And ye the Walks have been
Where Maids have spent their houres.
Ye have beheld, how they
With Wicker Arks did come
To kisse, and beare away
The richer Couslips home.
Y'ave heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a Round:
Each Virgin, like a Spring,
With Hony-succles crown'd.
But now, we see, none here,
Whose silv'rie feet did tread,
And with dishevel'd Haire,
Adorn'd this smoother Mead.
Like Unthrifts, having spent,
Your stock and needy grown,
Y'are left here to lament
Your poore estates, alone.
DAVID'S EPITAPH ON JONATHAN
HERE lyes the fairest Flowre, that stood
In Isr'el's Garden; now, in Blood;
Which, Death to make her Girland gay,
Hath cropt, against her Triumph Day:
Here, here lies Hee, whose Actions pen'd
The perfect Copie of a Frend,
Whose milk-white Vellam did incurre
No least suspition of a Blurre:
Here lyes th'example of a Brother,
Not to bee follow'd by another;
The faire-indented Counter-part
Of David's Joy, of David's Heart:
Rest then; For ever, rest alone;
Thy Ashes can be touch'd by none,
Till Death hath picl:t out such another:
Here lyes a Flow'r, a Friend, a Brother.
FRANCIS QUARLES.
SONNET: TELL ME NO MORE HOW
FAIR SHE IS
TELL me no more how fair she is,
I have no minde to hear
The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.
And tell me not how fond I am
To tempt a daring Fate,
From whence no triumph ever came,
But to repent too late;
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote myself away.
I ask not pity (Love) from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame,
So that thou wilt not envy mee
The glory of my flame:
Which crowns my heart when ere it dyes, In that it falls her sacrifice.
TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things thee to see,
And what I do in anything,
To do it as for thee:
Not rudely, as a beast,
To runne into an action;
But still to make thee prepossest,
And give it his perfection.
A man that looks on glasse,
On it may stay his eye;
Or if he pleaseth, through it passe,
And then the heav'n espie.
All may of thee partake:
Nothing can be so mean,
Which with his tincture (for thy sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgerie divine:
Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws,
Makes that and th'action fine.
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold:
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for lesse be told.
ASK ME NO MORE
ASKE me no more where Jove bestowes,
When June is past the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deepe,
These flowers as in their causes, sleepe.
Aske me no more whether do stray,
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love Heaven did prepare,
Those powders to inrich your haire.
Aske me no more whether doth hast,
The Nightingale when May is past:
For in your sweet divining throat,
She winters and keepes warme her note.
Aske me no more where those starres light,
That downewards fall in dead of night:
For in your eyes they sit and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.
Aske me no more if East and West,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last shee flies,
And in your fragrant bosome dyes.
THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE, FROM THE CONTENTION
OF AJAX AND ULYSSES
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things,
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hand on Kings,
Scepter and Crown,
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made,
With the poor crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,
And must give up their murmuring breath, When they pale Captives creep to death.
The Garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds, Upon Deaths purple Altar now,
See where the Victor-victim bleeds,
Your heads must come,
To the cold Tomb,
Onely the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
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