176.

O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my

troubled breast:

O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see:

O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

177.

JOHN REYNOLDS

A Nosegay

SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,

With Violet blue;

Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,
And eke her view;

16th Cent.

Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,
With sweet delight

Of goddess' grace and angels' sacred teint
In fine, most bright?

Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,
With Pink most fine;

Since you beheld the visage of my dear,
And eyes divine ;

177. teint] tint, hue.

Did not her globy front, and glistering hair,
With cheeks most sweet,

So gloriously like damask flowers appear,
The gods to greet?

Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,
With Daisy gay;

Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,
In her array;

Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus' bower,
With heavenly glee,

A Juno's grace, conjure you to require
Her face to see?

Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,
With Primrose fair,

Since ye

have seen my nymph's sweet dainty face And gesture rare,

Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view

(White Lily) shine

(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace

Like stars divine?

178.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

Elizabeth of Bohemia

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,

1568-1639

You common people of the skies ;
What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

179. The Character of a Happy Life

OW happy is he born and taught

HOW

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

180.

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;

-This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

Upon the Death of Sir Albert
Morton's Wife

HE first deceased; she for a little tried

To live without him, liked it not, and died.

SIR JOHN DAVIES

1569-1626

181.

I

KNOW my

Man

soul hath power to know all things,

Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:

I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mock'd in everything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man-
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

SIR ROBERT AYTON

1570-1638

182.

To His Forsaken Mistress

I

DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee,

Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,

Thy favours are but like the wind

That kisseth everything it meets :
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose that untouch'd stands

Arm'd with her briers, how sweet she smells! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwells:

But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide

When thou hast handled been awhile,