« AnteriorContinuar »
To grieve at this, were in these senseless timés
Cleveland. The remedy to woe, Is to leave what of force we must forego.
Merry Devil of Edmonton, I must confess, when I did part from
you, I cou'd not' force an artificial dew Upon my cheeks ; nor with a gilded phrase Express how many hundred sev'ral ways My heart was tortur'd; nor with arms across, In discontented garbs set forth my lofs : Such loud expressions many times do come From lightest hearts; great griefs are always dumb : The fhallow rivers roar, the deep are ftill. Numbers of painted words may thew much skill, But little anguish ; and a cloudy face Is oft put on, to serve both time and place : The blazing wood may to the eye feem great, But 'tis the fire rak'd up, that has the heat, And keeps it long » True sorrow's like to wine, That which is good, does never need a sign.
Like the camelion's colours that decay
Sir William Davenant's Journey into Worcester bire.
-All we gain
Sir William Davenant's Elegy on B. Hafelrick.
Sir William Davenant's Love and Honour,
Yet both your griefs I'll chide, as ignorance;
Call you unthankful : for yourgreat griefs thew That heav'n has never us'd you to mischance,
Yet rudely you repine to feel it now.
Weep that this stormy world you ever knew :
Sir William Davenant's Gondibert. Grief's conflict, gave these hairs their silver shine ;
Torn ensigns which victorious age adorn : Youth is a dress too garilh and too fine,
To be in foul tempestuous weather worn. Grief's want of ufe, does dangʻrous weakness make;
But we by use of burdens are made ftrong : And in our practis'd age, can calmly take Those sorrows, which like fevers,, vex the young.
Ibid, Confider forrows, how they are aright: Grief, is't be great, 'tis short ; if long, 'tis light.
Herrick. For fill jmparted councils do encrease ; And grief divided to a friend, grows less.
Sir Robert Howard's Blind Lady. Why shouldft thou grieve i Grief feldom join'd with blooming youth is seen ; Can forrow be, where knowledge fcarce has been?
Sir Robert Howard's Indian Queen. The sharpest drugs are of the healthieft operation : Oft from a cloudy morn, ensues a glorious day.
Gilbert Swinhoe's Unhappy Fair Irene. For grief conceald, like hidden fire, consumes ; Which, flaming out, would call in help to quench it.
Denham's Sophy. To vent my forrows yields me no relief ; He grieves but little, that can tell his grief.
Believe that forrow trueft is, which lies
Ibid. Know henceforth that grief's vital part Consists in nature, not in art : And verses that are studied, Mourn for themselves, not for the dead.
Bishop Corbet. That grief does far all other griefs transcend, Which greater grows, when trusted to a friend : Friendship in noble hearts would never reign, If friendship's duty should be friendship's pain.
E. of Orrery's Henry V. Grief speaks there loudest, where the mourner's dumb.
Orgula, Grief's like a river which does filent creep, And makes but little noise, if it be deep.
Dover's Roman Generak. You hunt our griefs, as they were hard to find, And study arts how to perplex yourself.
Crown's Regulus. 1. Can human forrows be delights to the gods? 2. Our forrows are not, but our troubles may i A great man vanquishing his destiny, Is a great spectacle worthy of the gods.
Crown's Darius. S OU L. For how may we to other things attain,
When none of us his own foul understands ? For which the devil mocks our curious brain, When, know thy self, his oracles commands.
For why should we the busy soul believe,
When boldly she concludes of that and this ; When of herself she can no judgment give,
Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is ? All things without, which round about we fee,
We seek to know, and have therewith to do: But that whereby we reason, live and be
Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. We seek to know the moving of each sphere,
And the strange cause o' th' ebbs and floods of Nile ; But of that clock, which in our breasts we bear,
The subtile motions we forget the while. We that acquaint ourselves with ev'ry zone,
And pass the tropicks, and behold each "pole ; When we come home, are to ourselves unknown, And unacquainted still with our own soul.
Sir Yohn Davies. As is the fable of the lady fair,
Which for her luft was turn'd into a cow ; When thirsty, to a stream she did repair,
And saw herself transform'd she knew not how ; At first the startles, then she stands amaz'd ;
At last with terror she from thence doth fly,
And shuns it still, altho' for thirft she die :
And was at first fair, good, and spotless pure ;
Doth of all fights, her own fight least endure.
Such strange chimeras, and such monsters there,
One thinks the foul is air ; another, fire;
Another, blood diffus'd about the heart ; Another faith, the elements conspire,
And to her essence each doth give a part. Musicians think, our souls are harmonies ;
Phyficians hold, that they complexions be ; Epicures make them swarms of atomies,
Which do by chance into our bodies free. Some think one gen'ral foul fills ev'ry brain,
As the bright sun sheds light in ev'ry ftar ; And others think the name of foul is vain,
And that we only well mix'd bodies are. In judgment of her substance th:us they vary,
And vary thus in judgment of her feat; For fome her chair up to the brain doth carry,
Some sink it down into the stomach's heat. Some place it in the root of life, the heart ;
Some in the liver, fountain of the veins: Some fay, she's all in all, and all in ev'ry part ;
Some say, she's not contain’d, but all contains.
While with their doctrines they at hazard play ;
Sir John Davies. To judge herself, she must herself transcend,
As greater circles comprehend the less :
loid. The workman on his ftuff his skill doth shew,
And yet the stuff gives not the man his skill : Kings their affairs do by their fervants know,
But order them by their own royal will :