Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short; and our days run

As fast away as does the sun : —
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again :
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.

THE POETRY OF DRESS

I

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distractiòn,

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,-
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly, —
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat, —
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,

Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

2

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

GATHER YE ROSE-BUDS WHILE YE MAY

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he 's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry :
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

THOMAS CAREW

(1595-1639)

SONG

Ask 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 downward 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.

THE UNFADING BEAUTY

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires:

Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING

(1609-1642)

WHY SO PALE AND WAN

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do 't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :

The devil take her!

RICHARD CRASHAW

(1613-1649)

WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS

WHOE'ER She be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,

Lock'd up from mortal eye

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps tread our earth;

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes,

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:

Something more than

Taffata or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A face that's best

By its own beauty drest,

And can alone commend the rest:

A face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

Sidneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Whate'er delight

Can make day's forehead bright

Or give down to the wings of night

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers;

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers;

Days, that need borrow

No part of their good morrow

From a fore-spent night of sorrow;

Days, that in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of a clear mind are day all night;

Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend."