All deepe enrag'd, his sinowie bow he bent,
And shot a shaft that burning from him went,
Wherewith she strooken, look'd so dolefully,
As made Love sigh, to see his tirannie.

And as she wept, her teares to pearle he turn'd,
And wound them on his arme, and for her mourn'd.
Then towards the pallace of the destinies,
Laden with languishment and griefe he flies.

And to those sterne nymphs humblie made request,
Both might enjoy ech other, and be blest.
But with a ghastly dreadfull countenaunce,
Threatning a thousand deaths at everie glaunce,
They answered Love, nor would vouchsafe so much
As one poore word, their hate to him was such:
Harken a while, and I will tell you why.
Heavens winged herrald, Jove-borne Mercury,
The selfe-same day that he asleepe had layd
Inchaunted Argus, spied a countrie mayd,

Whose carelesse haire, in stead of pearle t'adorne it,
Glist'red with deaw, as one that seem'd to skorne it:
Her breath as fragrant as the morning_rose,
Her mind pure, and her toong untaught to glose.
Yet prowd she was, (for loftie pride that dwels
In tow'red courts, is oft in sheapheards cels)
And too too well the faire vermilion knew,
And silver tincture of her cheekes, that drew
The love of everie swaine: On her, this god
Enamoured was, and with his snakie rod,

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Did charme her nimble feet, and made her stay,

The while upon a hillocke downe he lay,

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And sweetly on his pipe began to play,

And with smooth speech, her fancie to assay,

Till in his twining armes he lockt her fast.

Maids are not woon by brutish force and might,
But speeches full of pleasure and delight.
And knowing Hermes courted her, was glad
That she such lovelinesse and beautie had
As could provoke his liking, yet was mute,
And neither would denie, nor graunt his sute.
Still vowd he love, she wanting no excuse
To feed him with delaies, as women use,
Or thirsting after immortalitie,

(All women are ambitious naturallie,)
Impos'd upon her lover such a taske,

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As he ought not performe, nor yet she aske.

A draught of flowing Nectar, she requested,

Wherewith the king of Gods and men is feasted.

He readie to accomplish what she wil'd,
Stole some from Hebe (Hebe, Joves cup fil'd,)
And gave it to his simple rustike love,

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Which being knowne (as what is hid from Jove)
He inly storm'd, and waxt more furious,
Than for the fire filcht by Prometheus
And thrusts him down from heaven.

He wandring here,

In mournfull tearmes, with sad and heavie cheare
Complaind to Cupid, Cupid for his sake,

To be reveng'd on Jove, did undertake;

And those on whom heaven, earth, and hell relies,

I mean the Adamantine Destinies,

He wounds with love, and forst them equallie,
To dote upon deceitfull Mercurie.

They offred him the deadly fatall knife,

That sheares the slender threads of humane life,

At his faire feathered feet, the engins layd,

Which th'earth from ougly Chaos den up-wayd:
These he regarded not, but did intreat,
That Jove, usurper of his fathers seat,
Might presently be banisht into hell,
And aged Saturne in Olympus dwell.

They granted what he crav'd, and once againe,
Saturne and Ops, began their golden raigne.
Murder, rape, warre, lust and trecherie,
Were with Jove clos'd in Stigian Emprie.
But long this blessed time continued not;
As soone as he his wished purpose got,
He recklesse of his promise did despise
The love of th'everlasting Destinies.
They seeing it, both Love and him abhor'd,
And Jupiter unto his place restor❜d.

And but that Learning, in despight of Fate,
Will mount aloft, and enter heaven gate,
And to the seat of Jove it selfe aduaunce,
Hermes had slept in hell with Ignoraunce.
Yet as a punishment they added this,
That he and Povertie should alwaies kis.
And to this day is everie scholler poore,

Grosse gold, from them runs headlong to the boore.
Likewise the angrie sisters thus deluded,

To venge themselves on Hermes, have concluded

That Midas brood shall sit in Honors chaire,

To which the Muses sonnes are only heire :

And fruitfull wits that in aspiring are,

Shall discontent, run into regions farre;

And few great lords in vertuous deeds shall joy,
But be surpris'd with every garish toy,

And still inrich the loftie servile clowne,

Who with incroching guile, keepes learning downe,
Then muse not, Cupids sute no better sped,

Seeing in their loves the Fates were injured.

The end of the first Sestyad.

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BEN JONSON

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame:
While I confesse thy writings to be such,

As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all mens suffrage. But these wayes
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For seeliest Ignorance on these may light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho's right; Or blinde Affection, which doth ne're advance

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise,

And thinke to ruine, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous Baud, or Whore,

Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her more? But thou art proofe against them, and indeed Above th'ill fortune of them, or the need.

I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age!

The applause! delight! the wonder of our Stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye

A little further, to make thee a roome :

Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, And art alive still, while thy Booke doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses; I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses : For, if I thought my judgement were of yeeres, I should commit thee surely with thy peeres, And tell, how farre thou didst our Lily out-shine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlowes mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke, From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschilus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread,

And shake a Stage: Or, when thy Sockes were on,
Leave thee alone, for the comparison

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Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britaine, thou hast one to showe,
To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When like Apollo he came forth to warme
Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme!
Nature her selfe was proud of his designes,
And joy'd to weare the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit.
The merry Greeke, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated, and deserted lye

As they were not of Natures family.

Yet must I not give Nature all: Thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the Poets matter, Nature be,

His Art doth give the fashion. And, that he,
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses anvile: turne the same,

(And himselfe with it) that he thinkes to frame;
Or for the lawrell, he may gaine a scorne,
For a good Poet's made, as well as borne.

And such wert thou. Looke how the fathers face
Lives in his issue, even so, the race

Of Shakespeares minde, and manners brightly shines
In his well torned, and true-filed lines:

In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance,
As brandish't at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appeare,

And make those flights upon the bankes of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere

Advanc'd, and made a Constellation there!

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Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheere the drooping Stage;

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light.

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JOHN DONNE

OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE

WHEREIN BY OCCASION OF THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF
MISTRIS ELIZABETH DRURY, THE FRAILTY AND
THE DECAY OF THE WHOLE WORLD

IS REPRESENTED

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

NOTHING Could make me sooner to confesse
That this world had an everlastingnesse,
Then to consider, that a yeare is runne,

Since both this lower world's, and the Sunnes Sunne,
The Lustre, and the vigor of this all,

Did set; 'twere blasphemie to say, did fall.

But as a ship which hath strooke saile, doth runne
By force of that force which before it wonne :
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,

Though at those two Red seas, which freely ranne,
One from the Trunke, another from the Head,
His soule be sail'd, to her eternall bed,
His eyes will twinckle, and his tongue will roll,
As though he beckned, and cal'd backe his soule,
He graspes his hands, and he pulls up his feet,
And seemes to reach, and to step forth to meet
His soule; when all these motions which we saw,
Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:
Or as a Lute, which in moist weather rings

Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings.

So struggles this dead world, now shee is gone;
For there is motion in corruption.

As some daies are at the Creation nam'd,

Before the Sunne, the which fram'd daies, was fram'd, So after this Sunne's set, some shew appeares,

And orderly vicissitude of yeares.

Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,

Hath drown'd us all, All have forgot all good,
Forgetting her, the maine reserve of all.
Yet in this deluge, grosse and generall,

Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall bee,
To be hereafter prais'd, for praysing thee;
Immortall maid, who though thou would'st refuse
The name of Mother, be unto my Muse

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