Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet

My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light,

Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me ;
Yet I thought thee

-For thou lovest truth- —an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,

And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,

When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st

when

Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then,

I must confess, it could not choose but be

Profane, to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.

That love is weak where fear's as strong as he ;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,

If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me ;
Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

JOHN DONNE

SEN

THE MESSAGE

END home my long-stray'd eyes to me,
Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee;

Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,
Such forced fashions,

And false passions,
That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain;
But if it be taught by thine
To make jestings

Of protestings,

And break both

Word and oath,

Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lies,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish

And dost languish

For some one

That will none,

Or prove as false as thou art now.

SONG

JOHN DONNE

Sw

WEETEST love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me;

But since that I

At the last must part, 'tis best,
Thus to use myself in jest

By feigned deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day ;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way;
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall ;

But come bad chance,

And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,

My life's blood doth decay.

It cannot be

That thou lovest me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.

Are but turn'd aside to sleep.
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.

BREAK OF DAY

I

TAY, O sweet, and do not rise;

STA

JOHN DONNE

The light that shines comes from thine eyes;

The day breaks not, it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.

Stay, or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.

II

'TIS thou therefore rise from me?
'IS true, 'tis day: what though it be?

Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?

Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye :
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,

And that I loved my heart and honour so,

That I would not from him that had them go.

Must business thee from hence remove?

Oh, that's the worst disease of love.
The poor, the false, the foul, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.

He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man should woo.
JOHN DONNE

PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY 1

PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day,
night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill, let music shrill

Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow;

YE

To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

TO PHILLIS 2

THOMAS HEYWOOD

E little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower,
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower.
Ah me, methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

1 From "The Rape of Lucrece" (1608).

2 From "The Fair Maid of the Exchange" (1607).