Chapter 279
This house is to be let for life or years; Her rent is sorrow, and her income tears, Cupid 't has long stood void; her bills make known, She must be dearly let, or let alone.
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GEORGE HERBERT. 1593-1632.
_Virtue_.
Sweet day, so cool, so cairn, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skies.
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Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives.
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SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 1608-1644.
_On a Wedding_.
Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.
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Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared with that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly.
_Song_.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover, Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
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ROBERT HERRICK. 1591-1660.
_The Rock of Rubies, and the Quarrie of Pearls_.
Some asked me where the Rubies grew, And nothing I did say; But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. Some asked how Pearls did grow, and where? Then spoke I to my Girl, To part her lips, and showed them there The quarelets of Pearl.
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_On her Feet_.
Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at Bo-peep, Did soon draw in again.
_To the Virgins to make much of Time_.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower, that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
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_Night Piece to Julia_.
Her eyes the glowworm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
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SIR RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658.
_Orpheus to Beasts_.
Oh! could you view the melody Of every grace, And music of her face, You'd drop a tear; Seeing more harmony In her bright eye, Than now you hear.
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_To Lucasta on Going to the Wars_.
I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
_To Althea from Prison_.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage; Mindes innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage.
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JAMES SHIRLEY. 1596-1666.
_Contention of Ajax and Ulysses_.
Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
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RICHARD CRASHAW. --1650. The conscious water saw its God and blushed.[5]
[Note 5: Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit.--_Latin Poems_]
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_In Praise of Lessius' Rule of Health_.
A happy soul, that all the way To heaven hath a summer's day.
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THOMAS DEKKER. --1638.
_Old Fortunatus_.
And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors.
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_Honest Whore_. P. ii. Act i. Sc. 2.
We are ne'er like angels till our passion dies.
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ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1618-1667.
_The Waiting-Maid_.
Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barb'rous skill; 'Tis like the poisoning of a dart, Too apt before to kill.
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_The Motto_.
What shall I do to be forever known, And make the age to come my own?
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_On the Death of Crashaw_.
His _faith_, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his _life_, I'm sure, was in the right.
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_The Garden_. Essay V.
God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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SIR JOHN DENHAM. 1615-1679.
_Cooper's Hill_.
O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme!
Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full.
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_The Sophy_. _A Tragedy_.
Actions of the last age are like Almanacs of the last year.
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THOMAS CAREW. 1589-1639.
_Disdain Returned_.
He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.
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_Conquest by Flight_.
Then fly betimes, for only they Conquer love, that run away.
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EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687.
_Verses upon his Divine Poesy_.
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home.
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_On a Girdle_.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
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_Go, Lovely Rose_.
How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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_To a Lady, Singing a Song of his Composing_.
The eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
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MILTON. 1608-1674.
PARADISE LOST.