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XLIX

THE FUNERAL.

WH10!
HOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm

Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,

For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that which, then to heaven being gone,

Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall

Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art

Have from a better brain,
Can better do't: except she meant that I

By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemned

to die.

Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me!

For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into other hands these relics came.

As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,

So 'tis some bravery
That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

Ben JONSON, 1573-1637

L.

HESPERUS' SONG.

Q

UEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep;
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close ;

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

LI.

CRISPINUS' AND HERMOGENES' SONG.

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F I freely can discover

What would please me in my lover :
I would have her fair and witty,
Savouring more of court than city;
A little proud, but full of pity:
Light and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soon destroying ;

Long, but sweet in the enjoying ;
Neither too easy, nor too hard :
All extremes I would have barred.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions ;

Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.
Purely jealous I would have her,
Then only constant when I crave her.

'Tis a virtue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishness annoy me.

LII.

CLERIMONT'S SONG.

STILL

TILL to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

LIII.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD

OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.

WEEP

EEP with me all you that read

This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.

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