Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 48

Thomas Randolph. 1605-1635

300. An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to hasten Him into the Country

COME, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war-- 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.

Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day?

With what delights Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none.

Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate!

I never mean to wed That torture to my bed: My Muse is she My love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more!

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.

No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape.

Then, full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music 's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the quire; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes; We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all.

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to n.o.ble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: Then I another pipe will take And Doric music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668

301. Aubade

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings.

He takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings-- Awake, awake! the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes, But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes.

Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668

302. To a Mistress Dying

Lover. YOUR beauty, ripe and calm and fresh As eastern summers are, Must now, forsaking time and flesh, Add light to some small star.

Philosopher. Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd, Their light by hers relief might find; But Death will lead her to a shade Where Love is cold and Beauty blind.

Lover. Lovers, whose priests all poets are, Think every mistress, when she dies, Is changed at least into a star: And who dares doubt the poets wise?

Philosopher. But ask not bodies doom'd to die To what abode they go; Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy, It is not safe to know.

Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668

303. Praise and Prayer

PRAISE is devotion fit for mighty minds, The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice; Where Heaven divided faiths united finds: But Prayer in various discord upward flies.

For Prayer the ocean is where diversely Men steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast; Where all our interests so discordant be That half beg winds by which the rest are lost.

By Penitence when we ourselves forsake, 'Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven; In Praise we n.o.bly give what G.o.d may take, And are, without a beggar's blush, forgiven.

Edmund Waller. 1606-1687

304. On a Girdle

THAT which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compa.s.s! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair!

Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!

Edmund Waller. 1606-1687

305. Go, lovely Rose

GO, lovely Rose-- Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die--that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Edmund Waller. 1606-1687

306. Old Age

THE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when pa.s.sions are no more.

For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through c.h.i.n.ks that Time hath made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home.