صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go
And tell her this, but do not so !—
Lest a handsome anger fly

Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I!


About the sweet bag of a bee
Two Cupids fell at odds;

And whose the pretty prize should be
They vow'd to ask the Gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.


May his pretty Duke-ship grow
Like to a rose of Jericho,

Sweeter far than ever yet

Showers or sunshine could beget;
May the Graces and the Hours
Strew his hopes and him with flowers
And so dress him up with love
As to be the chick of Jove;

May the thrice three Sisters sing
Him the sovereign of their spring,
And entitle none to be

Prince of Helicon but he ;

May his soft foot, where it treads,
Gardens thence produce and meads,
And those meadows full be set
With the rose and violet;

May his ample name be known
To the last succession,

And his actions high be told
Through the world, but writ in gold.


In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill,
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath pray'd,
And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decay'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I'm tost about,
Either with despair or doubt;

Yet, before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the Judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd;
When to Thee I have appeal'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!


Here, a little child, I stand,
Heaving up my either hand:
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to thee,
For a benison to fall

On our meat, and on our all. Amen.


O thou, the wonder of all days!
O paragon, and pearl of praise !
O Virgin-martyr, ever blest

Above the rest

Of all the maiden-train! We come,
And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground;
And as we sing thy dirge, we will
The daffadil,

And other flowers, lay upon

The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou wonder of all maids, liest here,
Of daughters all, the dearest dear;
The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meads, from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,

By thy sad loss, our liberty;

His was the bond and cov'nant, yet
Thou paid'st the debt;

Lamented Maid! he won the day:
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along
The olive branch and victor's song;
He slew the Ammonites, we know,
But to thy woe;

And in the purchase of our peace,
The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeal of thine,
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
And to make fine

And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here
Four times bestrew thee every year.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears;
Receive this offering of our hairs;
Receive these crystal vials, fill'd

With tears, distill'd

From teeming eyes; to these we bring,
Each maid, her silver filleting,

To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
These laces, ribbons, and these falls,
These veils, wherewith we use to hide
The bashful bride,

When we conduct her to her groom;
All, all we lay upon thy tomb.

No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yearly festivals,

We, cowslip balls,

Or chains of columbines shall make,
For this or that occasion's sake.

No, no; our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;
Or if we have

One seed of life left, 'tis to keep

A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all paradise;

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense;

Let balm and cassia send their scent

From out thy maiden-monument.

« السابقةمتابعة »