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He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

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And such wert thou! Look, how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so the race

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Or leave a kiss within the cup,

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But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

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Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father's joy,

And little Tom the mother's boy:-
All their pleasure is, Content,
And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tutties make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss,
And his long flail can stoutly toss:
Makes the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights,
Though you scorn the homespun gray,
And revel in your rich array;

And can your heads from danger keep;

Though your tongues dissemble deep

Yet, for all your pomp and train,

Securer lives the silly swain!

Thomas Heywood

c. 1581-1640 (?)

GOOD MORROW

(From The Rape of Lucrece, acted c. 1605)

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.

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(From The Faithful Shepherdess, acted 1610)
Sing his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,

Pan, the father of our sheep;
And arm in arm

Tread we softly in a round,1

Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground

Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee

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Thus do we sing!

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Wings from the wind to please her mind, 5
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow,

To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

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1 Happy beyond measure. See Vergil, Georgics, Bk. ii., 468 et seq.

1 More.

As the young spring;

Ever be thy honour spoke,

From that place the Morn is broke To that place Day doth unyoke!

SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN

(From the same)

Shepherds all, and maidens fair
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
1 Starling.

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Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourselves from these
Be not too secure in ease;
Let one eye his watches peep
While the other eye doth sleep;

So you shall good shepherds prove,
And for ever hold the love

Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers1
On your eyelids! So, farewell!
Thus I end my evening's knell.

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Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! 15
A midnight bell, a parting groan!

These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch your bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy.

Francis Beaumont
1586 (?)-1616

ON THE LIFE OF MAN1

(From Poems, 1640)

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like the wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

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All this ground

With his honour and his name

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Here they lie, had realms and lands,

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Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things 5
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy 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 are wont to shew,10
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,

I long to kiss the image of my death.

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SONNET

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I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In time's great periods shall return to naught;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty's like the purple flow'r,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will bring under reason's

power:

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Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, alas, I both must write and love.

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And weave but nets to catch the wind.

William Drummond

1585-1649

ON SLEEP

(From Poems, Amorous, Funeral, etc., 1616) Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;

1 Gifts of food or money and the like, were sometimes distributed at funerals for the benefit of the soul of the deceased.

1 Green plover or lapwing.

MADRIGAL

This life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air,
By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it every where,

And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 5
And though it sometime seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.
But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

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