WEEP NO MORE

J. FLETCHER

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 ;
Joy, as winged dreams flies past,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND

W. SHAKESPEARE

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 remembered not.

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.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG

GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morrow, sir, to you;

R. HERRICK

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,
Good-morrow to each maid

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this

The cold, cold earth doth shake him;

But I will go or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender (pray take heed);
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

THE ANNIVERSARY

ALL kings and all their favourites,-
All glory of honours, beauties, wits,-

J. DONNE

The Sun itself, which makes times as they pass,
Is elder by a year now than it was

When thou and I first one another saw :—
All other things to their destruction draw;
Only our love hath no decay:

This no to-morrow hath nor yesterday;
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

AWAY, DELIGHTS

J. FLETCHER

AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,
For I must die.

Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling
Lie after lie.

For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
Alas, for pity go

And fire their hearts

That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,
For I will die ;

And all those griefs, that think to overgrow me,
Shall be as I :

For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry-
"Alas, for pity stay,

And let us die

With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay."

COME, CHEERFUL DAY

T. CAMPION

COME, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
For while thou view'st me with thy fading light
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,

And I still onward haste to my last night:
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly—
So every day we live a day we die.

But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest,
How are my days deprived of life in you
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest,
By feigned death life sweetly to renew!
Part of my life, in that, you life deny :
So every day we live a day we die.

SONNET

W. SHAKESPEARE

LET me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :

O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be

taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom :—

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.