VOL. IL

II.

THE RIVER GOD TO AMORET.

I am this fountain's god. Below
My waters to a river grow,

And 'twixt two banks with osiers set,
That only prosper in the wet,
Through the meadows do they glide,
Wheeling still on every side,
Sometime winding round about
To find the evenest channel out.
And if thou wilt go with me,
Leaving mortal company,

In the cool streams shalt thou lie,
Free from harm as well as I ;
I will give thee for thy food
No fish that useth in the mud,

But trout and pike, that love to swim
Where the gravel from the brim

Through the pure streams may be seen;

Orient pearl fit for a queen

Will I give, thy love to win,
And a shell to keep them in;
Not a fish in all my brook
That shall disobey thy look,

But, when thou wilt, come gliding by
And from thy white hand take a fly:
And to make thee understand

How I can my waves command,
They shall bubble whilst I sing,
Sweeter than the silver string.

E

The Song.

Do not fear to put thy feet

Naked in the river sweet;

Think not leech or newt or toad

Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod;
Nor let the water rising high,

As thou wad'st in, make thee cry
And sob; but ever live with me,
And not a wave shall trouble thee!

III.

THE SATYR.

Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,

Thou most powerful maid and whitest, Thou most virtuous and most blessed, Eyes of stars, and golden tressed Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest, What new service now is meetest For the Satyr? Shall I stray In the middle air, and stay The sailing rack, or nimbly take Hold by the moon, and gently make Suit to the pale queen of night For a beam to give thee light? Shall I dive into the sea And bring thee coral, making way Through the rising waves that fall Like snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies Whose woven wings the summer dyes Of many colours? get thee fruit, Or steal from heaven old Orpheus' lute? All these I'll venture for, and more, To do her service all these woods adore.

FROM THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.'

[By Shakespeare and Fletcher.]

Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;

Maiden-pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;

Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.

All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly!

FROM VALENTINIAN,'

[By Fletcher.]

I.

Hear, ye ladies that despise,

What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise:

Fair Calisto was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doated on a silver swan;

Danaë, in a brazen tower,

Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy :

The chaste moon he made to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.

II.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

God Lyæus, ever young,

Ever renown'd, ever sung;

Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim ;
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine;
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear.

III.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers;-easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

FROM THE QUEEN OF CORINTH.'
[By Fletcher.]

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.

FROM THE NICE VALOUR.'

[By Fletcher.]

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!