And enamoured, do wish so they might That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright Do but mark her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Ha' you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Ha' you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! LVIII. THE DEDICATION OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR TO BACCHUS. INCE, Bacchus, thou art father Of wines, to thee the rather We dedicate this cellar, Where new, thou art made dweller ; And seal thee thy commission: But 'tis with a condition, That thou remain here taster Of all to the great master. And look unto their faces, Their qualities and races, And relish merry make him. For, Bacchus, thou art freer Of cares, and overseer Of feast and merry meeting, So may'st thou still be younger Than Phoebus, and much stronger, So may the Muses follow Than Hippocrene's liquor: And thou make many a poet And not a song be other That when King James above here Thy circuits and thy rounds free, Be it he hold communion In great Saint George's union; The wished peace of Europe: Or else a health advances, And Charles brings home the lady. Accessit fervor capiti, numerusque lucernis. LIX. S it fell upon a day, RICHARD BARNFIELD, 1574-1627. In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a grove of myrtles made. Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring : Save the nightingale alone. She poor bird, as all forlorn, Leaned her breast against a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry Teru, teru, by and by. That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain. For her griefs so lively shown, Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee. |