Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; For thou lov'st truth-an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when I must confess it could not choose but be Coming and staying show'd thee thee, That Love is weak where Fear's as strong as he; If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have. Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me. 200. The Funeral WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Can better do't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die. Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me, Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry T'afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. 201. A Hymn to God the Father WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; EATH, be not proud, though some have called thee For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die! 203. Philomel S it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Which a grove of myrtles made, 1574-1627 Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; 204. Sweet Content 1575-1641 ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face ; Then hey nonny nonny-hey nonny nonny! Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? Then he that patiently want's burden bears, O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny-hey nonny nonny! 205. THOMAS HEYWOOD Matin Song 157?-1650 PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft |