Death will be cruel to be kind: For when he shall to armies fly, Where men think blood too cheap to buy Themselves a name, He reconciles them, and deprives The valiant men of more than lives, Whilst Love, deceived by these cold shafts, instead Take pity, gods! some ease the world will find And Love, by seeing men bleed, leave off to kill. THE CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ULYSSES. THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE. * THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made 1659. With the poor crooked scythe and spade. They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, * This is said to have been a favourite song of Charles II, The garlands wither on your brow, See, where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1605-1668. [IF we cannot discover in the tedious poem of Gondibert any satisfactory evidence of that illustrious descent implied by the insinuation of Wood, the following songs might justify a suspicion of Davenant's poetical lineage. The character of Davenant's verse is by no means Shakesperean; but there is a spirit in these pieces not unworthy of such a paternity. They possess an energy 'That like a trumpet makes the spirits dance.' The bounding versification fills the ear with music; and they are distinguished by a breadth of treatment and knowledge of effect seldom so successfully displayed within such restricted limits.] THE SIEGE OF RHODES. WOMEN PREPARING FOR WAR. LET us live, live! for, being dead, And the fine French dress for the head, In the cold, cold bed of honour. Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers, Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers; Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become; Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum. Our patches and our curls, So exact in each station, Hence with our needles, and give us your spades; JEALOUSY. HIS cursed jealousy, what is't? TH 'Tis love that has lost itself in a mist; 'Tis love being frighted out of his wits; 'Tis love that has a fever got; Love that is violently hot, But troubled with cold and trembling fits. 'Tis yet a more unnatural evil: 'Tis the god of love, 'tis the god of love, possessed with a devil. 'Tis rich corrupted wine of love, Which sharpest vinegar does prove; From all the sweet flowers which might honey make, It does a deadly poison bring: Strange serpent which itself doth sting! It never can sleep, and dreams still awake; It stuffs up the marriage-bed with thorns. It gores itself, it gores itself, with imagined horns. THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS. LOVE'S LOTTERY. UN to love's lottery! Run, maids, and rejoice: When, drawing your chance, you meet your own choice; And boast that your luck you help with design, Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra ! Hark maids! more lots are drawn! prizes abound. Dub! dub a, dub a, dub! the drum now beats! And, dub a, dub a, dub, echo repeats; As if at night the god of war had made queen a skirmish for a serenade. Love's Haste, haste, fair maids, and come away! Roses and pinks will be strewn where you go; When I am dead let him that did stay me My rose of youth is gone In seeking my grave, alas! let them know THE COQUET. 'TIS, in good truth, a most wonderful thing That love so many vexations should bring, Love's weather in maids should seldom hold fair: Like April's mine shall quickly alter; I'll give him to-night a lock of my hair, Yet love with a storm can take down their sails, THE LAW AGAINST LOVERS. LOVE PROSCRIBED. WAKE all the dead! what ho! what ho! How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low? They mind not poor lovers who walk above Through wickets or through panes of glass; But O sad chance, his judge was old; Hearts cruel grown, when blood grows cold. No man being young, his process would draw. O heavens that love should be subject to law! Lovers go woo the dead, the dead! Lie two in a grave, and to bed, to bed! |