This man is great with little state, Or is sufficed with little, since (at least) He makes his conscience a continual feast. IN PRAISE OF MUSIC 'HE motion which the nine-fold sacred quire THE Of angels make the bliss of all the bless'd, Which (next the Highest) most fills the highest desire And moves but souls that move in Pleasure's rest: The life of life, and soul of joy and love, THE SHOOTING STAR shoots a Star as doth my Mistress glide At midnight through my chamber, which she makes Bright as the sky when moon and stars are spied, Wherewith my sleeping eyes amazèd wake : Which ope no sooner than herself she shuts Out of my sight, away so fast she flies: Which me in mind of my slack service puts ; LOVE'S BLAZONRY HEN I essay to blaze my lovely Love WHEN And to express her all in colours quaint, I rob earth, sea, air, fire, and all above, Of their best parts, but her worst parts to paint : But if the beauty of her mind I touch, Since that before touch'd touch but parts externe, ` I ransack heaven a thousand times as much : Since in that mind we may that Mind discern, That all in All that are or fair or good. And so She's most divine, in flesh and blood. AN HELLESPONT OF CREAM F there were, O! an Hellespont of cream To you, to show to both my love's extreme, Leander-like,—yea! dive from brim to brim. Floating upon 't, that would I make my boat Though sea-sick I might be while it did float. THOMAS NASH F FAIR SUMMER AIR Summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore ! So fair a Summer never look for more! All good things vanish less than in a day: Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year ! What! shall those flowers that deck'd thy garland erst GERVASE MARKHAM SIMPLES COME BUY, you lusty gallants! These simples which I sell! In all your days were never seen like these, Here's the king-cup, the pansy with the violet, The wholesome gilliflower, Both the cowslip, lily, And the daffodilly, With a thousand in my power. Here's golden amaranthus That true love can provoke, Of horehound store, and poisoning hellebore, Here's chaste vervain, and lustful eringo, And rue which cures old age; With a world of others, Making fruitful mothers : All these attend me as my page. WHOEVE JOHN DONNE THE FUNERAL HOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm ! The mystery, the sign you must not touch: Viceroy to that which, then to heaven being gone, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Can tie those parts and make me one of all, Those hairs, which upward grew and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do 't: except she mean'd that I As prisoners then are manacled, when they 're condemn'd to die. Whate'er she mean'd by 't, bury it with me! Love's Martyr, it might breed idolatry T' afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury |