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And for because my want should more my woe increase,

In watch and sleep both day and night my will doth never cease. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did lose the sight,

Was never thing that mought in ought my wofull hart delight.

Th' uneasy life I lead doth teach me for

to mete,

The floods, the seas, the land, the hills, that doth them intermete, Twene me and those shene lights that wonted for to clere,

My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as bright as Phebus sphere;

It teacheth me also, what was my pleasant state,

The more to feele by such record how

that my welth doth bate.

If such record (alas) provoke the inflamed mynde,

Which sprung that day that I dyd leave the best of me behynde,

If love forgeat himselfe by length of absence let,

Who doth me guid (O wofull wretch) unto this baited net :

Where doth encrease my care, much better were for me,

As dumm as stone all things forgott, still absent for to be.

Alas the clear christall, the bright tran

splendant glasse,

Doth not bewray the colours hid which underneath it hase.

As doth the accumbred sprite the thoughtfull throwes discover,

Of teares delyte of fervent love that in our hartes we cover,

Out by these eyes, it sheweth that evermore delight;

In plaint and teares to seek redress, and eke both day and night. Those kindes of pleasures most wherein men soe rejoice,

To me they do redouble still of stormy sighes the voice.

For, I am one of them, whom plaint doth well content,

It fits me well my absent wealth me semes for to lament,

And with my teares t' assy to charge myne eyes twayne,

Like as my hart above the brink is fraughted full of payne.

And for because thereto, that these fair eyes do treate,

Do me provoke, I will returne, my plaint thus to repeate;

For there is nothing els, so toucheth me within,

Where they rule all, and I alone, nought but the case or skin.

Wherefore I shall returne to them as well or spring,

From whom descends my mortall wo, above all other thing.

So shall myne eyes in paine accompany my heart,

That were the guides, that did it lead of love to feel the smart.

The crisped gold that doth surmount Appolloe's pride,

The lively streames of pleasant starrs that under it doth glyde,

Wherein the beames of love doe still increase theire heate,

Which yet so far touch me to near in cold

to make me sweat,

The wise and pleasant take, so rare or else alone,

That gave to me the curties gyft, that earst had never none.

Be far from me alas, and every other thing,

I might forbear with better will, then this that did me bring.

With pleasand woord and cheer, redress of lingred payne,

And wonted oft in kindled will, to vertue me to trayne.

Thus am I forc'd to hear and hearken

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As they have been of yore.

For reason me denyes
This youthly ydle ryme,
And day by day to me cryes,
Leave of these toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my browe,
The furrows in my face,

Say lymping age will lodge hym now, Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I see him ride,

The cough, the cold, the gasping breath
Doth byd me to provyde

A pickax and a spade
And eke a shrowding shete,
A house of clay for to be made,
For such a geaste most mete.

Methinkes I hear the clarke
That knoles the carefull knell,
And byddes me leave my woful warke,
Ere nature me compell.

My kepers knit the knot,
That youth did laugh to skorne,
Of me that cleane shall be forgot,

When she hath read and seen, the griefe As I had not been borne.

wherein I serve,

Between her brests she shall thee put, there shall she thee reserve. Then tell her, that I come, she shall me shortly see,

And if for waight the body fayl, the soul shall to her flee.

THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH
LOVE.

I LOTHE that I dyd love,
In youth that I thought swete,
As time requires for my behove,
Methinks they are not mete.

My lustes they do me leave,
My fancies all are fled,
And tract of time begynnes to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.

For age with stealing steppes
Hath clawde me with his crouche,
And lusty lyfe away she leapes
As there had been none such.
My muse doth not delight
Me as she dyd before,

My hand and pen are not in plight,

Thus must I youth geve up, Whose badge I long dyd weare, To them I yelde the wanton cup, That better may it beare.

Lo, here the bare hed skull, By whose balde signe I know, That stouping age away shall pull Which youthful yeres did sowe.

For beauty with her band These croked cares hath wrought, And shipped me into the land, From whence I fyrst was brought.

And ye that byde behinde, Have ye none other trust As ye of clay were cast by kynd, So shall ye waste to dust.

THE LONGER LIFE THE MORE
OFFENCE.

THE longer life the more offence,
The more offence the greater paine,
The greater paine the lesse defence,
The lesse defence the lesser gaine;
The loss of gaine long yll doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.

The shorter life, less count I finde,
The less account the sooner made,
The account soon made, the merier mind,
The merier mynd doth thought evade;
Short life in truth this thing doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.

Come gentle death, the ebbe of care,
The ebbe of care, the flood of life,
The flood of life, the joyful fare,
The joyful fare, the end of strife,
The end of strife, that thing wish I,
Wherefore come death and let me die.

BEN JONSON.

1573-1637.

[Born 1573; educated at Westminster School and (according to Fuller) at St. John's College, Cambridge. After a brief connection with the trade of his step-father, a master brick-layer, he served as a volunteer in the Low Countries, and settled in London as a playwright not later than 1597. His first important comedy, Every Man in his Humour, was acted 1598; his first tragedy, Sejanus, 1603. His masques chiefly belong to the reign of James I., more especially to its earlier part. He wrote nothing for the stage from 1616 to 1625. After this he produced a few more plays, vithout permanently securing the favor of the public. Of these plays the last but two was The New Inn, the complete failure of which on the stage provoked Jonson's longer Ode to Himself. He enjoyed, however, in his later years, besides a fluctuating court patronage, the general homage of the English world of letters as its veteran chief. He died in London, August 6, 1637. The First Folio edition of his Works, published in 1616, included the Book of Epigrams, and the lyrics and epistles gathered under the heading The Forest in the same Folio; the Second Folio, published posthumously in 1641, contained the larger and (as its name implies) supplementary collection, called Underwoods by its author.]

THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast:
Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

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With which heaven's gates she locketh and displays.

A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast, By which men's consciences are searched and drest;

On her coach-wheels Hypocrisy lies racked;

And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory backed

Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which shines Fate:

An angel ushers her triumphant gait, Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists,

And with them beats back Error, clad

in mists.

Eternal Unity behind her shines,

That fire and water, earth and air com

bines.

Her voice is like a trumpet loud and shrill,

Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still.

EPODE.1

[From The Forest.]

NOT to know vice at all, and keep true

state,

Is virtue and not Fate;

Next to that virtue, is to know vice well, And her black spite expel.

Which to effect (since no breast is so

sure

Or safe, but she'll procure Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard

Of thoughts to watch and ward At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,

That no strange or unkind Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy

Give knowledge instantly

To wakeful reason, our affections' king: Who, in th' examining,

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit

Close the close cause of it.

1 The following is only the earlier (general) part of this fine Epode, "sung to deep ears,"

'Tis the securest policy we have

To make our sense our slave.

But this true course is not embraced by

many

By many? scarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,
Or else the sentinel,

That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep;

Or some great thought doth keep Back the intelligence, and falsely swears They are base and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.

Thus, by these subtle trains

Do several passions invade the mind,
And strike our reason blind.

TO CELIA.

I.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.
II.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee.

JEALOUSY.

WRETCHED and foolish Jealousy,
How cam'st thou thus to enter me?
I ne'er was of thy kind:
Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poor desire,
That others should not warm them at
my fire:

I wish the sun should shine On all men's fruits and flowers, as well as mine.

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[MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull in Warwickshire about the year 1563. He died on the 23d of December, 1631, and lies buried in Westminster Abbey. In 1591 he published The Harmony of the Church, which was for some unknown reason refused a license, and has never been reprinted till recently. It was followed by Idea and The Pastorals, 1593; Mortimeriados (the Barons' Wars), 1596; The Heroical Epistles (one had been separately printed, 1598); The Owl, 1604; Legends of Cromwell and others, 1607-1613; Polyolbion (first eighteen books, 1612, whole, 1622); The Battle of Agincourt, 1626; besides minor works at intervals.]

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