LXVIII.

LA

ASPATIA'S SONG.

AY a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear;

Say I died true;

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

LXIX.

THOMAS MIDDLETON, 1580?-1627.

L

HIPPOLITO'S SONG.

OVE is like a lamb, and love is like a lion;

Fly from love, he fights; fight, then does he fly on.

Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing;

Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesing;
Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying;

Love does dote in liking, and is mad in loathing;
Love indeed is anything, yet indeed is nothing.

LXX.

A HYMN.

DROP, drop, slow tears,

PHINEAS FLETcher, 1581-1650.

And bathe those beauteous feet,

Which brought from heaven

The news and Prince of peace:

Cease not, wet eyes,

His mercies 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.

LXXI.

THOMAS CAREW, 1589?-1639.

A

SONG.

SK me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.