Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 39

Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade.

Every thing doth pa.s.s away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose!

All the sand of Tagus' sh.o.r.e Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine: While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bow'd, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me: All the stars in Heav'n that s.h.i.+ne, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

Francis Beaumont. 1586-1616

234. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'

Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried-- 'Though G.o.ds they were, as men they died.'

Here are sands, ign.o.ble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

John Ford. 1586-1639

235. Dawn

FLY hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep!

Tho' the eyes be overtaken, Yet the heart doth ever waken Thoughts chain'd up in busy snares Of continual woes and cares: Love and griefs are so exprest As they rather sigh than rest.

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep Watchful sorrows charm'd in sleep!

George Wither. 1588-1667

236. I loved a La.s.s

I LOVED a la.s.s, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpa.s.s her sister, Which pa.s.s'd all others far; She would me honey call, She'd--O she'd kiss me too!

But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Many a merry meeting My love and I have had; She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad; The tears stood in her eyes Like to the morning dew: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo!

George Wither. 1588-1667

237. The Lover's Resolution

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 flow'ry meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?

Shall my silly 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-deservings known Make me quite forget my own?

Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit 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?

She that bears a n.o.ble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er 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?

George Wither. 1588-1667

238. The Choice

ME so oft my fancy drew Here and there, that I ne'er knew Where to place desire before So that range it might no more; But as he that pa.s.seth by Where, in all her jollity, Flora's riches in a row Do in seemly order grow, And a thousand flowers stand Bending as to kiss his hand; Out of which delightful store One he may take and no more; Long he pausing doubteth whether Of those fair ones he should gather.

First the Primrose courts his eyes, Then the Cowslip he espies; Next the Pansy seems to woo him, Then Carnations bow unto him; Which whilst that enamour'd swain From the stalk intends to strain, (As half-fearing to be seen) Prettily her leaves between Peeps the Violet, pale to see That her virtues slighted be; Which so much his liking wins That to seize her he begins.

Yet before he stoop'd so low He his wanton eye did throw On a stem that grew more high, And the Rose did there espy.

Who, beside her previous scent, To procure his eyes content Did display her goodly breast, Where he found at full exprest All the good that Nature showers On a thousand other flowers; Wherewith he affected takes it, His beloved flower he makes it, And without desire of more Walks through all he saw before.

So I wand'ring but erewhile Through the garden of this Isle, Saw rich beauties, I confess, And in number numberless.

Yea, so differing lovely too, That I had a world to do Ere I could set up my rest, Where to choose and choose the best.

Thus I fondly fear'd, till Fate (Which I must confess in that Did a greater favour to me Than the world can malice do me) Show'd to me that matchless flower, Subject for this song of our; Whose perfection having eyed, Reason instantly espied That Desire, which ranged abroad, There would find a period: And no marvel if it might, For it there hath all delight, And in her hath nature placed What each several fair one graced.

Let who list, for me, advance The admired flowers of France, Let who will praise and behold The reserved Marigold; Let the sweet-breath'd Violet now Unto whom she pleaseth bow; And the fairest Lily spread Where she will her golden head; I have such a flower to wear That for those I do not care.

Let the young and happy swains Playing on the Britain plains Court unblamed their shepherdesses, And with their gold curled tresses Toy uncensured, until I Grudge at their prosperity.

Let all times, both present, past, And the age that shall be last, Vaunt the beauties they bring forth.

I have found in one such worth, That content I neither care What the best before me were; Nor desire to live and see Who shall fair hereafter be; For I know the hand of Nature Will not make a fairer creature.

George Wither. 1588-1667

239. A Widow's Hymn

HOW near me came the hand of Death, When at my side he struck my dear, And took away the precious breath Which quicken'd my beloved peer!

How helpless am I thereby made!

By day how grieved, by night how sad!

And now my life's delight is gone, --Alas! how am I left alone!

The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day; Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoy'd in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.