PHINEAS FLETCHER.

(1582-1648?.)

AN HYMN.

From the Poems of Fletcher, 1633. Reprinted in Chalmers' Poets, vol. vi., and in the Fuller Worthies Library (edited by Dr. Grosart).

DROP, drop, slow tears,

And bathe those beauteous feet,

Which brought from Heaven

The news and Prince of Peace:

Cease not, wet eyes,

His mercies to entreat;

To cry for vengeance

Sin doth never cease:

In your deep floods

Drown all my faults and fears;

Nor let His eye

See sin, but through my tears.

JOHN FORD.

(1586?-1639?.)

CALANTHA'S DIRGE.

From the Broken Heart, 1633 (acted 1629?). Dyce has edited

Ford's Works.

GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease,

Can but please
Outward senses, when the mind
Is untroubled, or by peace refined.
Crowns may flourish and decay,
Beauties shine, but fade away.

Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust.
Earthly honours flow and waste,
Time alone doth change and last.
Sorrows mingled with contents prepare
Rest for care;

Love only reigns in death; though art
Can find no comfort for a Broken Heart.

PENTHEA'S DYING SONG.

H no more, no more, too late

Он

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers

Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burnt out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 't is ever night.

Love is dead; let lovers' eyes
Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes
Ope no more, for now Love dies.

Now Love dies-implying

Love's martyr must be ever, ever dying.

ROBERT DAVENPORT.

(?-1651?.)

From King John and Matilda, 1655 (acted 1636?). A REQUIEM.

MATILDA, now go take thy bed

In the dark dwellings of the dead;

And rise in the great waking day,
Sweet as incense, fresh as May.

Rest thou, chaste soul, fixed in thy proper sphere, Amongst Heaven's fair ones; all are fair ones there.

Chorus.

Rest there, chaste soul, whilst we here troubled say "Time gives us griefs, Death takes our joys away".

"A. W."

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SOUL AND THE

BODY.

"A. W." is a frequent contributor to Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, 1602, where the following extract is found. Various conjectures as to his identity are discussed by Mr. Bullen in the Introduction to his edition of the Rhapsody.

Soul. AY me, poor soul, whom bound in sinful chains

This wretched body keeps against my will! Body. Ay me, poor body, whom for all my pains,

This froward soul causeless condemneth still! Soul. Causeless? Whenas thou striv'st to sin each day! Body. Causeless? Whenas I strive thee to obey! Soul. Thou art the means, by which I fall to sin.

Body. Thou art the cause that sett'st this means a-work.

Soul. No part of thee that hath not faulty been.
Body. I show the poison that in thee doth lurk.
Soul. I shall be pure when so I part from thee.
Body. So were I now, but that thou stainest me.

ANONYMOUS LYRICS, 1604-1675.

SUMMER.

From Weelkes' Madrigals, 1604.

COLD winter ice is fled and gone,

And summer brags on every tree; The red-breast peeps among the throng Of wood-brown birds that wanton be: Each one forgets what they have been, And so doth Phyllis, summer's queen.

IN LAUDEM AMORIS.

From Hume's First Part of Airs, 1605.

FAIN would I change that note

To which fond love hath charmed me

Long, long to sing by rote,

Fancying that that harmed me:
Yet when this thought doth come,
Love is the perfect sum

Of all delight",

I have no other choice

Either for pen or voice

To sing or write.

O Love! they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,

I do adore thee:

I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING.

From the Fair Maid of the Exchange, 1607.

YE little birds that sit and sing

Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phyllis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For, still, methinks, I see her frown;
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber.

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking, she may wonder.

Say to her, 't is her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply

Return with pleasant warblings.