So, if I now should utter this,
Others (because no more

Such stuff to work upon there is)
Would love but as before.

Be he, who loveliness within

Hath found, all outward loathes;
For he, who colour loves and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.

If, as I have, you also do
Virtue in woman see,

And dare love that, and say so too,
And forget the he and she;

And if this love, though placed so,
From profane men you hide,
Which will no faith on this bestow,
Or, if they do, deride:

Then you have done a braver thing,
Than all the worthies did,
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.

THE BLOSSOM.

LITTLE think'st thou, poor flower,

Whom I have watched six or seven days,

And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour

Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,Little think'st thou

That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.

Little think'st thou, poor heart,

That labourest yet to nestle thee,
And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,

And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow,-
Little think'st thou

That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with this sun and me a journey take.

SONNET.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!

HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

WILT Thou forgive that sin, where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.

(M 349)

N

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore:
And having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.

BEN JONSON.

(1573 1637.)

The Works of Ben Jonson, edited by Gifford and Cunningham, 3 vols., London, 1874, is a convenient modern edition. The third volume contains the masques and poems.

ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS.

From Cynthia's Revels (acted 1600), Act i. Sc. I.

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.

QUEEN

UEEN 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.

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.

HYMN TO PAN.

From Pan's Anniversary, a masque presented at court in 1625.

1 Nymph. OF Pan we sing, the best of singers, Pan,

Chorus.

That taught us swains how first to tune our lays,

And on the pipe more airs than Phoebus can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.

2 Nymph. Of Pan we sing, the best of leaders, Pan, That leads the Naiads and the Dryads forth; And to their dances more than Hermes can. Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth.

Chorus.

REESE

LIBRARY

OF THE

UNIVERSITY

3 Nymph. Of Pan we sing, the best of hunters, Pan, That drives the hart to seek unused ways, And in the chase more than Sylvanus can.

Chorus.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.

2 Nymph. Of Pan we sing, the best of shepherds, Pan, That keeps our flocks and us, and both

Chorus.

leads forth

To better pastures than great Pales can.
Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his
worth.

And while his powers and praises thus we sing,
The valleys let rebound and all the rivers ring.

SONG, TO CELIA.

From The Forest, 1616 (written 1605). See the music in
Hullah's Song Book, p. 47.

RINK to me only with thine eyes,

DRINK

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.