Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke: why swell'st thou, then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die. 1633. ΙΟ THOMAS HEYWOOD* PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY, AND WELCOME, DAY Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow, Wake from thy rest, robin-redbreast; Give my fair love good-morrow! Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 1605? JOHN FLETCHER 5 ΙΟ 15 20 1608. SHEPHERDS ALL AND MAIDENS FAIR Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops how they kiss Of these pastures, where they come And let your dogs lie loose without, Or the crafty thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks. HENCE, ALL YOU VAIN DELIGHTS Hence, all you vain delights, If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy, O sweetest melancholy! 5 Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, CARE-CHARMING SLEEP 1647. Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, THE BEGGARS' HOLIDAY ΙΟ 15 5 ΙΟ 1647.. 5 And so merry as do we? Be it peace or be it war, Here at liberty we are, And enjoy our ease and rest. To the field we are not pressed, ΙΟ ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY Mortality, behold and fear: What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones. Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royallest seed 5 ΙΟ That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin. Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Before 1616. 1640. JOHN WEBSTER A DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 151 5 ΙΟ 1612. HARK! NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL Hark! now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Much you had of land and rent: Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturbed your mind: Here your perfect peace is signed. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. 5 ΙΟ |