This man is great with little state,
Lord of the world epitomized:
Who with staid front out-faceth Fate;
And, being empty, is sufficed,—

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 heavenly charm that lullabies our woes,
And recollects the mind that cares distract,
The lively death of joyless thoughts o'erthrows,
And brings rare joys but thought on into act :
Which like the Soul of all the world doth move,
The universal nature of this All:

The life of life, and soul of joy and love,
High rapture's heaven: the That I can not call
(Like God) by rèal name: and what is this
But Music, next the Highest, the highest bliss?

THE SHOOTING STAR

O 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 ;
For which all night I wake, to plague mine eyes.
Shoot, Star! once more, and if I be thy mark
Thou shalt hit me, for thee I'll meet withal.
Let mine eyes once more see thee in the dark!
Else they with ceaseless waking out will fall :
And if again such time and place I lose
To close with thee, let mine eyes never close.

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 :
Staidness from earth, from sea the clearest part,
From air her subtlety, from fire her light;
From sun, moon, stars, the glory they impart :
So rob and wrong I all, to do her right.

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
Between us, milk-white Mistress! I would swim

To you, to show to both my love's extreme,

Leander-like,

yea! dive from brim to brim.
But met I with a butter'd pippin-pie
Floating upon 't, that would I make my boat
To waft me to you without jeopardy :
Though sea-sick I might be while it did float.
Yet if a storm should rise, by night or day,
Of sugar-snows or hail of care-aways,
Then, if I found a pancake in my way,
It like a plank should bear me to your quays.
Which having found, if they tobacco kept,
The smoke should dry me well before I slept.

THOMAS NASH

FAIR SUMMER

AIR Summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore !

FAIR

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!
The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

What! shall those flowers that deck'd thy garland erst
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?

O trees! consume your sap in sorrow's source ;
Streams! turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year!
The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

GERVASE MARKHAM

SIMPLES

"OME BUY, you lusty gallants !

CON

These simples which I sell !

In all your days were never seen like these,
For beauty, strength, and smell.

Here's the king-cup, the pansy with the violet,
The rose that loves the shower,

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,
With the polipode of the oak;

Here's chaste vervain, and lustful eringo,
Health-preserving sage,

And rue which cures old age;

With a world of others,

Making fruitful mothers :

All these attend me as my page.

JOHN DONNE

THE FUNERAL

HOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm

WHOEVER Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm !
The mystery, the sign you must not touch:
For 'tis my outward soul,

Viceroy to that which, then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to controul

And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part

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
By this should know my pain,

As prisoners then are manacled, when they 're

condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she mean'd by 't, bury it with me!
For since I am

Love's Martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into other hands these relics came.
As 'twas humility

T'afford to it all that a soul can do,

So 'tis some bravery

That, since you would have none of me, I bury

some of you.