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LXIV

FIDELE

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;.
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

W. Shakespeare

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LXV

A SEA DIRGE

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,-

Ding, dong, bell.

W. Shakespeare

LXVI

A LAND DIRGE

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
5 Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 10 For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

J. Webster

LXVII

POST MORTEM

If Thou survive my well-contented day When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover; 5 Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought10 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
W. Shakespeare

LXVIII

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell; 5 Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if, I say, you look upon this verse 10 When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. W. Shakespeare

LXX

A DILEMMA

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting

Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours,
And then behold your lips where sweet love

harbours,

My eyes present me with a double doubting: 5 For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. Anon.

LXXI

ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL

Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.

Whist, wanton, will ye?

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

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And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth a pin;
-Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

T. Lodge

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LXXII

CUPID AND CAMPASPE

Cupid and my Campaspé play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspé win:
And last he set her both his eyes-
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

J. Lylye