Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

W. Drummond

XLIV

DIRGE OF LOVE

'OME away, come away, Death,

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

W. Shakespeare

F

XLV

FIDELE

EAR no more the heat o' the sun

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages :

Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

W. Shakespeare

XLVI

A SEA DIRGE

ULL fathom five thy father lies:

FULL fathom five toy fa made,

Those are pearls that were his eyes :
Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :

Hark! now I hear them,

Ding, dong, Bell.

W. Shakespeare

XLVII

A LAND DIRGE

ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

CALL for the habir grover the y no ver

And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;

Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought ‘Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage :

But since he died, and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I 'll read, his for his love.'

W. Shakespeare

N

XLIX

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

O longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. Shakespeare

L

MADRIGAL

ELL me where is Fancy bred,

TELL

Or in the heart, or in the head?

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:

Let us all ring fancy's knell ;

I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell.

— Ding, dong, bell.

W. Shakespeare

C

LI

CUPID AND CAMPASPE

'UPID and my Campaspe play'd

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
At last he set her both his eyes -
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me?
J. Lylye

LII

and welcome day,

ACK, clouds, away,

With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I 'll borrow;