RICHARD LOVELACE.

(1618-1658.)

From the volume entitled Lucasta, 1649. His poems have been edited by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in the Library of Old Authors, 1864.

GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore,—

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

WHEN

WHEN love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

THE ROSE.

WEET, serene, sky-like flower,

Hasten to adorn her bower,

From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.

New-startled blush of Flora,
The grief of pale Aurora

(Who will contest no more),
Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven,

Love's couch's coverled,

Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus
And jolly plump Silenus,

Haste, haste to deck the hair
Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower,

Her floor is all this flower,
Her bed a rosy nest

By a bed of roses pressed!

JAMES SHIRLEY.

(1596-1666.)

The resonant verses on Death's Final Conquest occur in the Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 1659. The second song is from The Imposture, a Tragi-Comedy, 1652 (licensed 1640). It was first printed in the 1646 edition of Shirley's Poems. Shirley's Dramatic Works and Poems have been edited by Gifford and Dyce (6 vols., London, 1833).

A DIRGE.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your head must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

PEACE RESTORED.

You virgins, that did late despair

To keep your wealth from cruel men,

Tie up in silk your careless hair,
Soft peace is come again.

Now lovers' eyes may gently shoot
A flame that will not kill;

The drum was angry, but the lute

Shall whisper what you will.

Sing Iö, Iö! for his sake

That hath restored your drooping heads: With choice of sweetest flowers make

A garden where he treads;

Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring,
A petty triumph to his brow,
Who is the master of our spring,
And all the bloom we owe.

RICHARD BROME.

(?-1652?.)

THE MERRY BEGGARS.

From A Jovial Crew, or the Merry Beggars, 1652 (acted 1641?).

COME,

come away! the spring,

By every bird that can but sing

Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,
In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,

Who in her sweetness strives to outdo

The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.

"Cuckoo," cries he; "Jug, jug, jug," sings she;

From bush to bush, from tree to tree;

Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accompts to make,
Nor land or lease to let or take:
Or if we had, should that remore1 us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort,
It is our kingdom and our court?
"Cuckoo," cries he, &c.

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