Do but look on her eyes, they do light And from her arched brows, such a grace As alone there triúmphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white,—O so soft,-O so sweet is she! TRUTH. [From Hymenai; or, the Solemnities of Masque and Barriers at the marriage of the Earl of Essex, 1606.] Upon her head she wears a crown of stars, Through which her orient hair waves to her waist, By which believing mortals hold her fast, And in those golden cords are carried even, Till with her breath she blows them up to heaven. To signify her sight in mysteries: Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white dove, And at her feet do witty serpents move: Her spacious arms do reach from east to west, And you may see her heart shine through her breast. Her left a curious bunch of golden keys, 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; And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory backed Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists, That fire and water, earth and air combines. Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still. THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY. [From Pan's Anniversary; or, The Shepherds' Holiday: 1625.] First Nymph. Thus, thus begin, the yearly rites Are due to Pan on these bright nights; His morn now riseth and invites To sports, to dances, and delights: All envious and profane, away! Second Nymph. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, Third Nymph. Drop, drop you violets, change your hues Now red, now pale, as lovers use, And in your death go out as well, As when you lived unto the smell: SONG BEFORE THE ENTRY OF THE MASQUERS. [From The Fortunate Isles and their Union, 1625.] Spring all the graces of the age, And all the loves of time; Add all the softnesses of courts, The looks, the laughters and the sports; ODE TO HIMSELF. [Written after the failure of the comedy The New Inn, 'never acted, but most negligently played by some, the king's servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the king's subjects,' January 19, 1629.] Come, leave the loathed stage, Usurp the chair of wit! Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; 'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste To offer them a surfeit of pure bread No, give them grains their fill, Husks, draff to drink or swill: If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate's with the swine, No doubt some mouldy tale, Like Pericles, and stale As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish- Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub, As the best-ordered meal; For who the relish of these guests will fit, And much good do 't you then: Brave plush-and-velvet-men Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes, The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers, Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks; Which if they are torn, and turned, and patched enough, The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcaic lute; Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre; Warm thee by Pindar's fire : And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat, As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy king, His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men : Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, In sound of peace or wars, No harp e'er hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, SONG. TO CELIA1. [From The Forest.] Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, EPIGRAMS. TO MY MERE ENGLISH CENSURER. To thee, my way in Epigrams seems new, 1 From the (prose) love-letters of Philostratus the younger (about 250 A.D.) 2 Author of the Scourge of Folly. 3 Compiler of Funeral Monuments. |