Lovers, like dying men, may well

At first disordered be; Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see.

[RICHARD CRASHAW. 1616-1648.]

EUTHANASIA; OR, THE HAPPY DEATH.

WOULD'ST see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile

Age! would'st see December smile?
Would'st see hosts of new roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In some would'st see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours,
Fall with soft wings stuck with soft
flowers;

And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delav
A kiss, a sigh, and so- away;-
This rare one eader, would'st thou see?
Hark hither!-and thyself be he.

EPITAPH.

To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's their second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force,
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sunder man and wife,
'Cause they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep;
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot love could tie.
And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed, they'll take no harm.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And th' eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into that light
Whose day shall never die in night.

;

O! THOU UNDAUNTED. O! THOU undaunted daughter of desires, By all thy dower of lights and fires By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day; And by thy thirsts of love, more large than they ;

By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire; By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;

By the full kingdom of that final kiss, That seal'd thy parting soul, and made thee his;

By all the heavens thou hast in him,
Fair sister of the seraphim;

By all of him we have in thee,
Leave nothing of myself in me;
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.

Such the maiden
gem,
By the wanton spring put on,

Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the wat'ry sun;
This wat'ry blossom of thy een,
Ripe will make the richer wine.

Fair drop, why quak'st thou so? 'Cause thou straight must lay thy head In the dust? O no,

The dust shall never be thy bed;
A pillow for thee will I bring,
Stuff'd with down of angel's wing:

Thus carried up on high,
(For to heaven thou must go)
Sweetly shalt thou lie,

And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe,
Till the singing orbs awake thee,

And one of their bright chorus make thee.

There thyself shalt be

An eye, but not a weeping one,
Yet I doubt of thee,

Whether th' hadst rather there have shone,

An eye of heaven; or still shine here,
In th' heaven of Mary's eye a tear.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be,

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read, how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave :

I'll seek him there, I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who so rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed; With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home; but 't is decreed That I shall never find him.

[NICHOLAS BRETON. 1555-1624.] PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.

IN the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I went forsooth a maying.

When anon by a wood side,
Where, as May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not,
She said, never man was true:
He says none was false to you;

He said he had lov'd her long;
She says love should have no wrong
Corydon would kiss her then ;
She says, maids must kiss no men,

Till they do for good and all,
When she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth,
Never lov'd a truer youth.

Then with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, faith and troth.
Such as silly shepherds use,
When they will not love abuse;

Love, which had been long deluded,
Was, with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the lady of May.

[MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 1614-1650.] I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.
As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe:
But 'gainst my batteries if I find

Thou storm or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,

I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to share with me:
Or committees if thou erect,
Or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.
But if no faithless action stain

Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways

As ne'er was known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more.

[RICHARD ALLISON. 1606.] THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;

[SIMON WASTELL. 1623.]
MAN'S MORTALITY.
The Microbiblia.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had.
E'en such is man; whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth;
The flower fades, the morning hasteth;
The sun sets, the shadow flies;
The gourd consumes,—and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan.
E'en such is man; who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended;
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended;
The hour is short, the span is long;
The swan's near death,-man's life is
done!

[THOMAS DURFEY. Died 1723.]

STILL WATER.

DAMON, let a friend advise ye,
Follow Clores though she flies ye,
Though her tongue your suit is slighting,
Her kind eyes you'll find inviting:
Women's rage, like shallow water,
Does but show their hurtless nature;
When the stream seems rough and
frowning,

There is still least fear of drowning.

Let me tell the adventurous stranger,
In our calmness lies our danger;
Like a river's silent running,
Stillness shows our depth and cunning:
She that rails ye into trembling,
Only shows her fine dissembling;
But the fawner to abuse ye,
Thinks ye fools, and so will use ye.

JOHN MILTON. 1608-1664] THE INVOCATION AND INTRO

DUCTION.

Paradise Lost.

Or man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top

Of Oreb, or of Sinal, didst inspire That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,

In the beginning, how the Heavens and Earth

Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd

Fast by the oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount, while it pur

sues

Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

Before all temples the upright heart and

pure,

Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the first

Wast present, and, with mighty wings out-spread,

Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss

And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark

Illumine; what is low raise and support;
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man.

Say first, for Heaven hides nothing
from thy view,

Nor the deep tract of Hell; say first, what cause

Moved our grand parents, in that happy state,

Favour'd of Heaven so highly, to fall off From their Creator, and transgress his will

For one restraint, lords of the world besides?

Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile,

Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind, what time his pride

Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host

Of rebel angels; by whose aid, aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equalled the Most High,

If he opposed; and, with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God, Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle

proud,

With vain attempt. Him the Almighty power

Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethe

real sky,

With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition; there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy the Omnipotent to

arms.