Bulchevy's Book of English Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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John Fletcher. 1579-1625
214. G.o.d Lyaeus
G.o.d Lyaeus, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung, Stain'd with blood of l.u.s.ty grapes, In a thousand l.u.s.ty shapes Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine: G.o.d of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear.
mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
215. Beauty Clear and Fair
BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:
Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss-- Make me live by serving you!
Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all!
Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
216. Melancholy
HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly!
There 's naught in this life sweet, If men were wise to see't, But only melancholy-- O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sight 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 pa.s.sion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed, 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.
John Fletcher. 1579-1625
217. Weep no more
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that 's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
John Webster. ?-1630?
218. A Dirge
CALL for the robin-redbreast 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 rear 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.
dole] lamentation.
John Webster. ?-1630?
219. The Shrouding of the d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi
HARK! Now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay 's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
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 your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And--the foul fiend more to check-- A crucifix let bless your neck: 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away.
John Webster. ?-1630?
220. Vanitas Vanitatum
ALL the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying; These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time: Survey our progress from our birth-- We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appet.i.tes!
Sweetest breath and clearest eye Like perfumes go out and die; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. 1580?-1640
221. Aurora
O HAPPY t.i.thon! if thou know'st thy hap, And valuest thy wealth, as I my want, Then need'st thou not--which ah! I grieve to grant-- Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap: That golden shower in which he did repose-- One dewy drop it stains Which thy Aurora rains Upon the rural plains, When from thy bed she pa.s.sionately goes.
Then, waken'd with the music of the merles, She not remembers Memnon when she mourns: That faithful flame which in her bosom burns From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls: Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed, She so her grief delates.
--O favour'd by the fates Above the happiest states, Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
Phineas Fletcher. 1580-1650
222. A Litany
DROP, drop, slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from Heaven The news and Prince of Peace: Cease not, wet eyes, His mercy to entreat; To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let His eye See sin, but through my tears.
Sir John Beaumont. 1583-1627
223. Of his Dear Son, Gervase
