"Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; DIVINE LOVE THOU art too hard for me in Love. There is no dealing with Thee in that art. That is Thy masterpiece, I see. When I contrive and plot to prove Something that may be conquest on my part, Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me. Sometimes, whenas I wash, I say,And shrodely1 as I think,-Lord, wash my soul, More spotted than my flesh can be! But then there comes into my way Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul And knew it not, yet cleansèd me. I took a time when Thou didst sleep, Great waves of trouble combating my breast: I thought it brave to praise Thee then. Yet then I found that Thou didst creep Into my heart with joy, giving more rest Than flesh did lend Thee back again. Let me but once the conquest have Thou dost no more than doth the grave; I shrewdly. LOVE'S ANSWER LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here:" Love said, "You shall be he." “I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee!" Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" “Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat. JAMES SHIRLEY [1596-1666] THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. [From THE CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ULYSSES.] THOMAS CAREW [1598?-1639?] SONG Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more whither do stray Ask me no more whither doth haste Ask me no more where those stars light Ask me no more if east or west INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse exhaled thy name, And with it imp'd the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fixt thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. AN EPITAPH THIS little vault, this narrow room, WILLIAM HABINGTON [1605-1654] TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA YE blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts, Transplanted thus how bright ye grow, In those white cloisters live secure |