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This Lamp, through all the regions of my brain,
Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace,
As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain

Each subtle line of her immortal face.

[From NOSCE TEIPSUM.]

THOMAS DEKKER [1570?-1641]

SONG

COLD'S the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee:

Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Down a down! hey down a down!
Hey derry derry, down a down!
Ho well done; to me let come!
Ring, compass, gentle joy.

Trowl the bowl, etc.

[From THE SHOEMAKER'S HOLIDAY.]

RUSTIC SONG

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer-Queen!

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green!

Sing, dance, and play,

"Tis holiday!

The sun does bravely shine
On our ears of corn.
Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl—

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine!

Let us die ere away they be borne.

Bow to the sun, to our Queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in princes' courts.

These and we

With country glee

Will teach the woods to resound,

And the hills with echoes hollow:
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams

'Mongst kids shall trip it roundFor joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly!

Hounds, make a lusty cry!

Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely,

Then let your brave hawks fly!

Horses amain,

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase: 'Tis a sport to content a king.

So ho! ho! through the skies How the proud bird flies, And sousing, kills with a grace!

Now the deer falls-hark! how they ring!

[From THE SUN'S DARLING, by Dekker and Ford.]

BEN JONSON [1573?-1637]*

SONG TO CELIA

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll 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.

HYMN TO DIANA

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 wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

* See note on page 130.

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!

[From CYNTHIA'S REVELS.]

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her;

And from her arched brows, such a grace

Sheds itself through the face

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall of the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it?

Have you felt the wool of the beaver?

Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:

List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers,

Fall grief in showers,

Our beauties are not ours;

O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,

Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.

[From CYNTHIA'S REVELS.]

SONG

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
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 look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

[From EPICÆNE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN.]

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