Such a man, with every part,
I could give my very heart :
But of one if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.

IN THE Person oF WOMANKIND.

A SONG APOLOGETIC.

Men! if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er

Our own false praises, for your ends: We have both wits and fancies too; And if we must, let's sing of you!

Nor do we doubt but that we can,

If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good in some one man ;
So, going thorough all your strain,
We shall at last of parcels make
One good enough-for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes,
In any curious piece you see,

More pleasure while the thing he makes
Than when 'tis made, why so will we :
And having pleased our art we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.

TO CYNTHIA.

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair!
Now the Sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair

State in wonted manner keep :

Hesperus intreats 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 wished 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 makest a day of night, Goddess excellently bright!

ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.

Marble! weep, for thou dost cover
A dead beauty underneath thee,
Rich as Nature could bequeath thee:
Grant then no rude hand remove her!
All the gazers on the skies

Read not in fair heaven's story

Expresser truth or truer glory

Than they might in her bright eyes.

Rare as wonder was her wit,
And like nectar overflowing;
Till Time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it :
Life whose grief was out of fashion
In these times. Few so have rued
Fate in another. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth! thou hast not such another.

SIMPLICITY.

Still to be neat, still to be dress'd
As you were going to a feast,

Still to be powder'd, still perfumed,-
Lady! it is to be presumed,

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.

SONG OF SATYRS.

А САТСН.

Buzz! quoth the Blue-Fly,
Hum! quoth the Bee
Buzz and hum! they cry,
And so do we.

In his ear! in his nose!

Thus, do you see?

(They tickle him)

He ate the Dormouse

Else it was he!

TO CELIA.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

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 from thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there

If might not wither'd be :

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells (I swear)
Not of itself but thee.

THOMAS DEKKER.

1575?-1640?

CONTENT.

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers :
O sweet Content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed :
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet Content! O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace!

Honest Labour bears a lovely face:
Then hey, nonny, nonny! hey, nonny, nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring,
O sweet Content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears:
O punishment!

Then he that patiently Want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king :
O sweet Content! O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace!
Honest Labour bears a lovely face:

Then hey nonny, nonny! hey nonny, nonny!

JOHN WEBSTER.
1570 ?-1640?

DIRGE.

Hark! now every thing is still,

The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our Dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent,—
Your length in clay's now competent;
A long war disturb'd your mind,—
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,

Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet;
Don clean linen; bathe your feet;
And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucifix let bless your neck!

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day :
End your groan and come away!

DIRGE.

Call for the robin red-breast 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.