GILES FLETCHER [1585?-1623] NATURE AWAITETH THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST SAY, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, And stick'st thy habit full of dasies red? Seems that thou doest to some high thought aspire, And some new-found-out Bridegroom mean'st to wed: Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparellèd— So never let the spiteful canker waste you! So never let the heav'ns with light'ning blast you! Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you? Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide So often wanders from his nearest way, As though some other way thy stream would slide, The while the lambs do hear you dance and play— Tell me, sweet Birds, what is it you so fain would say? And thou, fair Spouse of Earth, that every year How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? Ye Primroses and purple Violets— Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, And woo men's hands to rend you from your seats, As though you would somewhere be carrièd, With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished? But, ah! I need not ask-'tis surely so! You all would to your Saviour's triumph go, There would ye all await, and humble homage do. There should the Earth herself (with garlands new, Such roses never in her garland grew; Like beauty never yet did shine before: There should the sun another Sun behold, There might the Violet and Primrose sweet 1 There heav'n and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep: Their Lord! before, by other judg'd to die; Now, worthy to be God confest; before, [From CHRIST'S TRIUMPH AFTER DEATH.] 1 exhale. JOHN WEBSTER [1580?-1625?] DIRGE CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm [From THE WHITE DEVIL.] THREE ANONYMOUS LYRICS I O WALY, waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I thought it was a trusty tree; O waly waly, but love be bonny Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; Since my true Love has forsaken me. 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, "Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. We were a comely sight to see; But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win; And I mysell were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me! II My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, It doth so well become her: For every season she hath dressings fit, For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone. 2 Arthur's Seat is a hill near Edinburgh: on one of its slopes is Saint Anton's well. 3 crimson. III LADY, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. WILLIAM DRUMMOND [1585-1649] SUMMONS TO LOVE PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. -This is that happy morn, That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark, (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates my hopes betray), Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto this grove |