96

THE MANLY HEART

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark, how the strings awake:

And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply;

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove;

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie,

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

CIII

THE MANLY HEART

SHALL I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

A. COWLEY

G

THE MANLY HEART

Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-
If she be not so to me

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined.
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposéd nature
Joinéd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move

Me to perish for her love?
Or her merits' value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;

97

98

MELANCHOLY

If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

CIV

G. WITHER

MELANCHOLY

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights,
Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
J. FLETCHER