JAMES SHIRLEY.

1594-1666.

["Poems." 1646.]

TO ODELIA.

HEALTH to my fair Odelia! Some that know
How many months are past

Since I beheld thy lovely brow,
Would count an age at least ;

But unto me,

Whose thoughts are still on thee,
I vow

By thy black eyes, 'tis but an hour ago.

That mistress I pronounce but poor in bliss, That, when her servant parts,

Gives not as much with her last kiss,

As will maintain two hearts

Till both do meet

To taste what else is sweet.

Is 't fit

Time measure love, or our affection it?

Cherish that heart, Odelia, that is mine,
And if the north thou fear,

Dispatch but from thy southern clime
A sigh, to warm thine here;

But be so kind

To send by the next wind;
"Tis far,

And many accidents do wait on war.

TAKING LEAVE WHEN HIS MISTRESS WAS TO RIDE.

How is it my ungentle fate,

When love commanded me to wait
Upon my saint, by break of day,
I brought a heart, but carried none away?

When we joined ceremonious breath, And lips, that took a leave like death, With a sad parting thought oppressed, Did it leave mine, to glide into her breast?

Or was it, when like Pallas she Was mounted, and I gazed to see, My heart then looking through mine eye, Did after her out of that window fly?

'Twas so, and 'cause I did not ride,
My heart would lackey by her side,
Or some more careful angel be,
To see my mistress safe conveyed for me.

Nay, then, attend thy charge, nor fear
Storms in the way, and if a tear
By chance, at looking back on thee
Bedew her eye, drink that a health to me.

But smile at night, and be her guest,
At once her music and her feast,

And if at any mention made

Of me, she sigh, say all thy travail's paid.

But when she's gently laid to rest,
O listen softly to her breast,

And thou shalt hear her soul, but see
Thou wake her not, for she may dream of me.

But what's all this, when I am here,
If fancy bid thee welcome there?
Heart! this last duty I implore,

Or bring her back, or see thy cell no more.

THE KISS.

I could endure your eye, although it shot
Lightning at first into me:

Your voice, although it charmed mine ear, had not
The power to undo me:

But, while I on your lip would dwell,

My ravished heart leaped from his cell,

For, looking back into my breast

I found that room without a guest.

Return the heart you stole thus with a kiss,
When last our lips did join;

Or I'll forgive the theft, to change a bliss,
And have your heart for mine.

I ne'er till now believed it truth;

That lovers' hearts were at their mouth;

Now by experience I may say,

That men may kiss their hearts away.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

1615(?) 1650.

["Steps to the Temple," etc. 1646.]

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

A SONG.

To thy lover,

Dear, discover

That sweet blush of thine that shameth
(When those roses

It discloses)

All the flowers that Nature nameth.

In free air

Flow thy hair;

That no more Summer's best dresses

Be beholden

For their golden

Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses.

O deliver

Love his quiver,

From thy eyes he shoots his arrows,

Where Apollo

Cannot follow,

Feathered with his mother's sparrows.

The air does woo thee,

Winds cling to thee;

Might a word once fly from out thee,

Storm and thunder

Would sit under,

And keep silence round about thee.

But if Nature's

Common creatures

So dear glories dare not borrow:
Yet thy beauty

Owes a duty

To my loving lingering sorrow.

When to end me

Death shall send me

All his terrors to affright me:

Thine eyes' Graces

Gild their faces,

And those terrors shall delight me.

When my dying

Life is flying,

Those sweet airs that often slew me