« السابقةمتابعة »
And all those airy silks to flow,
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
This day, my Julia, thou must make
HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON.
When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben, to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
Candles I'll give to thee,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON.
Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic winc.
Or come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,
Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of such a wit the world should have no more.
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
-Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
And hast command of every part,
Now is the time when all the lights wax dim;
Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon
Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb
In which thy sacred reliques shall have room;
For my embalming, Sweetest, there will be
Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?
Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come,
'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,
That I must give thee the supremest kiss :
am, first cast in salt, and bring
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst implore
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Come, Anthea, let us two
Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,
Are the junkets still at wakes;
Unto which the tribes resort,
Where the business is the sport:
Morris-dancers thou shalt see,
Marian, too, in pageantry:
And a mimic to devise
Many grinning properties.
Players there will be, and those
Near the dying of the day
Where a coxcomb will be broke,
And possess no other fear,
Than to want the Wake next year.
TO ROBIN RED-BREAST.
Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
TO THE LARK.
Good speed, for I this day
Because I do
Begin to woo,
Sweet singing Lark,
Be thou the clerk,
To say Amen.
And if I prove
High Priest to me,
To incense burn,
And so to solemnise
Love's and my sacrifice.
TO THE ROSE.
Go, happy Rose, and interwove