Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB
[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

And in this mood, charg'd with despair,

With vapour'd sighs I dim the air,

And to the gods make this request—
That, by the ending of my life,

I

may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

From the "Phoenix Nest," edition 1593.

THE DAWN OF LOVE.

THE dew drops that at first of day
Hangs on the violet flower,

Although it shimmereth in the ray,

And trembleth at the zephyr's power,

Shows not so fair and pleasantly

As love that bursts from beauty's eye.

The little bird that clear doth sing
In shelter of green trees,
When flowerets sweet begin to spring
In dew bespangled mees,

Is not so pleasant to mine ear

As love that scantly speaks for fear.

The rose when first it doth prepare
Its ruddy leaves to spread,
And kissed by the cold night air,
Hangs down its coyen head,

ENGLAND'S HELICON.

Is not so fair as love that speaks

In unbid blush on beauty's cheeks.

The pains of war when streams of blood
Are smoking on the ground;
When foemen brim of lustihood,
All mix'd in death are found;
Yea death itself is lightlier borne,
Than cruel beauty's smiling scorn.

47

From the old scarce pastoral poem of "The Shepheardes' Garland," printed by Jaggard, 1597.

COME AWAY, COME SWEET LOVE.

COME away, come sweet love!

The golden morning breaks;

All the earth, all the air,

Of love and pleasure speaks;
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet rosy lips to kiss,

And mix our souls in mutual bliss:
Eyes were made for beauty's grace,
Viewing, ruing, love's long pain,
Procur'd by beauty's long disdain.

Come away, come sweet love!
The golden morning wastes;

While the sun, from his sphere
His fiery arrows casts,

Making all the shadows fly,
Playing, staying in the grove,

To entertain the stealth of love:

Thither, sweet love, let us hie,

Flying, dying in desire,

Wing'd with sweet hopes, and heavenly fire.

Come away, come sweet love!

Do not in vain adorn

Beauty's grace, that should arise

Like to the naked morn;

Lilies on the river side,

And fair Cyprian flowers newly born,

Ask no beauties but their own:

Ornament is nurse of pride,

Flying, dying in desire,

Wing'd with sweet hopes, and heavenly pride.

The foregoing song is from "England's Helicon." In a manuscript collection of airs in our possession, written above two hundred years ago, the music of the above song is to be found, taken, we presume, either from "England's Helicon," or the same source from whence it had been originally obtained.

wwwwwww

HER TRIUMPH.

SEE the chariot at hand here of love,

Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car love guideth.

[blocks in formation]

And enamour'd do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Thro' swords, thro' seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her, it is bright

As love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her!

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Have mark'd but the fall of the snow,

you

Before the soil hath smutch'd it?

Have

you felt the wool of the beaver,

Or swan's down ever?

Or have smell'd of the bud o' the briar?

Or the 'nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

F

49

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

STILL to be neat, still to be dress'd,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd;
Lady! it is to be presum'd,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:

Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes,

but not my

heart.

The two foregoing Pieces are by BEN JOHNSON, the friend and contemporary of Shakespeare. The last is from his "Silent Woman," first acted in 1609. He was born 1574, died 1657.

wwwwwww

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

I lov'd thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,

What reason I should be the same?
He that can love, unlov'd again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

« ZurückWeiter »