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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,
And fain salute the place where something lay?
And you, sweet Birds, that, shaded from the ray,
Sit carolling, and piping grief away,

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
Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride,

How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near?
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spy'd,
That in one place, for joy, thou canst not bide!
And you dead swallows, that so lively now
Through the flit air you wingèd passage row,
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow?

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,
And lovely flow'rs embellished) adore:

Such roses never in her garland grew;
Such lilies never in her breast she wore;

Like beauty never yet did shine before:

There should the sun another Sun behold,
From whence himself borrows his locks of gold
That kindle heav'n and Earth with beauties manifold.

There might the Violet and Primrose sweet 1
Beams of more lively and more lovely grace,
Arising from their beds of incense meet;
There should the Swallow see new life embrace
Dead ashes, and the grave unheal his face
To let the living from his bowels creep,
Unable longer his own dead to keep:

There heav'n and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep:

Their Lord! before, by other judg'd to die;
Now judge of all himself: before, forsaken
Of all the world, that from his aid did fly;
Now, by the Saints into their armies taken:
Before, for an unworthy man mistaken;

Now, worthy to be God confest; before,
With blasphemies by all the basest lore;
Now, worshipped by Angels that him low adore.

[From CHRIST'S TRIUMPH AFTER DEATH.]

1 exhale.

JOHN WEBSTER [1580?-1625?]

DIRGE

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover

And with leaves and flowers do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

[From THE WHITE DEVIL.]

THREE ANONYMOUS LYRICS

I

O WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side

Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly1 me.

O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
1 slight.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;

"Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvét,
And I mysell in cramasie.3

But had I wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,

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
That she may thy career with roses spread:
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:
Make an eternal Spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

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
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.

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