The night doth posting move,
Yet comes he not again:
God grant some other love
Do not my love detain.

AURELIAN TOWNSEND, Albion's
Triumph, 1631-32.

MERCURY COMPLAINING.

Mercury.

WHAT makes me so unnimbly rise,

That did descend so fleet?

There is no uphill in the skies,

Clouds stay not feathered feet.

Chorus.

Thy wings are singed, and thou canst fly

But slowly now, swift Mercury.

Mercury.

Some lady here is sure to blame,

That from Love's starry skies

Hath shot some beam or sent some flame

Like lightning from her eyes.

Chorus.

Tax not the stars with what the sun,

Too near approached, incensed, hath done.

Mercury.

I'll roll me in Aurora's dew

Or lie in Tethys' bed,

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Or from cool Iris beg a few

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Pure opal showers new shed.

Chorus.

Nor dew, nor showers, nor sea can slake
Thy quenchless heat, but Lethe's lake.

From WALTER PORTER'S Madri-
gals and Airs, 1632.

LOVE IN THY YOUTH.

LOVE in thy youth, fair maid; be wise,
Old Time will make thee colder,
And though each morning new arise
Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young,

Thine eyes like twin stars shining:

But ere another day be sprung,

All these will be declining;

Then winter comes with all his fears,

And all thy sweets shall borrow;

Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,

And I too late shall sorrow.

DISDAIN RETURNED.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from starlike eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

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But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,

Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolved heart to return;

I have searched thy soul within,

And find naught but pride and scorn;

I have learned thy arts, and now

Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.

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PETER HAUSTED, The Rival
Friends, 1632.

HAVE PITY, GRIEF.

HAVE pity, Grief; I cannot pay

The tribute which I owe thee, tears;
Alas those fountains are grown dry,
And 't is in vain to hope supply
From others' eyes; for each man bears
Enough about him of his own

To spend his stock of tears upon.

Woo then the heavens, gentle Love,
To melt a cloud for my relief,

Or woo the deep, or woo the grave;
Woo what thou wilt, so I may have

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Wherewith to pay my debt, for Grief
Has vowed, unless I quickly pay,
To take both life and love away.

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WILLIAM HABINGTON, Castara, Part I, ed. 1634; written about 1632.

TO ROSES

IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA.

YE blushing virgins happy are

In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts,
For he'd prophane so chaste a fair
Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow,

How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden, cowslips so Are sweeter than i' th' open field.

In those white cloisters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,

Each hour more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room
Your glorious sepulchre shall be.

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There wants no marble for a tomb,

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Whose breast hath marble been to me.

UPON CASTARA'S DEPARTURE.

Vows are vain; no suppliant breath
Stays the speed of swift-heeled Death.
Life with her is gone and I

Learn but a new way to die.

See the flowers condole, and all
Wither in my funeral.

The bright lily, as if day,
Parted with her, fades away;
Violets hang their heads and lose
All their beauty; that the rose
A sad part in sorrow bears,
Witness all those dewy tears,
Which as pearl, or diamond like,
Swell upon her blushing cheek.
All things mourn; but O behold
How the withered marigold
Closeth up now she is gone,
Judging her the setting sun.

Castara, Part II, ed. 1634.

TO CASTARA IN A TRANCE.

FORSAKE me not so soon; Castara stay,
And as I break the prison of my clay,
I'll fill the canvas with m' expiring breath
And with thee sail o'er the vast main of death.

Some cherubim thus as we pass shall play:

'Go happy twins of love'; the courteous sea

Shall smooth her wrinkled brow; the winds shall sleep

Or only whisper music to the deep.

Every ungentle rock shall melt away,
The sirens sing to please, not to betray,

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