Part 2

Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart, That hand that holds the heart of every eye, That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art, The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry; That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense Doth show my only mistress' excellence.

O eyes that pierce into the purest heart! O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall! O wit that weighs the depth of all desert! O sense that shews the secret sweet of all! The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee, Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.

To serve, to live to look upon those eyes, To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand, To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind, To know that sense, no sense can understand, To understand that all the world may know, Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.

Sonnet

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold A kind of heaven in his authorities; The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold, Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise; The epicure that eats and drinks all day, Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs; And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day, Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts. But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power, No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss, Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour, And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss: No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be In my Love's service, but to live to thee.

A Sweet Lullaby

Come, little babe, come, silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little thinkst, and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone; Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail, And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?

Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart, Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore, 'Twas I, I say, against my will-- I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face! Would God Himself He might thee see! No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me, But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If Death do strike me with his lance Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a noble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid! His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

Then may'st thou joy and be right glad, Although in woe I seem to moan; Thy father is no rascal lad: A noble youth of blood and bone, His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep! Sing lullaby, and be thou still! I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: God bless my babe, and lullaby, From this thy father's quality.

[Transcribers' note 1: 'lown' in the original]

George Wither

Prelude (From _The Shepherd's Hunting_)

Seest thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays? And that vapours which do breathe From the Earth's gross womb beneath, Seem unto us with black steams To pollute the Sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it unblemished fair? So, my Willy, shall it be With Detraction's breath on thee: It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy. As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale, Poesy so sometime drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do, That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing she gets power; Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more, Till she to the highest hath past; Then she rests with Fame at last. Let nought, therefore, thee affright; But make forward in thy flight. For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity. But, alas, my Muse is slow, For thy place she flags too low; Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipt of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am put up myself a mewing. But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did; And though for her sake I'm crost, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more than ten times double, I should love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For though, banished from my flocks And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light And consume the sullen night, She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the spring-tide yields; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last But Remembrance--poor relief! That more makes than mends my grief: She's my mind's companion still, Maugre envy's evil will; Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortal's power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow, Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight; By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling; By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness: The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect; From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me, by her might, To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent! Though they as a trifle leave thee Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee. Though our wise ones call thee madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy maddest fits More than all their greatest wits. And though some, too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them.

A Poet's Home

Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make Within one valley a large silver lake: About whose banks the fertile mountains stood In ages passèd bravely crowned with wood, Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it grace To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place; And from her father Neptune's brackish court, Fair Thetis thither often would resort, Attended by the fishes of the sea, Which in those sweeter waters came to plea. There would the daughter of the Sea God dive, And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve To wait upon her: bringing for her brows Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs. For pleasant was that pool, and near it then Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen, It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge, Nor grew there rudely then along the edge A bending willow, nor a prickly bush, Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush. But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers, There grassy plots set round about with flowers. Here you might through the water see the land Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand; Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan, With all those flocks of fowls which to this day, Upon those quiet waters breed and play. For though those excellences wanting be Which once it had, it is the same that we By transposition name the Ford of Arle, And out of which, along a chalky marle, That river trills whose waters wash the fort In which brave Arthur kept his royal court. North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies A tract of beechy mountains, that arise, With leisurely ascending, to such height As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight You in the ocean's bosom may espy, Though near two furlongs thence it lie. The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb, Is strewèd o'er with marjoram and thyme, Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall; Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall; Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine; Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine, With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.

When you unto the highest do attain An intermixture both of wood and plain You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie, Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry, So much, at least, as little needeth more, If not enough to merchandise their store.

In every row hath nature planted there Some banquet for the hungry passenger. For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows, There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes. On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree, On that large thickets of blackberries be. The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there, The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are, And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills With some small number of such pretty rills As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.

From _Faire Virtue_.

Her Beauty

Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness than all art Or inventions can impart; Thoughts too deep to be expressed, And too strong to be suppressed.... ... What pearls, what rubies can Seem so lovely fair to man, As her lips whom he doth love When in sweet discourse they move: Or her lovelier teeth, the while She doth bless him with a smile! Stars indeed fair creatures be; Yet amongst us where is he Joys not more the whilst he lies Sunning in his mistress' eyes. Than in all the glimmering light Of a starry winter's night? Note the beauty of an eye, And if aught you praise it by Leave such passion in your mind, Let my reason's eye be blind. Mark if ever red or white Anywhere gave such delight As when they have taken place In a worthy woman's face.

From _Faire Virtue_.

Rhomboidal Dirge.

Ah me! Am I the swain That late from sorrow free Did all the cares on earth disdain? And still untouched, as at some safer games, Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames? Was't I could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will? And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still? And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain, So sunk that I shall never rise again? Then let despair set sorrow's string, For strains that doleful be; And I will sing, Ah me!

But why, O fatal time, Dost thou constrain that I Should perish in my youth's sweet prime? I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers!) In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers, And yet unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she, That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see! Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress; Yet I, poor I! must perish ne'ertheless. And (which much more augments my care) Unmoanèd I must die, And no man e'er Know why.

Thy leave, My dying song, Yet take, ere grief bereave The breath which I enjoy too long, Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefers Her love above my life; and that I died her's: And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear, Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here. And now farewell! thou place of my unhappy birth, Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth; Since me my wonted joys forsake, And all my trust deceive; Of all I take My leave.

Farewell! Sweet groves, to you! You hills, that highest dwell; And all you humble vales, adieu! You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks, My dear companions all! and you, my tender flocks! Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains! You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart Have, without pity, broke the truest heart. Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy, That erst did with me dwell, And all other joys, Farewell!

Adieu! Fair shepherdesses! Let garlands of sad yew Adorn your dainty golden tresses. I, that loved you, and often with my quill, Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill; I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace. Yea, with a thousand rather favours, would vouchsafe to grace, I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain; And never pipe, nor never sing again! I must, for evermore, be gone; And therefore bid I you, And every one, Adieu!

I die! For, oh! I feel Death's horrors drawing nigh, And all this frame of nature reel. My hopeless heart, despairing of relief, Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief; Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein, All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again. My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round; A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound; Benumbed is my cold sweating brow A dimness shuts my eye. And now, oh! now, I die!

From _Faire Virtue_.

Song

Lordly gallants! tell me this (Though my safe content you weigh not), In your greatness, what one bliss Have you gained, that I enjoy not? You have honours, you have wealth; I have peace, and I have health: All the day I merry make, And at night no care I take.

Bound to none my fortunes be, This or that man's fall I fear not; Him I love that loveth me, For the rest a pin I care not. You are sad when others chaff, And grow merry as they laugh; I that hate it, and am free, Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.

You may boast of favours shown, Where your service is applied: But my pleasures are mine own, And to no man's humour tied. You oft flatter, sooth, and feign; I such baseness do disdain; And to none be slave I would, Though my fetters might be gold.

By great titles, some believe, Highest honours are attained; And yet kings have power to give To their fools, what these have gained. Where they favour there they may All their names of honour lay; But I look not raised to be, 'Till mine own wing carry me.

Seek to raise your titles higher; They are toys not worth my sorrow; Those that we to-day admire, Prove the age's scorn to-morrow. Take your honours; let me find Virtue in a free born mind-- This, the greatest kings that be Cannot give, nor take from me.

Though I vainly do not vaunt Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure; I have favours where you want, That would buy respect with treasure. You have lands lie here and there, But my wealth is everywhere; And this addeth to my store-- Fortune cannot make me poor.

Say you purchase with your pelf Some respect, where you importune; Those may love me for myself, That regard you for your fortune. Rich or born of high degree, Fools as well as you may be; But that peace in which I live No descent nor wealth can give.

If you boast that you may gain The respect of high-born beauties; Know I never wooed in vain, Nor preferrèd scornèd duties. She I love hath all delight, Rosy-red with lily-white, And whoe'er your mistress be, Flesh and blood as good as she.

Note of me was never took, For my woman-like perfections; But so like a man I look, It hath gained me best affections. For my love as many showers Have been wept as have for yours: And yet none doth me condemn For abuse, or scorning them.

Though of dainties you have store, To delight a choicer palate, Yet your taste is pleased no more Than is mine in one poor sallet. You to please your senses feed But I eat good blood to breed; And am most delighted then When I spend it like a man.

Though you lord it over me, You in vain thereof have braved; For those lusts my servants be Whereunto your minds are slaved. To yourselves you wise appear, But, alas! deceived you are; You do foolish me esteem, And are that which I do seem.

When your faults I open lay, You are moved, and mad with vexing; But you ne'er could do or say Aught to drive me to perplexing. Therefore, my despisèd power Greater is, by far, than your. And, whate'er you think of me, In your minds you poorer be.

You are pleasèd, more or less, As men well or ill report you; And show discontentedness, When the times forbear to court you. That in which my pleasures be, No man can divide from me; And my care it adds not to, Whatso others say or do.

Be not proud, because you view You by thousands are attended; For, alas! it is not you, But your fortune that's befriended. Where I show of love have got, Such a danger fear I not: Since they nought can seek of me, But for love, beloved to be.

When your hearts have everything, You are pleasantly disposed: But I can both laugh and sing, Though my foes have me enclosed. Yea, when dangers me do hem, I delight in scorning them, More than you in your renown, Or a king can in his crown.

You do bravely domineer, Whilst the sun upon you shineth: Yet, if any storm appear, Basely, then, your mind declineth. But, or shine, or rain, or blow, I my resolutions know-- Living, dying, thrall, or free, At one height my mind shall be.

When in thraldom I have lain, Me not worth your thought you prized; But your malice was in vain, For your favours I despised. And, howe'er you value me, I with praise shall thought on be When the world esteems you not And your names shall be forgot.

In these thoughts my riches are; Now, though poor or mean you deem me, I am pleased, and do not care How the times or you esteem me. For those toys that make you gay Are but play-games for a day: And when nature craves her due, I as brave shall be as you.

Song

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May; If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be.

Should my heart be grieved or pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely creature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove or pelican: If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be.

Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deserving known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be.

'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want or riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo. And unless that mind I see, What care I though great she be.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve. If she slight me, when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go. For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be.

"Amarillis I Did Woo"

Amarillis I did woo, And I courted Phillis too; Daphne, for her love, I chose; Cloris, for that damask rose In her cheek, I held as dear; Yea, a thousand liked well near. And, in love with all together, Fearèd the enjoying either; 'Cause to be of one possest, Barred the hope of all the rest.

Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss

Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes, Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe, And free access unto that sweet lip lies From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal, From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss. None sees the theft that would the thief reveal, Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss. Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I had done so. Why then should I this robbery delay? Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow. Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

A Christmas Carol

So now is come our joyful feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury it in a Christmas pie; And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them A bagpipe and a tabour. Young men and maids, and girls and boys Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun, Their hall of music soundeth; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, So all things there aboundeth. The country-folk themselves advance, For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France; And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance, And all the town be merry.

Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel; Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn With droppings of the barrel. And those that hardly all the year Had bread to eat or rags to wear, Will have both clothes and dainty fare, And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices With capons make their errands; And if they hap to fail of these, They plague them with their warrants. But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.