There is no armour against fate ;

SONG, TO LUCASTA.-ON GOING TO THE WARS. Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, Sceptre and crown

That from the nunnerie Must tumble down,

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, And in the dust be equal made

To warre and armes I flee. With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

True; a new mistresse now I chase, Some men with swords may reap the field,

The first foe in the field; And plant fresh laurels where they kill;

And with a stronger faith imbrace
But their strong nerves at last must yield;

A sword, a horse, a shield.
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

Yet this inconstancy is such,
They stoop to fate,

As you too shall adore ; And must give up their murmuring breath,

I could not love thee, deare, so much, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Lov'd I not hononr more. The garlands wither on your brow,

SONG. Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;

Why dost thou say I am forsworn, Upon death's purple altar now,

Since thine I vow'd to be? See where the victor victim bleeds.

Lady, it is already morn; All heads must come

It was last night I swore to thee
To the cold tomb;

That fond impossibility.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long ;

A tedious twelve hours space!
I should all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,
LOVELACE.

Did I still doat upon that face.

SONNET.

Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah! braid no more that shining hair;
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it Ay.
Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress, must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best ;
Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then bind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud in night;
But, like the sun in 's early ray,
Shake your head, and scatter day!

When Love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates; And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames ;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free; Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty. When linnet-like confined, I

With shriller note shall sing,
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,

And glories of my king:
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,
Th’enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

BURTON.

THE ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY.

(Prefixed to "the Anatomy of Melancholy.)
When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, and void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I lie waking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,

My thoughts on me then tyrannise,

No gem, no treasure, like to this, Fear and sorrow me surprise ;

'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. Whether I tarry still, or go,

All my joys to this are folly, Methinks the time moves very slow.

Nought so sweet as Melancholy. All my griefs to this are jolly,

'Tis my sole plague to be alone; Nought so sad as Melancholy.

I am a beast, a monster grown; When to myself I act, and smile,

I will no light por company, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,

I find it now my misery. By a brook-side, or wood so green,

The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,

Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. A thousand pleasures do me bless,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
And crown my soul with happiness.

Nought so fierce as Melancholy.
All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

I'll not change life with any king :

I ravish'd am! can the world bring When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

More joy, than still to laugh and smile, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,

In pleasant toys time to beguile ? In a dark grove, or irksome den,

Do not, O do not trouble me, With discontents and furies, then

So sweet content I feel and see. A thousand miseries at once

All my joys to this are folly, Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.

None so divine as Melancholy. All my griefs to this are jolly,

I'll change my state with any wretch None so sour as Melancholy.

Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch. Methinks I hear, methinks I see,

My pain past cure ; another hell; Sweet music, wondrous melody,

I may not in this torment dwell; Towns, palaces, and cities fine,

Now, desperate, I hate my life: Here now, then there, the world is mine;

Lend me a halter or a knife. Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.

Nought so damn’d as Melancholy.
All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as Melancholy.

а

BROWNE.

LAY.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends :—my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headless bears, black men, and apes.
Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly,

None so damn'd as Melancholy.
Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Metbinks I now embrace my miss :
O blessed days, O sweet content!
In Paradise my time is spent!
Such thoughts may still my fancy move,
So may I ever be in love!

All my joys to this are folly,

Nought so sweet as Melancholy.
When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits! O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late.
No torment is so bad as love,
So bitter to my soul can prove.

All my griefs to this are jolly,

Nought so harsh as Melancholy.
Friends and companions, get you gone!
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.

[In“ Britannia's Pastorals.” Book II. Song 3.] Shall I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then awhile to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath ;
And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath :-
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth ;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Such she is ; and if you know

For in your sweet dividing throat
Such a one as I have sung,

She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Be she brown, or fair, or-80,
That she be but somewhile young ;

Ask me no more where those stars light
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,

That downwards fall in dead of night; That I love, and love alone.

For in your eyes they sit, and there

Fixed become as in their sphere.
THE SYREN'S song.

Ask me no more if east or west
[In “ The Inner Temple Masque.")

The Phænix builds her spicy nest :
Steer, hither steer your winged pines,

For unto you at last she flies,
All beaten mariners!

And in your fragrant bosom dies
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers : Perfumes far sweeter than the best

HERRICK.
Which make the Phænix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
But come on shore,

Why do ye fall so fast ?
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Your date is not so past;
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

But you may stay yet here awhile,

To blush and gently smile,
Exchange, and be a while our guests ;

And go at last.
For stars gaze on our eyes ;
The compass Love shall hourly sing,

What, were ye born to be
And, as he goes about the ring,

An hour or half's delight, We will not miss

And so to bid good-night? To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Then come on shore,

Merely to show your worth,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have
CAREW.

Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shewn their pride,

Like you, awhile, they glide
He that loves a rosy cheek,

Into the grave.
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,-

KING.
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Like to the falling of a star,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Or as the flights of eagles are ; Hearts with equal love combin’d,

Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue, Kindle never-dying fires.

Or silver drops of morning dew; Where these are not, I despise

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

Or bubbles which on water stood:
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light

Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

The winds blow out, the bubble dies; When June is past, the fading roses

The spring entamb’d in autumn lies ; For, in your beauty's orient deep

The dew dries up, the star is shot ;
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

The flight is past—and man forgot.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare

WALTON.
Those powders to enrich your hair,

THE ANGLER'S WISA. Ask me no more whither doth haste

I in these flowery meads would be: The nightingale when May is past ;

These crystal streams should solace me,

DISDAIN RETURNED.

SIC VITA.

SONG.

1

To whose harmonious bubbling noise

Here give my weary spirits rest, I with my angle would rejoice ;

And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above Sit here and see the turtle dove

Earth, or what poor mortals love ; Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

Or, with my Bryan and my book, Or on that bank feel the west wind

Loiter long days near Shawford brook : Breathe health and plenty: please my mind There sit by him and eat my meat, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,

There see the sun both rise and set, And then wash'd off by April showers;

There bid good morning to next day, Here hear my Kenna sing a song,

There meditate my time away, There see a blackbird feed her young,

And angle on, and beg to have Or a leverock build her nest :

A quiet passage to my grave.

BALLADS.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;

If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
But e'er the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.

Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy, Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;

Thy father breides me great annoy. I sang, my voice the woods returning,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! But lang e'er night the spear was flown

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. That slew my love, and left me mourning.

When he began to court my luve, What can my barbarous barbarous father do,

And with his sugred words to muve, But with his cruel rage pursue me ?

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

To me that time did not appeire:

But now I see, most cruell hee How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

Cares neither for my babe nor mee. My happy sisters may be may be proud;

Balow, &c. With cruel and ungentle scoffin,

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

And when thou wakest sweitly smile: My luver nailed in his coffin.

But smile not, as thy father did,

To cozen maids; nay, God forbid ! My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, And strive with threatening words to muve me,

Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. My luver's blood is on thy spear,

Balow, &c. How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

I canoae chuse, but ever will Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,

Be luving to thy father stil: With bridal sheets my body cover,

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir be ryde, Unbar ye bridal maids the door,

My love with him maun stil abyde: Let in the expected husband lover.

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,

Mine hart can neir depart him frae. But who the expected husband husband is ?

Balow, &c. His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

To faynings fals thine hart incline: Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after.

Be loyal to thy luver trew,

And nevir change hir for a new :
Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,

If gude or faire, of hir have care,
O lay his cold head on my pillow ;
Take aff take aff these bridal weids,

For womens banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, &c. And crown my careful head with willow,

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; O could my warmth to life restore thee!

My babe and I'll together live, Yet lie all night between my briests,

He'll comfort me wlien cares doe grieve: No youth lay ever there before thee.

My babe and I right saft will ly,

And quite forget man's cruelty. Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,

Balow, &c. Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, And lye all night between my briests,

That ever kist a woman's mouth! No youth shall ever lye there after.

I wish all maids be warn’d by mee,

Nevir to trust man's curtesy; 4. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,

For if we doe bot chance to bow, Return and dry thy useless sorrow.

They'lle use us than they care not how. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.