Earth, let not thy envious shade Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close: Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Goddess excellently bright. BEN JONSON. SONG TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine: 10 15 The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 5 Doth ask a drink divine, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be: But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me: Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. 10 15 BEN JONSON. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; And simple truth his utmost skill: Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 5 10 15 And entertains the harmless day This man is freed from servile bands, 20 Lord of himself, though not of lands; WOTTON. YOU MEANER BEAUTIES OF THE NIGHT. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light; What are you when the Moon shall rise? 5 By your pure purple mantles known, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, By your weak accents; what's your praise, So when my mistress shall be seen In sweetness of her looks and mind; 15 20 WOTTON. THE POVERTY OF RICHES. WANT is the badge of poverty: then he That wanteth most, is the most poor, say we. The toiling swain, that hath with pleasing trouble 5 10 That done, he enjoys the crown of all his labour, To wish that usury were the least of sins : Wishes proceed from want; the richest then, 20 20 'Tis grace, not gold, makes great; sever but which, 25 Lord, pair my wealth by my capacity, Enough, and not too much for thy command. 30 Lord, what thou lend'st shall serve but in the place 35 Of reckoning counters, to sum up thy grace. QUARLES. TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS. TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde, True; a new mistresse now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 5 Yet this inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore: 10 I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honour more. LOVELACE. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN Love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates: The birds, that wanton in the aire, 5 When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, 10 Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, When healths and draughts goe free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertìe. 15 |