And had resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown
Wit able enough to justify the town

For three days past; wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly

Till that were cancelled; and when we were gone,
We left an air behind us, which alone

Was able to make the two next companies

Right witty; though but downright fools, more wise!
F. BEAUMONT (Letter to Ben Jonson)

38. DRINK AND DROWN SORROW
DRINK to-day, and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:
But, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure 'gainst age but it:
It helps the headache, cough, and ptisick,
And is for all diseases physic.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;

Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth.

And he that will to bed go sober

Falls with the leaf, still in October.

F. BEAUMONT AND J. FLETCHER (The Bloody Brother).

39. LAY A GARLAND ON MY HEARSE

LAY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I dièd true.

40. TAKE, OH!

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

F. BEAUMONT AND J. FLETCHER
(The Maid's Tragedy).

TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY

TAKE, oh! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the
morn!

But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in
vain.

Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
F. BEAUMONT AND J. FLETCHER
(The Bloody Brother).

41. ON MY DEAR SON

CAN I, who have for others oft compiled
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which, like a flower crushed, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,
Expecting with clear hope to live anew,
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?
We have this sign of joy, that many days,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,
The name of Jesus in his mouth contains,
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far_above
The course of nature, or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;
Let his pure soul-ordained seven years to be
In that frail body, which was part of me—
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show
How to this port at every step I go. SIR J. BEAUMONT.

43. IF THOU WILT EASE THINE HEART

IF thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then sleep, dear, sleep;
And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eye-
lashes;

Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave

But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;
'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a

dreaming

rose-bank to lie

With folded eye;

And there alone, amid the
beaming

Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her
In eastern sky.

T. L. BEDDOES (Death's Jest-Book).

44. LOVE IN FANTASTIC TRIUMPH SAT LOVE in fantastic triumph sat,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed: For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he showed. From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires

Enough to undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the God have armed,
And set him up a deity,

But my poor heart alone is harmed,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

45. THE PROSPECT IN AMERICA THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true :

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

A. BEHN.

Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;

Time's noblest offspring is the last.

G. BERKELEY (On the Prospect of planting
Arts and Learning in America).

46. I CARE FOR NOBODY, NOT I

THERE was a jolly miller once
Lived on the river Dee;
He worked and sang from morn
till night,

No lark more blithe than he.

I.

And this the burden of his

song

For ever used to be :-
I care for nobody, not I,
If no one cares for me.
BICKERSTAFFE (Love in a Village).

47. THE END OF LIFE

SURE the last end

Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit !
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening tide of life,
A life well spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green :
By unperceived degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting!
High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hampered, struggles hard to get away!
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest.

.

R. BLAIR (The Grave). ›

48. FROM AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE'

A ROBIN redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves
and pigeons
Shudders Hell through all its
regions.

A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to Heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed
for fight

Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from Hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wandering here and

there,

Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public

strife,

And yet forgives the butcher's

knife.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has
moved

Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's
sprite

Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly,

For the last judgement draweth nigh.

49. THE BUILDING AND did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures

seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded
hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

50.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
W. BLAKE.

OF JERUSALEM
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds,
unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my
hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant
land.
W. BLAKE (Milton).

A TEAR IS AN INTELLECTUAL THING
BUT vain the sword and vain the bow,
They never can work War's overthrow.
The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear
Alone can free the world from fear.
For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an angel king,
And the bitter groan of the martyr's woe,
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.

W. BLAKE (The Grey Monk).