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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,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end ;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died
for her delight.--Thomas Campion.

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
All this ground,

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 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;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want:
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.

O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?

THE ANSWER THERETO.

THERE is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit ;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain:
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little, all in nought-Content.
John Wilbye.

LXXXI.

SONG.

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that's gone :

Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.

John Fletcher.

LXXXII.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE

HESPERIDES.

I SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;

I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes,
I write of Youth, of Love ;-and have access
By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of barm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King.
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
Robert Herrick.

: LXXXIII.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

How many new years have grown old
Since first your servant old was new!

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,
And windows clear as any glass,
Have I conjured to tell you so,

Which faithfully performed was!
And yet you'll swear you do not know
Whether your servant love or no.

How often hath my pale lean face,
With true characters of my love,
Petitioned to you for grace,

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,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought :
Oh! let my joys have some abiding.

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
Memorial

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.

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