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The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle,
A little pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor one falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she join’d,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coin'd,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing!
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.
She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth,
She bade love last, and yet she fell a turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Then inust the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Downland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound,
That Phebus' lute, the queen of music, makes: And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.
Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack ! too timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting! What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, might
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have ;
For why? thou left'st me nothing in thy will.
And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave;
For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee;
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
Crabbed age and youth,
Cannot live together; 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care :
Age like winter weather;
Youth like suinmer brave,
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold ; Jf by me broke, what fool is not so wise
Youth is wild, and age is tame. To break an oath to win a paradise ?
Age, I do abhor thee; Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle,
Youth I do adore thee ;
O, my love, my love is young:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Age I do defy thee;
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
Do not call it sin in me, For methinks thou stay'st too long.
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
Juno but an Ethiope were ; A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly ;
And deny himself for Jore,
Turning mortal for thy love."
As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May, As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
Sitting in a pleasant shade As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
Which a grove of myrtles made, As broken glass no cement can redress,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring: In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
Every thing did banish moan, Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share :
Save the nightingale alone : She bade good night, that kept my rest away;
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And daft me to a cabin hang'd with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. [row;"
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity: “ Farewell," quoth she, “and come again to-mor
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry, Farewell, I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.
Teru, Teru, by and by: Yet at my parting sweetly she did smile,
That to hear her so complain, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
Scarce I could from tears refrain; May be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
For her griefs, so lively shewn,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None take pity on thy pain : Lord how mine eyes threw gazes to the east ! Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
King Pandion, be is dead; Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead: While Philomela sings, I sit and mark,
All thy fellow birds do sing, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark ; Careless of thy sorrowing. For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty, Even so, poor bird, like thee, And drives away dark dismal dreaming night:
None alive will pity me. The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty ;
Whilst as fickle fortune smild,
Thou and I were both beguild,
Faithful friends are hard to find.
No man will supply thy want. Short night, to-nighi, and length thyself to-morrow. If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call; On a day (alack the day :)
And with such like flattering, Love, whose month was ever May,
“ Pity but he were a king." Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
If he be addict to vice, Playing in the wanton air.
Quickly him they will entice; Through the velvet leaves the wind,
If to women he be bent, All unseen, 'gan passage find;
They have him at commandement; That the lover, sick to death,
But if fortune once do frown, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath:
Then farewel his great renowo : “ Air,” quoth he," thy cheeks may blow;
They that fawn'd on him before, Air, would I might triumph so !
Use his company no more. But, alas! my hand hath sworn
He that is thy friend indeed, Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
He will help thee in thy need;
FROM THE TEMPEST.
If thou sorrow he will weep;
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here inclos'd in cinders lie. Let the bird of loudest lay,
Death is now the phenix' nest; On the sole Arabian tree,
And the turtle's loyal breast Herald sad and trumpet be,
To eternity doth rest, To whose sound chaste wings obey.
Leaving no posterity : But thou shrinking harbinger,
'Twas not their infirmity, Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be ;
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; From this session interdict
Truth and beauty buried be. Every fowl of tyrant wing,
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair ;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
SONGS FROM SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS.
Come unto these yellow sands, That thy sable gender mak'st
And then take hands : With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd, Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
(The wild waves whist) Here the anthem doth commence :-
Foot it featly here and there ; Love and constancy is dead ;
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.
Hark, hark ! Phenix and the turtle fled
Bur. In a mutual flame from hence.
The watch-dogs bark : So they lov’d, as love in twain
Bur. Bough, wowgh, Had the essence but in one ;
Hark, hark! I hear Two distincts, division none :
The strain of struiting chanticlere
Full fathom five thy father lies, 'Twixt the turtle and his queen ;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :
Nothing of him that can 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.
[Burden, ding-doug. That the self was not the same ; Single nature's double name
Where the bee sucks, there lurk I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie :
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bats back I do fly,
After sunset, merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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.
Under the greenwood tree,
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Here shall he see
Seeking the food he eats,
Here shall he see
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
Do paint the meadows with delight,
And merry larks are plowmen's clocks,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
As man's ingratitude ;
Although thy breath be rude.
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
As benefits forgot :
As friend remember'd not.
Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled ? No; Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage ; That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age. Some, of violated vows
"Twixt the souls of friend and friend : But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write ;
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 raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm; With all graces wide enlarg'd:
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
Cleopatra's majesty :
Hark, now every thing is still ;
The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly d'on her shroud.
had of land and rent;
Your length in clay now's competent.
A long war disturb'd the mind :
Here the perfect peace is signed.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ?
Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping :
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew the hair with powder sweet,
D'on clean linen, bathe the feet :
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless the neck.
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day:
End the groan, and come away.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages :
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;
To thee the reed is as the oak :
All follow this and come to dust.
Consign to thee and come to dust.
And renowned be thy grave!
FROM THE ELDER BROTHER.
Where the air
Where the violet and the rose
Their blue veins in blush disclose,
And planted there,
Where to gain a favour is
More than light, perpetual bliss,
To this light,
Both the wonder and the story
Shall be yours, and eke the glory:
FROM THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.
Of the dismal yew ;
Say, I died true :
From my hour of birth.
Lightly, gentle earth!