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my heart,

And for because my want should more And with my teares ťassy to charge my woe increase,

myne eyes twayne, In watch and sleep both day and night Like as my hart above the brink is my will doth never cease.

fraughted full of payne. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did And for because thereto, that these fair lose the sight,

eyes do treate, Was never thing that mought in ought | Do me provoke, I will returne, my plaint my wofull hart delight.

thus to repeate; Th’ uneasy life I lead doth teach me for For there is nothing els, so toucheth me to mete,

within, The floods, the seas, the land, the hills, Where they rule all, and I alone, nought that doth them intermete,

but the case or skin. Twene me and those shene lights that Wherefore I shall returne to them as wonted for to clere,

well or spring, My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as From whom descends my mortall wo, bright as Phebus sphere;

above all other thing. It teacheth me also, what was my pleas- | So shall myne eyes in paine accompany

ant state, The more to feele by such record how That were the guides, that did it lead of that my welth doth bate.

love to feel the smart. If such record (alas) provoke the in- The crisped gold that doth surmount flamed mynde,

Appolloe's pride, Which sprung that day that I dyd leave The lively streames of pleasant starrs that the best of me behynde,

under it doth glyde, If love forgeat himselfe by length of Wherein the beames of love doe still absence let,

increase theire heate, Who doth me guid (O wofull wretch) Which yet so far touch me to near in cold unto this baited net :

to make me sweat, Where doth encrease my care, much The wise and pleasant take, so rare or better were for me,

else alone, As dumm as stone all things forgott, still That gave to me the curties gyft, that absent for to be.

earst had never none. Alas the clear christall, the bright tran- Be far from me alas, and every other splendant glasse,

thing, Doth not bewray the colours hid which I might forbear with better will, then underneath it hase.

This that did me bring. As doth the accumbred sprite the With pleasand woord and cheer, redress thoughtfull throwes discover,

of lingred payne, Of teares delyte of fervent love that in And wonted oft in kindled will, to vertue our hartes we cover,

me to trayne. Out by these eyes, it sheweth that ever- Thus am I forc'd to hear and hearken

more delight; In plaint and teares to seek redress, and My comfort scant, my large desire in eke both day and night.

doubtful trust renews. Those kindes of pleasures most wherein And yet with more delight to move my

men soe rejoice, To me they do redouble still of stormy I must complaine these hands, those sighes the voice.

armes, that firmly do embrace, For, I am one of them, whom plaint Me from myself, and rule the sterne of doth well content,

my poor life, It fits me well my absent wealth me The sweet disdaynes, the pleasant semes for to lament,

wrathes, and eke the holy strife,

after news,

wofull case,

That wonted well to tune in temper just As they have been of yore. and mete,

For reason me denyes The rage, that oft did make me err by This youthly ydle ryme, furour undiscrete.

And day by day to me cryes, All this is hid from me with sharp and Leave of these toyes in tyme. ragged hills,

The wrinkles in my browe, At others will my long abode, my depe The furrows in my face, dyspayr fulfills.

Say lymping age will lodge hym now, And of my hope sometime ryse up by Where youth must geve him place. some redresse,

The harbinger of death, It stumbleth straite for feable faint my To me I see him ride, fear hath such excesse.

The cough, the cold, the gasping breath Such is the sort of hoape, the less for Doth byd me to provyde more desyre,

A pickax and a spade And yet I trust e're that I dye, to see And eke a shrowding shete, that I require.

A house of clay for to be made, The resting-place of love, where virtue For such a geaste most mete. dwells and growes,

Methinkes I hear the clarke There I desire my weary life sometime That knoles the carefull knell, may take repose,

And byddes me leave my woful warke, My song thou shalt attaine, to find the Ere nature me compell. pleasant place,

My kepers knit the knot, Where she doth live by whom I live, may That youth did laugh to skorne, chance to have this grace.

Of me that cleane shall be forgot, When she hath read and seen, the griefe As I had not been borne. wherein I serve,

Thus must I youth geve up, Between her brests she shall thee put, Whose badge I long dyd weare, there shall she thee reserve.

To them I yelde the wanton cup, Then tell her, that I come, she shall me That better may it beare. shortly see,

Lo, here the bare hed skull, And if for waight the body fayl, the soul By whose balde signe I know, shall to her fee.

That stouping age away shall pull
Which youthful yeres did sowe.

For beauty with her band

These croked cares hath wrought,

And shipped me into the land,

From whence I fyrst was brought.
I LOTHE that I dyd love,

And ye that byde behinde, In youth that I thought swete,

Have ye none other trust As time requires for my behove,

As ye of clay were cast by kynd,
Methinks they are not mete.

So shall ye waste to dust.
My lustes they do me leave,
My fancies all are fled,
And tract of time begynnes to weave

THE LONGER LIFE THE MORE Gray heares upon my hed.

For age with stealing steppes
Hath clawde me with his crouche, The longer life the more offence,
And lusty lyfe away she leapes

The more offence the greater paine, As there had been none such.

The greater paine the lesse defence, My muse doth not delight

The lesse defence the lesser gaine; Me as she dyd before,

The loss of gaine long yll doth trye, My hand and pen are not in plight, Wherefore come death and let me dye.

The shorter life, less count I finde,
The less account the sooner made,
The account soon made, the merier mind,
The merier mynd doth thought evade;
Short life in truth this thing doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.

Come gentle death, the ebbe of care,
The ebbe of care, the flood of life,
The flood of life, the joyful fare,
The joyful fare, the end of strife,
The end of strife, that thing wish I,
Wherefore come death and let me die.


1573–1637 [Born 1573; educated at Westminster School and (according to Fuller) at St. John's College, Cambridge. After a brief connection with the trade of his step-father, a master brick-layer, he served as a volunteer in the Low Countries, and settled in London as a playwright not later than 1597 His first important comedy, Every Man in his Humour, was acted 1598; his first tragedy, Sejanus, 1603. His masques chiefly belong to the reign of James I., more especially to its earlier part. He wrote nothing for the stage from 1616 to 1625. After this he produced a few more plays, v.ithout permanently securing the favor of the public. Of these plays the last but two was The New Inn, the complete failure of which on the stage provoked Jonson's longer Ode to Himself. He enjoyed, however, in his later years, besides a fluctuating court patronage, the general homage of the English world of letters as its veteran chief. He died in London, August 6, 1637. The First Folio edition of his Works, published in 1616, included the Book of Epigrams, and the lyrics and epistles gathered under the heading The Forest in the same Folio; the Second Folio, published posthumously in 1641, contained the larger and (as its name implies) supplementary collection, called Underwoods by its author.]

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast :
Still to be poud’red, 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 looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

TRUTH. [From Hymenæi; or, the Solemnities of

Masque and Barriers at the marriage of

the Earl of Essex, 1606.] UPON her head she wears a crown of

stars, Through which her orient hair waves to

her waist, By which believing mortals hold her

fast, And in those golden cords are carried

even, Till with her breath she blows them up

to heaven. She wears a robe enchased with eagles'

eyes, To signify her sight in mysteries : Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white

dove, And at her feet do witty serpents move: Her spacious arms do reach from east

to west, And you may see her heart shine through

her breast. Her right hand holds a sun with burn

ing rays, Her lest a curious bunch of golden keys,

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With which heaven's gates she locketh

and displays, A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast, By which men's consciences are searched

and drest; On her coach-wheels Hypocrisy lies

racked; And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory

backed Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which

shines Fate : An angel ushers her triumphant gait, Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she

twists, And with them beats back Error, clad

in mists. Eternal Unity behind her shines, That fire and water, earth and air com

bines. Her voice is like a trumpet loud and

shrill, Which bids all sounds in earth and

heaven be still.

'Tis the securest policy we have

To make our sense our slave. But this true course is not embraced by

many By many? scarce by any. For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel, That should ring larum to the heart,

doth sleep; Or some great thought doth keep Back the intelligence, and falsely swears

They are base and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so com

plains. Thus, by these subtle trains Do several passions invade the mind,

And strike our reason blind.



Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within 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.



[From The Forest.] Not to know vice at all, and keep true

state, Is virtue and not Fate; Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,

And her black spite expel. Which to effect (since no breast is so

sure Or safe, but she'll procure Some way of entrance) we must plant a

guard Of thoughts to watch and ward At the eye and ear, the ports unto the

mind, That no strange or unkind Object arrive there, but the heart, our

spy Give knowledge instantly To wakeful reason, our affections' king :

Who, in th' examining, Will quickly taste the treason, and com

mit Close the close cause of it. 1 The following is only the earlier (general) part of this fine Epode, “sung to deep ears,'

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(MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull in Warwickshire about the year 1563. He died on the 23d of December, 1631, and lies buried in Westminster Abbey. In 1591 he published The Harmony of the Church, which was for some unknown reason refused a license, and has never been reprinted till recently. It was followed by Idea and The Pastorals, 1593; Mortimeriados (the Barons' Wars), 1596; The Heroical Epistles (one had been separately printed, 1598); The Owl, 1604; Legends of Cromwell and others, 1607-1613; Polyolbion (first eighteen books, 1612, whole, 1622); The Battle of Agincourt, 1626; besides minor works at intervals.]

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