you

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

SONNET.

meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun doth rise?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown?
Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise ?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks, and mind;
By virtues first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

STANZAS

From the Reliquia Wottoniana, 1672.

HEART-TEARING cares, and quivering fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,

Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still, And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery,

And sorrows only real be!

Fly from our country pastimes! fly,

Sad troop of human misery!

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azured heav'n, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty.

Peace and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers.

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may

shake,

But blust'ring care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance,
But of our kids, that frisk and prance;
Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one another,

Which done, both bleating run each to his mother; And wounds are never found

Save what the plough-share gives the ground.

Go! let the diving Negro seek

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek,

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;

And gold ne'er here appears

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest, silent groves! O may ye be

For ever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these

mountains,

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains! Which we may every year

Find, when we come a-fishing here.

Ignoto.

то

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

SONG

In the Lady Errant.

carve our loves in myrtle rinds,
And tell our secrets to the woods;
To send our sighs by faithful winds,
And trust our tears unto the floods;
To call where no man hears,
And think that rocks have ears,
To walk, and rest, to live and die,

And yet not know how, whence, or why;
To have our hopes with fear still check'd,
To credit doubts, and truth suspect,
This, this is what we may
A lover's absence say.

FALSEHOOD.

STILL do the stars impart their light

To those that travel in the night; Still time runs on, nor doth the hand Or shadow of the dial stand:

The streams still glide and constant are;

Only thy mind

Untrue I find,

Which carelessly

Neglects to be

Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

TELL

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW.

me not of joys, there's none Now my little sparrow's gone; He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,

He would chirp and flatter me;

He would hang the wing awhile,

Till at length he saw me smile,
Lord! how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again;
He from my lip,

Would moisture sip;

He would from my trencher feed,

Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Philip when h' had done; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed? Oh! how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite;

No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark and do
What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall,
And then straightway sleek them too.

Where will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may,

Not love, convey;
Now this faithful bird is gone,

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving redbreasts, and combine

To sing dirges o'er his stone.

WH

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

SONG.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, if speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.

The Devil take her!

$1609-1641

SONG.

HONEST lover whosoever,

If in all thy love there ever

Was one wavering thought, if thy flame.
Were not still even, still the same;

Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If, when she appears i'th' room,

Thou dost not quake, and art struck dumb,

And in striving this to cover

Dost not speak thy words twice over;

Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

Vol. I.

G.