Page images



When Love with unconfinéd 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 Gods that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,

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, (like committed linnets), 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,
Enlargéd 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


love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Colonel Lovelace.

[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][graphic]

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

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

Saying nothing do't ?

Prythee, 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 D-1 take her !

Sir J. Suckling



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 harmowy

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

e thou art only found
st to
d, bu
o re

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 tby strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

A. Cowley


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 flowery meads in May-

If she think not well of me
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly heart be pined
'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 mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best;

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be i

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the foul and die ?
Sne that bears a noble mind
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her 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 ?

C. Wither


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,

() sweetest Melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd 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.

J. Fletcher

« PreviousContinue »