Now I in you without a body move,
Rising and falling with your wings;
We both together sweetly live and love,
Yet say sometimes, God help poor kings!
Comfort, I'll die; for if you post from me
Sure I shall do so and much more;
But if I travel in your company,

You know the way to Heaven's door.

CLXXXI

Geo. Herbert.

TEARS

WEEP you no more, sad fountains ;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my Sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets ? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping

While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.

Anon.

IN TEARS HER TRIUMPH

165

CLXXXII

salt tears;

SLOW, Slow, fresh fount, keep time with my
Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs!
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;

Fall grief in showers;

Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since Nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.

B. Jonson.

CLXXXIII

IN TEARS HER TRIUMPH

So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheek down flows: Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light: Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee, So ridest thou triumphing in my woe : Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show:

But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
queen of queens! how far dost thou excel,
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell!

Shakespeare.

CLXXXIV

IN TEARS YET EXCELLENT

I SAW my Lady weep,

And Sorrow proud to be advanced so

In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe;

But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair,

And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare :
She made her sighs to sing,

And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

O fairer than aught else

The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
Enough, enough: your joyful look excels :
Tears kill the heart, believe.

O strive not to be excellent in woe,

Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.

Anon.

HER CRUELTY

167

CLXXXV

SWEET 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 fixèd 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 passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats or 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.
J. Fletcher.

CLXXXVI

HER CRUELTY

WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face !

What! may it be that e'en in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call 'virtue,' there, ungratefulness?
Sir P. Sidney.

CLXXXVII

DELIA

FAIR is my Love and cruel as she's fair;

Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are

sunny,

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:

A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.

Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow;