple, Bart, late Lord Hailes." 
It has been attributed to Sir D. Dalrymple, and also to Lady Wardlaw, the 
author of the well-known, and as Mr. W. Allingham has it, the "overpraised" 
ballad of Hardyknute. Verses- Line 4. " dule you drie" grief you suffer, 
Dule is in fact dole. 

Page 140. "ALL OR NONE" Sir W. Raleigh. Verse 2. Line i. Angel- 
gold an Angel was an old English coin, worth about ten shillings, and of a 
finer quality of gold than that known as crown gold. Benedick ("Much ado 
about nothing" ), in his soliloquy about the sort of woman he could love, says 
"rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never 
cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, 
or not I for an angel." This pun upon the two coins, the Noble and the 
Angel, seems to have escaped the observation of the commentators. 

Page 162. "LOVE-SLAIN" W. Shakespeare. Line 2. sad cypress 
meaning Cyprus lawn, of which shrouds were made, and which was first 
manufactured in the Isle of Cyprus. 

Page 163. "INCONSTANCY" W.Shakespeare. Shakespeare's claim to 
these stanzas is somewhat doubtful. The first only appears in " Measure for 
Measure " while both are found in Beaumont and Fletcher's ' Rollo, Duke of 
Normandy* On the other hand, both verses are attributed to Shakespeare 
in the 1640 Edition of his poems. 

Page 167. "MAD-SONG" W. Blake. Verse i. Line 7. Rustling beds of 
dawn Mr. Gilchrist prints this "rustling birds of dawn." Mr. Rossetti has 
it "beds," as Blake printed it. 

Page 168. "ARIEL'S SONG" W. Shakespeare. Line 5. after sunset 
Theobald reads sunset, because the bat does not come out before twilight, and 
this is the version adopted by Dr. Arne. Most editors adhere to "Summer" 
as printed in the first Folio of 1623. 

Page 168. "A FAIRY'S SONG" Ibid. Line 8. Her orbs the rings 
dried up on the sward, where the fairies have been dancing in circles. See an 
allusion to the same superstition in the two last lines of the next following 

Page 169. "THE FAIRY QUEEN" Anonymous. Verse 3. Line 4. 
manchet'Z. small loaf of fine white bread. 

Page 171. " SONG OF AN ENCHANTRESS" Giles Fletcher. This beautiful 
song, which has in it not only a ring of Spenser's music, but a distant echo of 
Ariosto, is from that almost forgotten but very remarkable poem "The Purple 

NOTES. 285 

Page 173. "A VISION OF 'THE FAERY QUEEN'" Sir W. Raleigh. Line 12. 
perse pierce. L. 13. sprighte spirit. Leigh Hunt says "Two persons, I 
have no doubt, were included in the magnificent flattery of this sonnet Queen 
Elizabeth as well as Spenser; for it was she whom the poet expressly imaged 
in his Queen of Fairyland; and Sir W. Raleigh was not the man to let the occa- 
sion pass for extolling that great woman, their joint mistress. His abolition of 
Laura, Petrarch, and Homer all in a lump, in honour of his friend Spenser is 
in the highest style of his wilful and somewhat domineering genius : but every- 
thing in the poem is as grandly as it is summarily done." 

Page 175. "To HIS LOVE" W. Shakespeare. This sonnet is introduced 
here in the above connection, inasmuch as it evidently conveys a complimen- 
tary allusion to Spenser. 

Page 179. "TRUTH THE SOUL OF BEAUTY" Ibid. Line 9. But Jar 
their virtue only is their show, another inversion, as in the last line of Sir 
P. Sidney's sonnet to the Moon. It means "but that their show only is their 

Page 180. "THE PAINS OF MEMORY"^. Drummond. One of the 
richest and tenderest of Elizabethan sonnets. The Alexis to whom it is addressed 
was probably the poet's friend William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. Line 14. 
sith since. 

Page 182. "To MR. LAWRENCE" J.Milton. This Mr. Lawrence was the 
son of the President of Cromwell's Council. Line 6. Favonius the spring 
wind. This sonnet, a model of neat arid elegant classicism, might have been 
written by Horace to Maecenas. 

Page 203. "A RURAL PICTURE" O. Goldsmith. To give complete 
poems and eschew extracts, has been a leading principle of construction 
throughout this volume. In the present instance, however, the Editor feels 
that some apology is due for the liberty taken in cutting and adapting certain 
passages from the "Deserted Village." Not a word, however, has been 
altered, and the extract thus arranged presents, it is believed, a fair represen- 
tative specimen of Goldsmith's manner. 

Page 205. "ODE TO EVENING" -JF. Collins. Verse 2. Line 3. Brede 
ethereal braid; used by Keats in the sense of chain, or procession, See Ode 
to a Grecian Urn "with brede of marble men and maidens overwrought." 

" Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he stands, I am not sure 
that he would not stand higher. It is the corner-stone of his glory." JLord 
Byron. "Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language" F. T. Palgrave. 

Page 213. "THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY" D. Mallet. Birks i. e. birches. 

Page 215. "THE BIRD" H. Vaiighan. A most tender and touching 
picture of the life of a bird; at once the most innocent and spiritual of created 

Page 217. "THE TIGER" W. Bla7te. There are two versions of this noble 
poem. The one here given is that printed by Blake in his Songs of Experience. 
The other, containing some unimportant variations from a MS. authority, may 
be found in Gilchrist's 'Life of Blake' 

286 NOTES. 

Paeje 229. " CUPID'S MISTAKE" M. Prior. This poem and the one by 
which it is followed, are given, not for their poetical merit, which is slender, 
but as specimens of the vers d? occasion of the time, and as necessary links in 
the chain of English verse. 

Page 230. "LOVE'S PATIENCE." Verses. Line 4. ure custom, habit 
used here to signify that spring follows winter according to custom. 

Page 232. " LOVE'S MIGHT " Beaumont and Fletcher. From a play by 
Beaumont and Fletcher called The Little French Lawyer. To assign the 
exact authorship of this delightful lyric would not be easy. Leigh Hunt 
especially admired the third line of the 2d verse Fear the fierceness of the 
boy than which, he writes, "nothing can be finer. Wonder and earnestness 
conspire to stamp the iteration of the sound." Vide Imagination and 

Page 235. " LOVE'S PRISONER" W. Blake. "This lovely lyric is affirmed 
to have been written by Blake before he was fourteen years of age." W. M. 
Rossetti. Notes to The Poetical Works of W. Blake. 

Page 236. "To NANCY" Bishop Percy of Dromore. Robert Burns 
pronounced this song to be the most beautiful composition of its kind in the 
English language. 

Page 237. " SALLY IN OUR ALLEY " Henry Carey. " A little masterpiece 
in a very difficult style. Catullus himself could hardly have bettered it. In 
grace, tenderness, simplicity and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients ; and 
even more so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented." 
W. G. Palgrave. Notes to The Golden Treasury. H. Carey was a musician 
and song-writer, and author of some minor dramatic works, published in 1743. 
He wrote, among other things, a farce called Hanging and Marriage , and 
some Verses on Gulliver s Travels. 

Page 241. " YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND "Martyn Parker. It is said of 
Campbell that he used frequently to repeat this poem, and that he warmly 
admired it. It undoubtedly suggested to him that noblest of sea-songs, Ye 
Mariners of England. 

Page 242. "To ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND" Lord Dorset. In 
1665, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards Earl ofDorset, attended the Duke of York as 
a volunteer in the Dutch war, and was in the battle of June sd when eighteen 
Dutch ships were taken, fourteen others destroyed, and Opdam the Admiral, 
who engaged the Duke, was blown up beside him, with all his crew. On the 
day before the battle, he is said to have composed the celebrated song To all 
you Ladies now on Land, with equal tranquillity of mind and promptitude of 
wit. Seldom any splendid story is wholly true. " I have heard from the late 
Earl of Orrery, who was likely to have had good hereditary intelligence, that 
Lord Buckhurst had been a week employed upon it, and only retouched or 
finished it on the memorable evening. But even this, whatever it may subtract 
from his facility, leaves him his courage." Dr. Johnson. 

Page 245. "THE Loss OF THE ROYAL GEORGE"- -W. Cowper. The Royal 
George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial careening in Portsmouth 
Harbour, was overset about IOA.M. Aug. 29,1782. The total loss was believed 
to be near 1000 souls. 

NOTES. 287 

Page 247. "A DIKGE" T. CJiatterton. Verse 2. Line i. cryne hair. 
Ibid. L. 2. Rode complexion. Verse 6. L. 4. calness coldness. Verse 7. 
L. i. dent fix. Ibid. L. 2. gree grew. Ibid. L. 3. ouphani elfin. Verse 9. 
L. i. reytes water-flags. 

Page 249. "YARROW STREAM" J. Logan. Founded on an old Scottish 
legend, also versified anonymously in a ballad called "Willy drowned in 
Yarrow." See Golden Treasury, Book III. No. cxxvin. 

Page 251. "BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL" Anonymous. This ballad is 
founded on a common incident of border life in the wild days of old. 

Page 252. "LOVE'S LAMENTATION" Anonymous. Line i. O Waly, 
waly a cry of lamentation ; see King Lear, Act IV. Sc. 6.: "the first time that 
we smell the ayre, we ivaivle and cry" Ed. 1623. Verse i. L. 2. Brae hillside. 
Ibid. L. 3. burn-side brook-side. Verse 2. L. 5. busk in the sense of array, 
or adorn. Verse 3. L. 3. Saint Anton's well- a. spring at the foot of Arthur's 
Seat. Verse 4. L. 8. cramosie from the French cramoisie crimson. "A 
very ancient song." Bishop Percy. 

Page 253. "AULD ROBIN GRAY" Lady A. Barnard. " There can 
hardly exist a poem more truly tragic in the highest sense than this ; nor, ex- 
cept Sappho, has any poet known to the Editor equalled it in excellence." 
W. G. Palgrave. Notes to The Golden Treasury. Lady A. Barnard was the 
daughter of James Lindsay, sth Earl of Balcarras, and wife of Sir Andrew 
Barnard, librarian to George III. Having kept the authorship of this celebrated 
ballad strictly secret for more than fifty years, Lady Anne Barnard acknowledged 
it for her own in a letter to Sir W. Scott in A.D. 1823. The story of the ballad 
was altogether a fiction. Robin Gray was her father's gardener, and no such 
persons as Jamie or the heroine ever existed, save in the imagination of the 
Lady Anne. 

Page 255. "To MARY UNWIN" W. Cowper. The Mary Unwin of these 
purely pathetic and tragic lines, was the faithful friend whose solicitude 
soothed, while she lived, the clouded and declining years of the poet's unhappy 

Page 258. "ALEXANDER'S FEAST" J. Dry den. Line i. 'Tvuas at the 
royal feast Alexander is recorded to have held a great banquet on the occa- 
sion of his victory at Persepolis, and to have set fire to the palace in his mad 
revelry. An Athenian courtesan named Thais is said to have instigated him 
to the act. Timotheus was a famous flute-player of Thebes; but Dry den makes 
him a performer on the lyre. His music is said to have been so soul-stirring 
that the King is reputed to have started up and seized his arms on one occa- 
sion when Timotheus was performing an Orthian nome to Athena. L. 46. 
drinking is the soldier s pleasure a fragment of Menander quoted by Athenseus 
describes the drunkenness of Alexander as proverbial. L. 130. divine C e cilia 
Saint Cecilia, a Roman lady of the 3d Century, who is said to have excelled so 
surpassingly in music that an angel was attracted down from heaven by the 
charms of her voice. It is a mistake to attribute the invention of the organ 
to St. Cecilia (who is nevertheless the patron saint of music and musicians); 
that honour belonging traditionally to Archimedes, about 220. B.C. 

Page 262. "ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY" A. Pope. Line 39. The 

288 NOTES. 

Thracian Orpheus, who accompanied Jason when he departed in quest of 
the Golden Fleece. L. 40. Argo the galley of Jason, the wood of which, 
according to Pope, recognised, and thrilled respcnsively towards, the trees that 
came down the mountain side to the sound of Orpheus' lyre; one of the most 
beautiful figures in the whole of Pope's poetry. L. 50. Phlegelhon a fiery 
river of the lower world. L. 99. Hebrus see note toLycidas. L. 109. Rhodope 
a range of mountains in Thrace. L. in. Hcemus another mountain-range in 
Thrace. L. 133. His members rais d a shade the epigrammatic antithesis is 
curiously imitative of that which concludes the preceding poem. 

Page 267. "ODE ON THE UNIVERSE" J. Addison. The great essayist's 
strongest claim to a place among the British poets rests upon this nohle ode, 
which for simple majesty, and breadth of both style and feeling, is unrivalled. 

Verse 4. Line 4. The hooked chariot Chariots armed with scythes and hooks 
were in use as engines of war in ancient Syria and Persia, and, according to 
Caesar, were a formidable weapon of the ancient Britons. Verse 5. L. 4. 
whist silenced. Todd quotes, in illustration of this passage, the following line 
from Marlowe and Nash's Dido (1594.) 

"The ayre is cleere and Southerne windes are whist" 

Verse 8. L. 5. Milton here uses the name of Pan, the Hellenic God of the 
Universe, in the sense of Christ, the Lord of All. Dante, no less daringly, 
addresses Christ as sommo Giove, high Jove. Verse 10. L. 3. Cynthia the 
moon. Verse 13. L. 7. ninefold harmony the harmony of the spheres, which 
Milton elsewhere describes as "nine-enfolded." Verse 20. L. 3. A voice of 
weeping heard and loud lament Plutarch tells of a mighty voice that was 
heard in the air proclaiming " Great Pan is dead ! " whereupon the oracles 
ceased, and there was universal lamentation. This story, as told by the early 
Christian commentators, is made to date from the hour of Christ's Nativity. 
Verse 21. L. 3. The Lars and Lemur es the household Gods of the Romans. 
Ibid. L. 6. Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint Flamen was a 
sacerdotal title pertaining to any Roman priest who was devoted to the service 
of one especial God. Quaint is probably here used in the sense of curious, or 
perhaps of fantastic. It has lately been suggested by a correspondent of The 
Academy that the word employed by Milton was quent, an early form of 
quenched. Verse 22. L. i. Baalim is here used in the sense of Gods only; 
the true meaning of the word being the lesser Baals, or local minor Gods, who 
were emanations of Baal, the great God of the Phoenicians. Baal-Peor was one 
of these, and has by some commentators been identified with Priapus. 
Ibid. L. 3. twice-battered God of Palestine Dagon. Ibid. L. 4. Mooned 
Ashtoroth~h.s>tz.rte, the local Goddess of Sidon, identified later with the Greek 
Aphrodite. Astarte was one of those Phoenician deities who were admitted 
into the Egyptian pantheon. She is represented at Edfoo in Upper Egypt 
with the head of a lioness, and crowned with the solar disk. Milton had 
evidently seen some representation of Astarte crowned in this manner, and 
had mistaken the disk for that of the moon. Ibid. L. 7. Lybic Hawmon 
shrinks his horn an allusion to the Egyptian Amen, the deity worshipped at 
the Oasis of Amen, now called the oasis of El Khargeh, which lies W. of the 

NOTES. 289 

Nile in N. Lat. 26, and where there are considerable ruins. This deity, 
commonly called Jupiter Ammon, was in a measure identified with Kneph, the 
ram-headed and demiurgic type of the supreme Amen, and was represented 
horned. An inscription of the elder Darius still extant on the walls of the 
temple at El Khargeh says "thy horns are pointed, twisted are thy horns;" 
and describes the God as "horned in all his beauty." The fossils called 
Ammonites derive their name, curiously enough, from a fancied resemblance to 
the horns of this God. Ibid. L. 8. their -wounded Thammuz a Syrian my- 
thological hero, son of a Syrian King, and beloved by Astarte (see preceding 
note). He was fabled as dying of a wound received from a wild boar, and as 
reviving for the six months of spring and summer in each year. Thammuz 
is better known as Adonis, under which name he came eventually to be 
worshipped in nearly all countries bordering upon the Mediterranean. The 
cult of Thammuz is in fact the worship of the revival of nature in spring and 
summer, and is of purely Phoenician origin. Verse 23. L. i. Sullen Moloch 
a brazen idol fashioned in the form of a man with the head of a calf, worshipped 
with sacrifices of living children by the Hebrews in the valley of Tophet. 
Verse 23. L. 8. Isis and Orus and the dog Anubis Isis, the wife and sister 
of Osiris , is represented crowned with the sun-disk and horns , and is 
sometimes figured under the form of a cow. She was the mother of Horus, 
whose name Milton has spelt without the H. Horus is usually represented in 
the form of a hawk. Anubis was the God who presided over the offices of 
embalming and the rites of sepulture. He is represented with the head not of 
a dog, but a jackal. Verse 24. L. i. Osiris -the God of the lower world, and 
judge of the dead. Mr. Palgrave says : "Osiris, the Egyptian God of Agriculture 
(here, perhaps by con fusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by 
Typho and embalmed after death in a sacred chest." See Notes to Page 47, 
Book II. Golden Treasury. This definition, however, is not altogether satis- 
factory. Osiris, in so far as he is identified with Dionysus, the friend, bene- 
factor, and instructor of man, may certainly be described as the Egyptian God 
of Agriculture ; but he is primarily and principally the Deity of the Lower 
World, the Judge of the Dead, the Great Spirit of the life to come, to whom 
the justified dead are re-united, and in whose essence they are absorbed. 
Apis could scarcely, from any point of view, be " confused" with Osiris. The 
bull Apis was, in fact, Osiris in the flesh. In other words, he was the out- 
ward and visible manifestation of Osiris upon earth; the temporary, but chosen, 
dwelling of the divinity. Philosophically defined, Osiris is the nocturnal sun ; 
i. e. the sun below the horizon ; he who dies each evening, descends into the 
shades, and rises again at morn. He plays in fact the chief part in the great 
Solar myth which underlies the whole religious system of ancient Egypt. 
Ibid. L. 2. Memphian grove - Every Egyptian Temple had its temenos, or 
consecrated enclosure, within which was planted the sacred grove. Ibid. L. 3. 
the unsfarwered grass -?&. allusion to the dryness of the Egyptian climate. 
It is a mistake, however, to suppose that it does not rain in Lower and Middle 
Egypt. Showers are frequent in the Delta, and by no means rare at Cairo. It 
is probable, indeed, that when Memphis was a great city surrounded by 
gardens, groves, and cultivated lands, rain may have fallen even more frequently 
Elder Poets. 19 


than now. Ibid. L. 8. The sable stoled sorcerers bear his isjorshipt ark 
These sable stoled priests are a picturesque device of the poet. The monu- 
mental evidence all goes to show that the priesthood were clothed in white 
robes, over which, when engaged in the celebration of high religious cere- 
monies, they wore a panther skin upon the shoulders. The sacred ark was 
made in the form of a boat and adorned with a central shrine supported by 
winged genii. This shrine, which contained the image, or symbol, of the God, 
was covered by a veil; and the boat was generally decorated at prow and stern 
with carved rams' heads, emblematic of Kneph the creative, or primal deity. 
This ark was carried on men's shoulders by means of poles and rings. See 
the Mosaic description of the ark of the Covenant, which was unquestionably 
modelled on the sacred arks of the Egyptians. Verse 25. L. 6. Typhon huge 
ending in snaky tivine. The Typhon of the Egyptians was usually represented 
under the form of an animal resembling an ass, with pointed ears and a long 
sharp muzzle. In later times that is, during the period of Roman rule he 
appears as a dragon, and Horus, who slew him, takes the form of a hawk- 
headed warrior in Roman costume. In these representations, M. Clermont 
Ganneau has recognised the origin of the myth of St. George and the Dragon. 
St. George, it should be added, is the patron saint of the Coptic Christians, as 
Horus was the favorite warrior-deity of their pagan forefathers. Here, then, 
as in so many other instances, we see conversion made easy by the translation 
of a local God into a Christian saint. The Etruscan Typhon is represented as 
a man to the waist, with twisted snakes for legs. Milton had probably seen 
some antique Etruscan gem engraved with this type. Verse 27. L. 8. bright 
harnesd angels i. e. bright-armoured. In old French, harnois was man's 
armour, harnais was horse's armour; which latter, with an altered application, 
survives as harness in the English of to-day. 


Addison, Joseph: 
Ode on the Universe 


Barnard, Lady Anne: 

Auld Robin Gray ... 253 

Barntfield) Richard: 

The Nightingale .... 22 

Beattie, John: 

The Hermit 198 

Morning 204 

Beaumont, Francis: 

The Life of Man .... 53 

Melancolia 89 

A Bridal Song 96 

To Bacchus 102 

Dancing Chorus .... 102 

Beaiimont and Fletcher: 

The Nobler Love .... 156 

Love's Might 232 

Blake, William: 

Memory and Melancholy . 90 

The Sunflower . . . . 162 

Love Unreturned .... 164 

Mad Song 167 

The Tiger 217 

Love's Prisoner . . . . 235 

To the Muses 257 

Browne, William : 

The Shepherd's Elegy . . 33 

A Welcome 185 

Burton, Robert: 

On Melancholy . . . , 87 
Carew, Thomas: 

To his Lady 14 

June and January ... 74 

Love or Disdain . . . . 150 

Carey, Henry: 

Sally in our Alley . . . 237 
Cartwright, William : 

To Chloe 186 

Chatterton, Thomas: 

A Dirge 247 

Chaucer, Geoffrey: 

Rondeau ...... 3 

To Life's Pilgrim .... 5 

Collins, William: 

Evening 205 

The Death of the Brave 
Crashaw, Richard: 
Tears of Price . . . . 

Cowley, Abraham: 
The Lover to his Lyre 
The Moderate Wisher 





Life's Brevity 55 

The Boldness of Humility . 145 

Cowper, William : 

Alexander Selkirk . . . 
The Poplar Field .... 
The Loss of the Royal 

George 245 

To Mary Unwin .... 255 

Dalrymple, Sir David (Lord 


Edward of the Bloody 
Brand 137 

Davcnant, Sir William: 

Dawn-Song 107 

Dekker, Thomas : 

The Sweetness of Content . 50 
I 9 * 



Donne, Dr. John: 

To his Love (on going a 

Journey) 126 

Fair and False 148 

Dray ton, Michael: 

Love's Last Moments . . 25 
The Battle of Agincourt . 129 

Dmmmond, William : 

To his Lute 28 

Life a Bubble 53 

Illusions 59 

The Pains of Memory . . 180 

Dry den, John: 

Alexander's Feast . . . 258 

Elliot i Sir Gilbert: 

The Faithless Shepherd . 72 

Fletcher, John: 

Slumber-Song 93 

Song of a Satyr .... 104 

Even-Song 105 

Constancy 163 

Fletcher, Giles: 

Song of an Enchantress . 171 

Feltham, Owen : 

Love's Omnipotence . . . 188 

Ford, John: 

Love and Death .... 91 

Gay, John: 

The Lover and the Rose . 116 
Black-eyed Susan . . . 239 

Goldsmith, Oliver: 

A Rural Picture .... 203 

Grahame, James (Marquis 

of Montr ose) : 
Love brooks no Rival 



Gray, Thomas: 

Elegy, written in a Country 


On the Death of a Favourite 
Cat 227 

Greene, Robert: 

Samela 13 

Sweet Obscurity .... 51 

Greville, Fulke (Lord 


Love, Love's Due . . . 143 

Habington, William : 
The Roses in Castara's 

Bosom 113 

Harrington, Sir John : 

The Heart of Stone ... 233 

Hamilton, Charles (Lord 

Binney) : 

Ungrateful Nanny . . . 222 

Herbert, George: 

The Stedfast Life ... 47 

The Virtuous Soul ... 49 

Life and the Flowers . . 160 

The Gift of Rest .... 195 

Man the Microcosm . . . 196 

Her rick, Robert: 

Kissing the Air .... 17 

May-Day 69 

Serenade to Julia .... no 

Go, Happy Rose ! . . . 114 

To Anthea 124 

Counsel to Girls . . . . 147 

The Poetry of Dress . . 157 

To Daffodils 159 

To Blossoms 161 

The Mad Maiden's Song . 165 

A Warning to Beauty . . 184 

Hey wood, Thomas: 

To Diana 99 

Good-Morrow 108 

The Bird's Message . . . 218 

Howard, Henry (Earl of 

Surrey) : 

A Carol of Spring .... 8 
The Happy Life .... 43 
The Lover Unbeloved la- 
ments by Night . . . 176 
Love's Patience .... 230 

James I. (of Scotland): 

Madrigal 8 

Jonsvir, Ben: 

To Celia 16 

The Perfect Life .... 48 

Invocation to Diana . . . 100 

The Sweet Neglect . . . 158 


Kinaston, Sir Francis : 

Beauty Concealed . . . 118 
g) Dr. Henry: 

Sic Vitae . 56 

Against Weeping . . . . 184 

Lodge, Thomas: 

Sonetto 121 

Love's Semblance . , . 155 

Logan, John: 

To the Cuckoo .... 214 
Yarrow Stream .... 245 

Lovelace, Colonel Richard: 

To Althea 117 

To Lucasta, on going to the 

Wars 128 

Her Golden Hair .... 183 

Lylye, John: 

Cupid and Campaspe . . 15 

To Apollo . . . . . . 101 

In Praise of Daphne . . 183 

Lyttleton, George (Lord): 

Tell me, my Heart . . . 189 

Mallet, David: 

The Birks of Invermay . . 213 

Marlowe, Christopher : 
The Passionate Shepherd to 
his Love 10 

Marvell, Andrew: 

Song of the Emigrants in 

Bermuda 65 

The Lover to the Glow- 
worms in 

Milton, John: 

To the Nightingale ... 27 

Lycidas 35 

May Morning 77 

L'Allegro 77 

II Penseroso 82 

To Echo 93 

On his Blindness .... 181 

To Mr. Lawrence ... 182 
Ode on the Morning of 

Christ's Nativity ... 268 

Nash, Thomas: 

Spring 9 

Parker, Marty n: 

Ye Gentlemen of England . 241 




Percy, Thomas (Bishop of 
Dromore) : 

To Nancy 236 

Pope, Alexander: 

The Quiet Life . . . 

Ode on St. Cecilia's Day 

Prior, Matthew: 

Cupid's Mistake . . . 
Raleigh, Sir Walter: 

The Shepherdess's Reply . n 
The Silent Lover .... 122 

All or None 140 

A Vision of "The Faery 

Queen" 173 

Rowley, Samuel: 

Sorrow-Song 92 

Sackville, Charles (Earl of 


To all ye Ladies now on 
Land 242 

Sedley, Sir Charles: 

Love's Unselfishness . . 

Sewell, George: 

The Dying Man in his 

Shakespeare, William : 

The Lover groweth Old . 18 
Love seeth no Change . . 19 
The Lover promiseth Im- 
mortality 20 

Love's Perjuries .... 23 

The Dirge of Imogen . . 41 

A Sea Dirge 42 

Winter 73 

Love's Springtime ... 75 

Orpheus 94 

A Forest-Ditty .... 97 

Matin-Song 106 

Serenade to Sylvia . . . 109 

A Song of Indifference . . 139 

Sweet-and-Twenty . . . 146 

Love-slain 162 

Inconstancy 163 

Ariel's Song 168 

A Fairy's Song .... 169 

To his Love 175 

Love's Shadow .... 177 

Truth the Soul of Beauty . 179 






Shenstone, William : 


Vaughan, Henry: 
The Golden Age .... 


Shirley, James: 

Friends Departed . . 
The Bird 

21 5 

The Last Conqueror . 
Death's Triumph . . . 
Holiday in Arcadia . . 

. 61 
. 62 
. 103 

Verulam , Francis (Lord 
Bacon) : 


Sidney ', Sir Philip: 
A Ditty 

Wastell, Simon: 


Man's Mortality . . . . 


Skelton, John: 
To Maistres Margarete . 

Smollett, Tobias: 
Ode to Leven Water 

Spenser, Edmund' 

. 202 

Waller, Edmund: 
The Rose's Message . . . 
On a Girdle 
The Wisdom of Age . . . 

Webster, John: 



Love in Absence . . . 
Lament for Astrophel 
Sweet and Bitter . . . 
Herself all Treasure . . 

Stanley, Thomas: 



Wither, George: 
Love's Requirements . . 

Wotton, Sir Henry : 
The Lord of Self . . . . 
A Spring Idyll .... 



Cruel and Fair . . . 

Southwell, Robert: 
Chances and Changes . 

Strode, William : 
Praise of Music . . . 

Suckling, Sir John : 
Advice to a Lover * 

6 3 



To Elizabeth of Bohemia . 
Wyatt, Sir Thomas: 
The Lover's Appeal . 
Death's Bounties .... 

Anonymous Poems: 


? 4 


Exchange no Robbery . 

Swift, Jonathan: 
How to make a Beauty 

. 220 

My Swete Swetyng . . . 
Archers Three .... 
Sir Patrick Spence . . . 
Burd Helen .... 



Sylvestre, Joshua: 

I ?8 

Little but Long .... 
The Fairy Queen .... 
The Fly 


Thomson, James: 
To his Dead Love . . 

. 190 

The Plague of Love . . . 
Bonnie George Campbell . 
Love's Lamentation . . . 




Born Died 

Chaucer, Geoffrey . . . . 1328 . 1400 

James I. (of Scotland) 1394 . 1437 

Skelton, John 1460 . 1529 

Wyatt, Thomas . . ...... 1503 . 1542 

Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey) . . . 1515 . 1547 

Raleigh, Sir Walter . .... . 1552 . 1618 

Spenser, Edmund 1553 . 1599 

Lylye, John . . . . . . 1553 . 1601 

Sidney, Sir Philip . , . . . . , . 1554 . 1586 

Greville, Fulke, (Lord Brooke) ... . 1554 . 1628 

Lodge, Thomas 1556 . 1625 

Greene, Robert . . . . . 1560 . 1592 

Southwell, Robert . . . . 1560 . 1595 

Bacon, Francis (Lord) 1561 . 1626 

Harrington, Sir John 1561 . 1612 

Sylvestre, Joshua 1563.1618 

Drayton, Michael 1563 . 1631 

Marlowe, Christopher 1564 . 1593 

Shakespeare, William 1564 . 1616 



Nash, Thomas 
Wotton, Sir Henry . 
Donne, Dr. John 
Jonson, Ben 
Fletcher, John 
Burton, Robert 
Dekker, Thomas 
Rowley, Samuel 
Barnefield, Richard . 
Webster, John 
Drummond, William 
Beaumont, Francis 
Ford, John 
Kinaston, Sir Francis 
Fletcher, Giles 
Wither, George 
Carew, Thomas 
Browne, William 
Herrick, Robert 
King, Dr. Henry , . 
Herbert, George 
Shirley, James 
Strode, William 
Parker, Martyn - . 
Wastell, Simon 
Davenant, Sir William 
Habington, William 
Waller, Edmund . . 
Heywood, Thomas 
Milton, John . . . 
Suckling, Sir John 
Feltham, Owen 








? . 1641 
(XVIth Century) 
(XVIth Century) 
(XVIth Century) 
1585 . 1649 






I6 4 2(?) 


(XVIIth Century) 
(XVIIth Century) 
1605 . 1668 



i6 4 9(?) 


Born Died 

Cartwright, William 1611 . 1643 

Grahame, James (Marquis of Montrose) . 1612 . 1650 

Crashaw, Richard 1615 . 1652 

Cowley, Abraham 1618 . 1667 

Lovelace, Colonel Richard . . . . 1618. 1658 

Marvell, Andrew 1620 . 1678 

Vaughan, Henry . . . . . 1621 1695 

Stanley, Thomas 1625 . 1678 

Dryden, John ...... 1631 . 1700 

Sackville, Charles (Earl of Dorset) . . 1637 . 1706 

Sedley, Sir Charles 1639 . 1701 

Prior, Matthew ...... 1664 . 1721 

Sewell, George ? 1726 

Hamilton, Charles (Lord Binney) ... ? r 732 

Swift, Jonathan 1667 . 1745 

Addison, Joseph 1672 . 1719 

Carey, Henry ? 1743 

Pope, Alexander 1688 . 1744 

Gay, John 1688 . 1732 

Thomson, James 1700 . 1748 

Mallet, David 1700 . 1765 

Lyttleton, George (Lord) . . . . 1709 . 1773 

Shenstone, William 1714 . 1763 

Gray, Thomas . . . . . 1716 . 1771 

Collins, William 1720 . 1756 

Smollett, Tobias 1721. 1771 

Dalryrnple, Sir David (Lord Hailes) . . 1726 . 1792 

Goldsmith, Oliver 1728 . 1774 

Elliot, Sir Gilbert ? . 1777 

Percy, Thomas (Bishop of Dromore) . . 1728 . 1811 

Cowper, William 1731 . 1800 

Beattie, John , . . . . . 1735 l $3 


Born Died 

Logan, John 1748 . 1788 

Barnard, Lady Anne ..... 175 I ^ >2 S 

Chatterton, Thomas 1752 . 1770 

Blake, William 1757 1827 





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m KB 2 6 j,- 


K APR 21 193q 





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