"Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast."
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 shrodely 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 Upon the matter, 'twill Thy conquest prove. If Thou subdue mortality,
Thou dost no more than doth the grave; Whereas if I o'ercome Thee and Thy love, Hell, death, and devil come short of me.
LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack'd anything.
"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: Sceptre and crown
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, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late
And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come
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?]
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose, For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day, For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past, For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night, For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest, For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
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, Lest what I made I uncreate;
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.
THIS little vault, this narrow room, Of love and beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here; For ever set to us: by death Sent to enflame the world beneath. 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again; A budding star, that might have grown Into a sun when it had blown. This hopeful beauty did create New life in love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: The flames, the arrows, all lie here.
WILLIAM HABINGTON [1605-1654]
13 TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA
YE blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts, For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow, How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than i' th' open field.
In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.
« PreviousContinue » |