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Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore

By making me serve her who had twenty more,

That I should give to none but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;

My truth to them who at the court do live:

Mine ingenuity and openness

To Jesuits: to buffoons my pensiveness:
My silence to any who abroad hath been:

My money to a Capuchin.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me To love there, where no love receiv'd can be, Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics:

All

my good works unto the schismatics
Of Amsterdam: my best civility
And courtship, to an university:
My modesty I give to shoulders bare:

My patience let gamesters share.
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends; my industry to foes:
To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness:
My sickness to physicians, or excess:

To Nature, all that I in rhyme have writ:
And to my company my wit.

Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her, who begot this love in me before,

Taught'st

me to make as though I gave, when I did but restore.

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic books: my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to bedlam give:
My brazen medals, unto them which live

In want of bread: to them which pass among

All foreigners, my English tongue.

Thou, Love, by making me love one

Who thinks her friendship a fit portion

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more; but I'll undo
The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth:
And all your graces no more use shall have

Than a sun-dial on a grave.

Thou Love, taughtest me, by making me

Love her, who doth neglect both me and thee,

To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore;

And, having done that, Thou hast done;

I fear no more.

FORGET

Ir poisonous minerals, and if that tree
Whose fruit threw death on else-immortal us,
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious
Cannot be damned, alas! why should I be?
Why should intent or reason, born in me,
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?
And, mercy being easy and glorious

To God, in his stern wrath why threatens He?
-But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee?
O God, O! of Thine only worthy blood,
And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,
And drown in it my sin's black memory.

That Thou remember them, some claim as debt;
I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget.

DEATH

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death: nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go-
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die!

JOHN FLETCHER [1579–1625]

SONG TO BACCHUS

GOD LYÆUS, ever young,

Ever honoured, ever sung;

Stained with blood of lusty grapes.
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine;
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!

[From VALENTIAN.]

WEEP NO MORE

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked 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 mo.

[From THE QUEEN of CORINTH.]

ASPATIA'S SONG

LAY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I dièd true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.

Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

[From THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.]

FRANCIS BEAUMONT [1584-1616]

LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER

MORTALITY, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones;

Here they lie had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royal'st seed

That the earth did e'er suck in,

Since the first man died for sin;

Here the bones of birth have cried,

"Though gods they were, as men they died."

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:

Here's a world of pomp and state,

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

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