1RIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of pays,
Skie-threatning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious layes,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in bloud do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantall frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders webs are made the sport of daies,
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floting world beneath the moone;
Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.
I KNOW that all beneath the Moon decaies,
And what by mortalls in this world is brought,
In Time's great periods shall returne to noughte;
That fairest states have fatal nights and daies.
I know that all the Muses heavenly layes,
With toyle of spright, which are so dearely bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vaine praise.
I know fraile beauty like the purple floure,
To which one morne oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of minds accords,
Where sense and will bring under Reason's power:
Know what I list, all this cannot me move,
But that, (alas!) I both must write, and love.
SLEEP, silence, child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Loe, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulnesse possest,
And yet o're me to spread thy drowsie wings
Thou spar'st, (alas!) who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With faigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deafe god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,
I long to kisse the image of my death.
TRUST not, sweet soule, those curled waves of gold
With gentle tides that on your temples flow,
Nor temples spred with flakes of virgin snow,
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd.
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their azure raies behold,
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show, Than of the Thracian harper have been told:
Look to this dying lilly, fading rose,
Dark hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grasse rejoyce,
And thinke how little is 'twixt life's extreames;
The cruell tyrant that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once, aye me, not spare that spring of yours.
My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that deare voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious straines to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheares above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans wailings to the fainting eare,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a teare,
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne,
Like widow'd turtle still her losse complaine.
A PASSING glance, a light'ning 'long the skies,
Which ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight,
A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise,
Thus drown'd is in th' huge depths of day and night:
Is this small trifle, life, held in such price,
Of blinded wights, who ne're judge aught aright?
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight,
As life, that wastes itselfe, and living dies.
Ah! what is humane greatness, valour, wit!
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise?
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit,
Thrall earth's vaste round, triumphall arches raise?
That's all a dreame, learne in this prince's fall,
In whom, save death, nought mortall was at all.
THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own,
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternall love:
O how more sweet is birds harmonious moane,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in gold !
The world is full of horrours, troubles, slights;
Woods harmlesse shades have only true delights.
SWEET bird, that sing'st away the earely houres,
Of winters past, or comming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding spraies, sweet-smelling flow'rs:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs,
Thou thy Creator's goodnesse dost declare,
And what deare gifts on thee he did not spare,
A staine to humane sense in sin that low'rs.
What soule can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoiles, spights and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artlesse songster, thou my mind doest raise
To ayres of spheares, yes, and to angels layes.
SWEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine,
The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their show'rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not againe;
The sad memorials only of my paine
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.
A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the Aprill flow'rs,
A sweet with flouds of gall, that runs combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devoures,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind;
A vaine delight our equalls to command,
A stile of greatnesse, in effect a dreame,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck't with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toyle for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errours know.
Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoyl'd of that juyce which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spred,
And, (blasted,) scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morne,
And twice it is not given thee to be borne.
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