100. RICHARD CRASHAW. 1620-1650. (Manual, p. 168.) LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. Lo! here a little volume, but large book, It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Let constant use but keep it bright, To holy hands and humble hearts, Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Wakeful and wise, Here is a friend shall fight for you. That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings- To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces 101. ROBERT HERRICK. 1591-1674. (Manual, p. 169.) SONG. Gather the rose-buds while ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The sooner will his race be run, The age is best which is the first, 102. SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 1609-1641. (Manual, p. 169.) SONG. Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; Time shall melt away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. 103. SIR RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. (Manual, p. 169.) TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. When love with unconfinéd wings When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, When, linnet-like, confinéd I With shriller note shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty, When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood, Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage, Minds innocent and quiet, take That for an hermitage: 104. THOMAS CAREW. 1589-1639. (Manual, pp. 170 and 86.) SONG. Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, Ask me no more, whither do stray Ask me no more, whither doth haste Ask me no more, where those stars light, Ask me no more, if east or west, And in your fragrant bosom dies. 105. WILLIAM BROWNE. 1590-1645. (Manual, p. 171.) EVENING. As in an evening when the gentle air I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear. |