They were a troop of beauties known well nigh
Through all the plains of happy Britainy.
A shepherd's lad was he, obscure and young,
Who, being first that ever there had sung,
In homely verse expressèd country loves,
And only told them to the beechy groves,
As if to sound his name he never meant
Beyond the compass that his sheep-walk went.
They saw not him, nor them perceived he,
For in the branches of a maple tree

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He shrouded sate, and taught the hollow hill

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To echo forth the music of his quill,

Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound

That where he was concealed they quickly found;
And there they heard him sing a madrigal,
That soon betrayed his cunning to them all.
Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a song,
Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,
Was never heard, they say, by any ear,

Until his Muses had inspired him there.

Though mean and plain his country habit seemed,
Yet by his song the ladies rightly deemed

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That either he had travelled abrode,

Where swains of better knowledge make abode,

Or else that some brave nymph who used that grove

Had deigned to enrich him with her love.

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Approaching nearer therefore to this swain,

They him saluted, and he them again,
In such good fashion as well seemed to be
According to their state and his degree.
Which greetings being passèd, and much chat
Concerning him, the place, with this and that,
He to an arbour doth those beauties bring:
Where he them prays to sit; they him, to sing
And to express that untaught country art
In setting forth the mistress of his heart,
Which they o'erheard him practise, when, unseen,
He thought no ear had witness of it been.

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JAMES SHIRLEY

NO ARMOUR AGAINST FATE

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

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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 heads must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

About 1640?

1659.

GEORGE HERBERT

FROM

THE CHURCH-PORCH

Drink not the third glass, which thou canst not tame,
When once it is within thee; but before

Mayst rule it as thou list, and pour the shame,
Which it would pour on thee, upon the floor.

It is most just to throw that on the ground
Which would throw me there if I keep the round.

The cheapest sins most dearly punished are,
Because to shun them also is so cheap;
For we have wit to mark them and to spare.
O crumble not away thy soul's fair heap!
If thou wilt die, the gates of hell are broad:
Pride and full sins have made the way a road.

Lie not; but let thy heart be true to God,

Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both. Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod;

The stormy working soul spits lies and froth. Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie:

A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.

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Fly idleness; which yet thou canst not fly

By dressing, mistressing, and compliment.

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If those take up thy day, the sun will cry

Against thee; for his light was only lent.

God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers
Into a bed, to sleep out all ill weathers.

When thou dost purpose aught within thy power,

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Be sure to do it though it be but small: Constancy knits the bones, and makes us stour When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall. Who breaks his own bond forfeiteth himself: What nature made a ship he makes a shelf.

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By all means use sometimes to be alone.

Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear. Dare to look in thy chest-for 't is thine own,

And tumble up and down what thou find'st there.

Who cannot rest till he good fellows find,

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He breaks up house, turns out of doors his mind.

Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy.

Why should I feel another man's mistakes

More than his sicknesses or poverty?

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In love I should; but anger is not love,
Nor wisdom neither: therefore gently move.

Calmness is great advantage: he that lets

Another chafe may warm him at his fire,
Mark all his wanderings, and enjoy his frets,
As cunning fencers suffer heat to tire.
Truth dwells not in the clouds: the bow that's there
Doth often aim at, never hit, the sphere.

In brief, acquit thee bravely; play the man.
Look not on pleasures as they come, but go.
Defer not the least virtue; life's poor span

Make not an ell by trifling in thy woe.
If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains;
If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.

VIRTUE

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turr to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

1633.

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THE PEARL

I know the ways of learning, both the head
And pipes that feed the press and make it rụn;
What reason hath from nature borrowèd,

Or of itself, like a good housewife, spun
In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,
What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire;

Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas,

The stock and surplus, cause and history;

All these stand open, or I have the keys:
Yet I love Thee.

I know the ways of honour, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit;
In vies of favours whether party gains,

When glory swells the heart, and mouldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye,
Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie,
And bear the bundle wheresoe'er it goes;
How many drams of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:
Yet I love Thee.

I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;

The propositions of hot blood and brains;

What mirth and music mean; what love and wit Have done these twenty hundred years and more;

I know the projects of unbridled store;

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My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,

And grumble oft that they have more in me

Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love Thee.

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I know all these, and have them in my hand;
Therefore not sealèd but with open eyes

I fly to Thee, and fully understand

Both the main sale and the commodities, And at what rate and price I have Thy love, With all the circumstances that may move.

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