109.

SI

The Burning Babe

AS I in hoary winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright
Did in the air appear;

Who, scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shed,

As though His floods should quench His flames,
Which with His tears were bred:

'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born
In fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I!

'My faultless breast the furnace is;
The fuel, wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;
The ashes, shames and scorns;

The fuel Justice layeth on,

And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought

Are men's defilèd souls:

For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood.'
With this He vanish'd out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.

HENRY CONSTABLE

On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney

GIVE

1562?-1613?
IVE pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among
The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.

I did not know that thou wert dead before;
I did not feel the grief I did sustain ;
The greater stroke astonisheth the more;
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;
I stood amazed when others' tears begun,
And now begin to weep when they have done.

SAMUEL DANIEL

Love is a Sickness

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

1562-1619

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full nor fasting.

112.

Ulysses and the Siren

Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,

Possess these shores with me:

The winds and seas are troublesome,

And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these.
But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth:
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.

Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name;

This honour is a thing conceived,
And rests on others' fame:

Begotten only to molest
Our peace, and to beguile

The best thing of our life-our rest,
And give us up to toil.

Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
No honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear

The time in idle sport:

For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much
As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil,

Which you forgo to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversely
Find never tedious day,

And ease may have variety

As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame

These toils and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same
As much as you in ease;

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:

When Pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth Opinion only cause
That's out of Custom bred,

Which makes us many other laws
Than ever Nature did.

No widows wail for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses. But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest:

And these great Spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best:
To purge the mischiefs that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well changed for war.

Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here:
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won, that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not won;
For beauty hath created been
T'undo, or be undone.

113.

Beauty, Time, and Love

SONNETS

I

'AIR is my Love and cruel as she's fair;

FAIR

Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:

A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,

Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.