And now I all those graces see

That did adorn her virgin brow:
Her eye hath the same flame in't now
To kill or save,―the chemist's fire
Equally burns, so my desire;

Not any rose-bud less within

Her cheek; the same snow on her chin;
Her voice that heavenly music bears
First charm'd my soul, and in my ears
Did leave it trembling; her lips are
The self-same lovely twins they were ;-
After so many years I miss

No flower in all my Paradise.

Time! I despise thy rage and thee:
Thieves do not always thrive, I see.

WILLIAM STRODE.

1600 ?-1644.

A COMMENDATION OF MUSIC.

When whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart,
And when at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat and bear a part,—
When threads can make

A heart-string quake,-
Philosophy

Can scarce deny

The soul consists of harmony.

When unto heavenly joys we feign
Whate'er the soul affecteth most,
Which only thus we can explain
By music of the winged host,-
Whose lays we think

Make stars to wink,

Philosophy

Can scarce deny

Our soul consists of harmony.

O lull me, lull me, charming Air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet!
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ;
Soft, like a spirit, are thy feet.
Grief who needs fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony!

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

1605-1634-5.

TO MR. ANTHONY STAFFORD.

To hasten him into the country.

Come, spur away!

I have no patience for a longer stay,

But must go down,

And leave the chargeable noise of this great town:

I will the country see

Where old Simplicity,

Though hid in grey,
Doth look more gay

Than Foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits! that are

Almost at civil war :

'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world

More of my days

Or to make sport

I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;

For some slight puny of the Inns of Court.

goes mad.

Then, worthy Stafford ! say!
How shall we spend the day,
With what delights

Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure,
Where Mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose,

Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

There from the tree

We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry ;

And every day

Go see the wholesome country-girls make hay,-
Whose brown hath lovelier grace

Than any painted face

That I do know

Hyde Park can show,

Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet

(Though some of them in greater state

Might court my love with plate)

The beauties of the Cheap and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures! these to me are none.

Why do I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate?

I never mean to wed

That torture to my bed;

My Muse is she

My Love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs!

When I am gone,

And the great bugbear, grisly Death,
Shall take this idle breath,

If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more!

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store :

No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape;
Then full we'll seek a shade,

And hear what music's made,
How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,

And how the other birds do fill the quire,

The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes.

We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky!

Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly;
Nor will we spare

To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare,

But let our hounds run loose

In any ground they'll choose;

The buck shall fall,

The stag, and all.

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be:
For to my Muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free;

Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,

And drink by stealth

A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,

I'll take my pipe and try

The Phrygian melody:

Which he that hears

Lets through his ears

A madness to distemper all the brain.
Then I another pipe will take,

And Doric music make

To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

1605-1654.

QUI QUASI FLOS EGREDITUR.

Fair Madam! you

May see what's man in yon bright rose :
Though it the wealth of Nature owes,
It is oppress'd and bends with dew.

Which shows, though Fate
May promise still to warm our lips,
And keep our eyes from an eclipse,
It will our pride with tears abate.

Poor silly flower!

Though on thy beauty thou presume,

And breath which doth the Spring perfume, Thou may'st be cropp'd this very hour.

And though it may

Then thy good fortune be to rest

On the pillow of some Lady's breast,
Thou'lt wither and be thrown away.

For 'tis thy doom,

However, that there shall appear
No memory that thou grew'st here,
Ere the tempestuous winter come.

But flesh is loath

By meditation to foresee

How loathed a nothing it must be,-
Proud in the triumphs of its growth;

And tamely can

Behold this mighty world decay

And wear by the age of Time away,
Yet not discourse the fall of man.