O, I could still

(Like melting snow upon some craggie hill), Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill. BEN JONSON.

HER TRIUMPH, FROM UNDERWOODS

SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love
Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove
As well as the Carre Love guideth
As she goes, all hearts doe duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd, doe wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were, to run by her side,

Through Swords, through Seas, whether she would ride.

Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light
All that Loves world compriseth!

Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright
As Loves starre when it riseth!

Doe but marke her forhead's smoother
Then words that sooth her!
And from her arched browes, such a grace
Sheds it selfe through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.

Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Ha' you mark't but the fall o' the Snow
Before the soyle hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the wooll of Bever?

Or Swans Downe ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the Brier?
Or the Nard in the fire?

Or have you tasted the bag of the Bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
BEN JONSON.

TO CELIA, FROM THE FORREST

DRINKE to me, onely with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke diuine:

But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giuing it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,
And sent'st it backe to me:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selfe but thee.

· BEN JONSON.

A DIRGE, FROM THE WHITE DIVEL

CALL for the Robin-Red-Brest and the Wren,
Since ore shadie groues they houer,

And with leaues and flowres do couer

The friendlesse bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funerall Dole

The Ante, the field-mouse, and the mole

To reare him hillockes, that shall keep him warme, And (when gay tombes are rob'd) sustaine no harme, But keepe the wolfe far thence: that's foe to men, For with his nailes hee'l dig them up agen.

JOHN WEBSTER.

GLIDE SOFT YE SILUER FLOODS, FROM BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS

GLIDE soft ye siluer Floods,

And eury Spring:

Within the shady Woods,

Let no Bird sing!

Nor from the Groue a Turtle Doue,
Be seene to couple with her loue,

But silence on each Dale and Mountaine dwell
Whilst Willy bids his friend and ioy Farewell.

But (of great Thetis' trayne)

Ye Mermaides faire,
That on the shores doe plaine
Your Sea-greene haire,

As yee in tramels knit your locks
Weepe yee; and so inforce the rocks

In heauy murmures through the broade shores tell, How Willy bad his friend and ioy Farewell.

Cease, cease, yee murdring winds

To moue a waue;

But if with troubled minds

You seeke his graue;

Know 'tis as various as your selues,
Now in the deepe, then on the shelues,
His coffin tossd by fish and surges fell,
Whilst Willy weepes and bids all ioy Farewell.

Had he Arion like

Been iudg'd to drowne,

Hee on his Lute could strike

So rare a sown';

A thousand Dolphins would haue come
And ioyntly strive to bring him home.
But he on Ship-board dyde, by sicknesse fell,
Since when his Willy bad all ioy Farewell.

Great Neptune heare a Swaine!

His Coffin take,

And with a golden chaine
(For pitie) make

It fast unto a rocke neere land!

Where eu'ry calmy morne Ile stand

And ere one sheepe out of my fold I tell

Sad Willy's Pipe shall bid his friend Farewell.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES

WHEN as in silks my Julia goes,

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flowes The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave Vibration each way free;

O how that glittering taketh me!

ROBERT HERRICK.

TO MEADOWS

YE have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill'd with flowers: