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Love's couch's coverled,

Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus
And jolly plump Silenus,

Haste, haste to deck the hair
Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower,

Her floor is all this flower,
Her bed a rosy nest

By a bed of roses pressed!

JAMES SHIRLEY.

(1596-1666.)

The resonant verses on Death's Final Conquest occur in the Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 1659. The second song is from The Imposture, a Tragi-Comedy, 1652 (licensed 1640). It was first printed in the 1646 edition of Shirley's Poems. Shirley's Dramatic Works and Poems have been edited by Gifford and Dyce (6 vols., London, 1833).

A DIRGE.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your head must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

PEACE RESTORED.

You virgins, that did late despair

To keep your wealth from cruel men,

Tie up in silk your careless hair,
Soft peace is come again.

Now lovers' eyes may gently shoot
A flame that will not kill;

The drum was angry, but the lute

Shall whisper what you will.

Sing Iö, Iö! for his sake

That hath restored your drooping heads: With choice of sweetest flowers make

A garden where he treads;

Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring,
A petty triumph to his brow,
Who is the master of our spring,
And all the bloom we owe.

RICHARD BROME.

(?-1652?.)

THE MERRY BEGGARS.

From A Jovial Crew, or the Merry Beggars, 1652 (acted 1641?).

COME, come away! the spring,

By every bird that can but sing
Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,
In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,

Who in her sweetness strives to outdo

The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.

"Cuckoo," cries he; "Jug, jug, jug," sings she;

From bush to bush, from tree to tree;

Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accompts to make,
Nor land or lease to let or take:
Or if we had, should that remore1 us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort,
It is our kingdom and our court?
"Cuckoo," cries he, &c.

1 hinder.

CHARLES COTTON.

(1630-1687.)

ODE: LAURA SLEEPING.

From his Poems on Several Occasions, 1689, reprinted in Chalmers' Poets, vol. vi.

WINDS, whisper gently whilst she sleeps,

And fan her with your cooling wings; Whilst she her drops of beauty weeps, From pure, and yet-unrivalled springs.

Glide over beauty's field, her face,

To kiss her lip and cheek be bold,
But with a calm and stealing pace,
Neither too rude, nor yet too cold.

Play in her beams, and crisp her hair,
With such a gale as wings soft love,
And with so sweet, so rich an air,

As breathes from the Arabian grove.

A breath as hushed as lover's sigh,
Or that unfolds the morning's door;
Sweet as the winds that gently fly,
To sweep the Spring's enamelled floor.

Murmur soft music to her dreams,

That pure and unpolluted run,
Like to the new-born crystal streams,
Under the bright enamoured sun

But when she waking shall display
Her light, retire within your bar:
Her breath is life, her eyes are day,

And all mankind her creatures are.

WILLIAM STRODE.

(1600?-1644.)

SONG: IN COMMENDATION OF MUSIC.

From a seventeenth-century miscellany entitled Wit Restored, 1658.

WHEN whispering strains do softly steal

With creeping passion through the heart,

And when at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat, and bear a part;
When threads can make

A heart-string quake;—
Philosophy

Can scarce deny

The soul consists of harmony.

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air,

My senses rocked with wonder sweet!
Like snow on wool thy fallings are,
Soft like a spirit are thy feet.
Grief who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

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