When Love, with unconfined wings, To whisper at my grates ; And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round, With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When linnet-like confined, I When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage, Minds innocent and quiet take If I have freedom in my love, SONG, TO LUCASTA.-ON GOING TO THE WARS. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, True; a new mistresse now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such, I could not love thee, deare, so much, SONG. Why dost thou say I am forsworn, Lady, it is already morn ; It was last night I swore to thee Yet have I lov'd thee well, and long ; I should all other beauties wrong, Amarantha, sweet and fair, Let it fly as unconfin'd As its calm ravisher the wind; Do not then bind up that light BURTON. THE ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY. [Prefixed to "the Anatomy of Melancholy.] When I go musing all alone, Thinking of divers things foreknown, When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow, and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly, Nought so sweet as Melancholy. When I lie waking, all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. Here now, then there, the world is mine; Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, All other joys to this are folly, Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Such thoughts may still my fancy move, All my joys to this are folly, When I recount love's many frights, Friends and companions, get you gone! Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I No gem, no treasure, like to this, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, I'll not change life with any king: I'll change my state with any wretch I may All my griefs to this are jolly, Nought so damn'd as Melancholy. BROWNE. LAY. [In "Britannia's Pastorals." Book II. Song 2.] Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then awhile to me: As I now shall versifie, Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embrac'd a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath :Full of pity as may be, Though, perhaps, not so to me. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is; and if you know THE SYREN'S SONG. [In "The Inner Temple Masque."] Steer, hither steer your winged pines, Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest. Nor any to oppose you, save our lips; Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. Exchange, and be a while our guests; The compass Love shall hourly sing, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. CAREW. For in your sweet dividing throat Ask me no more where those stars light Ask me no more if east or west HERRICK. TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shewn their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. DISDAIN RETURNED. He that loves a rosy cheek, But a smooth and stedfast mind, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more whither do stray KING. SIC VITA. Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. The winds blow out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past-and man forgot. WALTON. THE ANGLER'S WISH. I in these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me, Here give my weary spirits rest, To whose harmonious bubbling noise Or on that bank feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty: please my mind Or a leverock build her nest: And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above There sit by him and eat my meat, A quiet passage to my grave. BALLADS. THE BRAES OF YARROW. A. Busk busk ye, Busk busk Busk ye, (HAMILTON). ye, my bony bony bride, ye, ye, my winsome marrow? And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? A. I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,' Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she For she has tint her luver luver dear, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow? What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow. Wash, O wash his wounds his wounds in tears, Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lue, And warn from fight, but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald a stronger arm Thou met'st and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flowsTweed, Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bony bony bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow. O Yarrow fields, may never never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, My luve, as he had not been a luver. Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day; That slew my love, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous barbarous father do, How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? My happy sisters may be may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffin, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar ye bridal maids the door, Let in the expected husband lover. But who the expected husband husband is? His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after. Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff take aff these bridal weids, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lie all night between my briests, No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my briests, No youth shall ever lye there after. 4. Return return, O mournful mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs, He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. A SCOTTISH SONG. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, Balow, &c. I cannae chuse, but ever will Balow, &c. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel |