LXXVIII. A MESSAGE BY MUSIC. FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. All that I sang still to her praise did tend, LXXIX. ΤΟ ΡΑΝ. ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet With his honour and his name That defends our flocks from blame. He is great and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy! Ever honoured! ever young! Thus great Pan is ever sung. Beaumont and Fletcher. LXXX. A COMPLAINT. I LIVE, and yet methinks I do not breathe; O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar THE ANSWER THERETO. THERE is a jewel which no Indian mines LXXXI. SONG. WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan; Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. John Fletcher. LXXXII. THE ARGUMENT OF THE HESPERIDES. I SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, : LXXXIII. TO HIS MISTRESS. How many new years have grown old How many long hours have I told Since first my love was vowed to you! And yet, alas! she doth not know Whether her servant love or no. How many walls as white as snow, Which faithfully performed was! How often hath my pale lean face, Whom neither sighs nor tears can move! O cruel, yet do you not know Whether your servant love or no? And wanting oft a better token, I have been fain to send my heart, Which now your cold disdain hath broken, Nor can you heal 't by any art : O look upon 't, and you shall know Whether your servant love or no.-Anon. LXXXIV. TO SLEEP. COME, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence, I may feel an influence, All my powers of care bereaving! Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Beaumont and Fletcher. LXXXV. HIS EPITAPH. ONLY a little more I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night. 'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it; And then I must away. O time that cutt'st down all! And scarce leav'st here Of any men that were. How many lie forgot In vaults beneath? And piece-meal rot Without a fame in death? Behold this living stone, I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee. |