JOHN DONNE.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow :
And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shall be no more-Death, thou shalt die.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

A ROSE.

BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon :

What boots a life, which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,

And passing proud a little colour makes thee.

If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;

For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves

The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,

If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn ;
And many Herods lie in wait each hour

To murder thee as soon as thou art born;

Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath
Anticipating life, to hasten death.

JOHN MILTON.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still!
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will
Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

JOHN MILTON.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

JOHN MILTON.

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,

And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground; and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.