All my joys to this are folly :
None so divine as melancholy!

I'll change my state with any wretch
Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch;
My pain past cure, another hell,
I may not in this torment dwell.
Now desperate, I hate my life :
Lend me a halter or a knife!
All my griefs to this are jolly:
Nought so damn'd as melancholy!

GEORGE WITHER.

1588-1667.

WHAT CARE?

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the Day,

Or the flowery meads in May,-
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind,
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,—

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move

Me to perish for her love?

Or her well-deserving known

Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness bless'd
Which may gain her name of Best,-
If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be ?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do

That without them dare to woo :

And unless that mind I see,

What care I, though great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will none the more despair :
If she love me (this believe!)
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go,—
For if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

RESPECTFUL LOVE.

I

What is the cause when I elsewhere resort
I have my gestures and discourse more free,
And if I please can any Beauty court,
Yet stand so dull and so demure by thee?
Why are my speeches broken whilst I talk?
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?
Why dare I not embrace thee as we walk,
Since with the greatest nymphs I've dared as much?
Ah! know that none of these I e'er affected,

And therefore used a careless courtship there :
Because I neither their disdain respected,
Nor reckon'd them nor their embracings dear.
But loving Thee my love hath found content,
And rich delights in things indifferent.

2

Why covet I thy blessed eyes to see,

Whose sweet aspect may cheer the saddest mind? Why when our bodies must divided be

Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find?

Why do I sleeping start, and waking moan
To find that of my dreamed hopes I miss?
Why do I often contemplate alone

Of such a thing as thy perfection is ?

And wherefore when we meet doth passion stop

My speechless tongue and leave me in a panting?
Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and hope,
In spite of reason almost droop to fainting?

Because in me thy excellences moving
Have drawn to me an excellence in loving.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

1588-91-1643-5.

SIRENS' SONG.

Steer, hither steer your winged pines,
All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers;

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the phoenix' urn and nest :

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more!

For swelling waves our panting breasts
Where never storms arise

Exchange, and be awhile our guests!
For stars gaze on our eyes!

The compass Love shall hourly sing;
And as he goes about the ring

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth, with a kiss.
Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more!

WHOM I LOVE.

Shall I tell you whom I love ?
Hearken then awhile to me!
And if such a woman move
As I now shall versify,
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right

As she scorns the help of Art, In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embraced a heart: So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath ;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath,—

Full of pity as may be :

Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense;

And her virtues grace her birth ;

Lovely as all excellence ;

Modest in her most of mirth :

Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or-so
That she be but somewhile young,
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

WELCOME.

Welcome! welcome! do I sing,-
Far more welcome than the Spring:
He, that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring forever.

Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your ivory pale
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.
Welcome! welcome then I sing-

Love that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome! welcome then I sing-

Love that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome! welcome then I sing

Love to whom your soft lips yield, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the field

Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome! welcome then I sing