If she slight me when I woe,
I can scorne and let her goe,
For if she be not for me
What care I for whom she be?

Abrabam Cowley

1618-1667

A VOTE

(From Poetical Blossoms, second ed., 1636)

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known:
Rumour can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. My house a cottage more

Than palace, and should fitting be

For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures yield,

Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space,
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would nor fear, nor wish my fate,
But boldly say each night,

To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them, I have liv'd to-day.

THE GRASSHOPPER

(From Miscellanies, 1650)

Happy Insect what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill.
'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread,
Nature selfe's thy Ganimed.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest King!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee,
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he and land-lord thou!
Thou doest innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hindes with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;

Phœbus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth,

Happy insect, happy thou,

Dost neither age, nor winter know,

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung,

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among

(Voluptuous, and wise with all,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

James Sbirley

1596-1667

A DIRGE

(From The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 1659)

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, poor captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Thomas Carew

1589-1639

DISDAIN RETURNED

(Printed, without concluding stanza, in Porter's Madrigalles and Ayres, 1632)

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 art not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win,
My resolved heart to return;
I have searched thy soul within
And find nought but pride and scorn;
I have learned thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou!

Sir John Suckling

1609-1641

ORSAMES' SONG.

(From Aglaura, acted 1637)

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

Will, when 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 Lovelace

1618-1658

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

(From Lucasta, 1649)

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore,—

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.