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When Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free;
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When linnet-like confined, I
With shriller note shall sing,
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,
And glories of my king:

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,

Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

SONG, TO LUCASTA.-ON GOING TO THE WARS. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,

That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.

True; a new mistresse now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith imbrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not hononr more.


Why dost thou say I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady, it is already morn ;

It was last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long ;
A tedious twelve hours space!

I should all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Did I still doat upon that face.

Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah! braid no more that shining hair;
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd

As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress, must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then bind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud in night;
But, like the sun in 's early ray,
Shake your head, and scatter day!



[Prefixed to "the Anatomy of Melancholy.] When I go musing all alone, Thinking of divers things foreknown, When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow, and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly, Nought so sweet as Melancholy. When I lie waking, all alone, Recounting what I have ill done,

My thoughts on me then tyrannise,

Fear and sorrow me surprise ;

Whether I tarry still, or go,

Methinks the time moves very slow.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so sad as Melancholy.
When to myself I act, and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side, or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,
In a dark grove, or irksome den,
With discontents and furies, then
A thousand miseries at once

Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so sour as Melancholy.
Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities fine,

Here now, then there, the world is mine;
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.

All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends:-my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headless bears, black men, and apes.
Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so damn'd as Melancholy.

Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Methinks I now embrace my miss :
O blessed days, O sweet content!
In Paradise my time is spent!

Such thoughts may still my fancy move,
So may I ever be in love!

All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.

When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits! O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late.
No torment is so bad as love,
So bitter to my soul can prove.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so harsh as Melancholy.

Friends and companions, get you gone!
'Tis my desire to be alone;

Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.

No gem, no treasure, like to this,
"Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss.
All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
'Tis my sole plague to be alone;
I am a beast, a monster grown;
I will no light nor company,

I find it now my misery.

The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone,
Fear, discontent, and sorrows come.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so fierce as Melancholy.
I'll not change life with any king:
I ravish'd am! can the world bring
More joy, than still to laugh and smile,
In pleasant toys time to beguile?
Do not, O do not trouble me,
So sweet content I feel and see.
All my joys to this are folly,
None so divine as Melancholy.

I'll change my state with any wretch
Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch.
My pain past cure; another hell;
I may not in this torment dwell;
Now, desperate, I hate my life:
Lend me a halter or a knife.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so damn'd as Melancholy.



[In "Britannia's Pastorals." Book II. Song 2.]
Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath: ~
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or—so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.


[In "The Inner Temple Masque."]

Steer, hither steer your winged pines,
All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers:

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;
But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

Exchange, and be a while our guests;
For stars gaze on our eyes;

The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past;

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shewn their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.



He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

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

But a smooth and stedfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combin'd,

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


Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading roses
For, in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair,

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past;



Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The winds blow out, the bubble dies;
The spring entamb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past—and man forgot.



I in these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me,

To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice;
Sit here and see the turtle dove
Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

Or on that bank feel the west wind
Breathe health and plenty: please my mind
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then wash'd off by April showers;
Here hear my Kenna sing a song,
There see a blackbird feed her young,

Or a leverock build her nest:

Here give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love;
Or, with my Bryan and my book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook :

There sit by him and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set,
There bid good morning to next day,
There meditate my time away,
And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to my grave.



A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
Busk busk
ye, ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?
A. I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,'
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow?
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Why does she weep thy bony bony bride?
Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, [weep,

And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow?
What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

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Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, green its grass, its

gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In floury bands thou him didst fetter,
Though he was fair and weil belov'd again,
Than me he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bony bony bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow. O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing,

Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,
But e'er the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning,
But lang e'er night the spear was flown

That slew my love, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be may be proud;

With cruel and ungentle scoffin, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

And strive with threatening words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar ye bridal maids the door,

Let in the expected husband lover.

But who the expected husband husband is? His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after.

Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff take aff these bridal weids,

And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lie all night between my briests,

No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my briests,

No youth shall ever lye there after.

4. Return return, O mournful mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,

He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.



Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, &c.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid!
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, &c.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My love with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, &c.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline:
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new:
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, &c.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, &c.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth,
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy;
For if we doe bot chance to bow,
They'lle use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

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