They after death their fears of him express,
His innocence, and their own guilt confess.
Their legislative frenzy they repent:
Enacting it should make no precedent.

This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose
Honour for life, but rather nobly chose

Death from their fears, than safety from his own,
That his last action all the rest might crown.

Sir John Denham.

EPITAPH UPON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD. (BEHEADED MAY 12TH, 1641.)

ERE lies wise and valiant dust,
Huddled up 'twixt fit and just :
Strafford, who was hurried hence

'Twixt treason and convenience.
He spent his time here in a mist,
A papist yet a calvinist.

His prince's nearest joy and grief,
He had, yet wanted, all relief:
The prop and ruin of the state,
The people's violent love and hate.
One in extremes loved and abhorr'd.
Riddles lie here, and in a word
Here lies blood, and let it lie
Speechless still, and never cry.

THE FALL.

John Cleveland.

HE bloody trunk of him who did possess Above the rest a hapless happy state This little stone doth seal, but not depress, And scarce can stop the rolling of his fate.

Brass tombs which justice hath denied to his fault
The common pity to his virtues pays,

Adorning on imaginary vault

Which from our minds Time strives in vain to raze.

Ten years the world upon him falsely smiled,
Sheathing in fawning looks the deadly knife
Long aimed at his head; that so beguiled
It more securely might bereave his life;
Then threw him to a scaffold from a throne.
Much doctrine lies under this little stone.

Sir Richard Fanshawe.

THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON.

ING out, pent souls, sing cheerfully!
Care shackles you in liberty:

Mirth frees you in captivity.

Would you double fetters add?
Else why so sad?

Chorus.

Besides your pinion'd arms you'll find
Grief too can manacle the mind.

Live then, prisoners, uncontroled;
Drink o' the strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollity

And throats are free

Chorus.

Triumph in your bonds and pains,

And dance to the music of your chains.

Richard Lovelace.

COURANTE MONSIEUR.

HAT frown, Aminta, now hath drown'd
Thy bright front's power, and crown'd
Me that was bound.

No, no, deceived cruel, no!

Love's fiery darts,

Till tipt with kisses, never kindle hearts.

Adieu, weak beauteous tyrant, see!
Thy angry flames, meant me,

Retort on thee:

For know, it is decreed, proud fair,
I ne'er must die

By any scorching, but a melting eye.

Richard Lovelace.

DISDAIN RETURNED.

E that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

[1 st.

Thomas Carew.

LOVE'S GOOD MORROW.

ACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air blow soft, larks mount aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.

Thomas Heywood.

A KING AND NO KING.

HAT prince who may do nothing but what's just, Rules but by leave, and takes his crown on

trust.

Robert Herrick

MAN'S MEDLEY.

ARK, how the birds do sing,

And woods do ring.

All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter, than in present, is.

To this life things of sense
Make their pretence:

In the other angels have a right by birth:

Man ties them both alone,

And makes them one,

With the one hand touching heaven, with the other earth.

Not, that he may not here

Taste of the cheer:

But as birds drink, and straight lift

So must he sip, and think

Of better drink

He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip,
And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone.

Yet even the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,

Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he, whose heart

Hath found the art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

George Herbert.