O, my love, my love is young:

Age I do defy thee;

O sweet shepherd, hie thee,

For methinks thou stay'st too long.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass, that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share :
She bade good night, that kept my rest away;
And daft me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay. [row;"
"Farewell," quoth she, "and come again to-mor-
Farewell, I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly she did smile,

In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:
May be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,
May be, again to make me wander thither:
Wander, a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

Lord how mine eyes threw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sings, I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight:
Sorrow chang'd to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow;
For why? she sighed and bade me come to-morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now each minute seems an hour;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now

Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.

On a day (alack the day!)

Love, whose month was ever May,
Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.

Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath:
"Air," quoth he," thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alas! my hand hath sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

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As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring: Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity: Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry, Teru, Teru, by and by : That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shewn, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; None take pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd,
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such like flattering,
"Pity but he were a king."
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewel his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;

If thou sorrow he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear thee part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrinking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st

With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence :-
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one ;
Two distincts, division none :
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts removed, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
"Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix sight:
Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appall'd,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was call'd.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, how true a twain,
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,

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My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it;

My part of death no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strewn ;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown :

A thousand, thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where

Sad true-love never find my grave,
To weep there.

Come thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne;
In thy vats our cares be drown'd,
With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd,
Cup us till the world go round,
Cup us till the world go round!



When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckow-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckow then, on every tree,
Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he,

Cuckow, cuckow,-O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear!

When shepherd's pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are plowmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckow then, on every tree,
Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he,

Cuckow, cuckow,-O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear!


When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sing he staring owl,


Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly!
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing, &c.

Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,

That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage; That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age. Some, of violated vows

"Twixt the souls of friend and friend: But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence end,

Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read, to know
This quintescence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd,
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty :
Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd;

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz'd.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.


Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;

With every thing that pretty bin;
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!

Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Both golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat ;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.

Guid. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Guid. Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee and come to dust.

Guid. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guid. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!



Call for the Robin-red-breast, and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.


Hark, now every thing is still;

The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly d'on her shroud.
Much ye had of land and rent;
Your length in clay now's competent.
A long war disturb'd the mind:
Here the perfect peace is signed.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error,

Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew the hair with powder sweet,

D'on clean linen, bathe the feet:

And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucifix let bless the neck.

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: End the groan, and come away.

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Take, oh, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, tho' seal'd in vain. Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are yet of those that April wears; But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.


1. Tell me, dearest, what is love!
2. "Tis a lightning from above;
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,
'Tis a boy they call Desire.
'Tis a grave,


Gapes to have

Those poor fools that long to prove. 1. Tell me more, are women true! 2. Yes, some are, and some as you. Some are willing, some are strange, Since you men first taught to change. And till troth


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Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;

Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up, without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


Shake off your heavy trance,

And leap into a dance,

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