Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise.

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;

Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
-The winds all silent are
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place-

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

SLEEP, SILENCE' CHILD

SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possessed,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou sparest, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show;

With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath :
I long to kiss the image of my death.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

DEAR chorister, who from these shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite ;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains

Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky

Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? The bird, as if my question did her move,

With trembling wings sobbed forth, 'I love! I love!'

Her hair about her eyne,

With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen,

At first glance of the morn,

In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flowers
Which of her blood were born,

I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The graces naked danced about the place,

The winds and trees amazed

With silence on her gazed;

The flowers did smile, like those upon her face,
And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,
That she might read my case

A hyacinth I wished me in her hand.

MADRIGAL II

THE beauty and the life

Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon,
O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread
To which pale Atropos had set her knife;

The soul with many a groan

Had left each outward part,

And now did take its last leave of the heart;
Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead;
When the afflicted band about her bed,

Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,
Cried, Ah! and can death enter paradise?'

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

1586-1616

1579-1625

I DIED TRUE

LAY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens willow branches bear;
Say, I die true.

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth,

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

1586-1616

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royallest seed

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin :

Here the bones of birth have cried,

'Though gods they were, as men they died!

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:

Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON

1587-1642

TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY

Do not conceal those radiant eyes,

The starlight of serenest skies;

Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curled hair
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more.

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost.

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,

No spices grow in all the rest.

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,

Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;

Lest, music hearing no such thing,

The nightingale forget to sing.

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;

Lest that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all thy worth.

Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
That's either in thy mind or face;
Lest virtue overcome by vice
Make men believe no Paradise.