This Lamp, through all the regions of my brain, Each subtle line of her immortal face. [From NOSCE TEIPSUM.] THOMAS DEKKER [1570?-1641] SONG COLD'S the wind, and wet's the rain, Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, Down a down! hey down a down! Trowl the bowl, etc. [From THE SHOEMAKER'S HOLIDAY.] RUSTIC SONG HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers, Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, Sing, dance, and play, "Tis holiday! The sun does bravely shine 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, These and we With country glee Will teach the woods to resound, And the hills with echoes hollow: 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'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe, 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, Earth, let not thy envious shade Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: * See note on page 130. Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Space to breathe, how short soever: [From CYNTHIA'S REVELS.] THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, 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 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: Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. [From EPICÆNE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN.] |