MADRIGAL I This life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it everywhere, JOHN FORD And strive who can most motion it bequeath; 5 But in that pomp it doth not long appear; For even when most admir'd, it in a thought, As swell'd from nothing, doth dissolve in nought. FROM URANIA IX Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! JOHN FORD (fl. 1639) FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY ACT I, SCENE I 100 MEN. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feigned To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came; and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves And solitary walks. One morning early This accident encountered me: I heard The sweetest and most ravishing contention That art and nature ever were at strife in. AMET. I cannot yet conceive what you infer By art and nature. 163 A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather Indeed entranced my soul. As I stole nearer, Invited by the melody, I saw This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent, Wondering at what they heard. I wondered too. AMET. And so do I; good, on! He could not run division with more art 133 MEN. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird, Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice: To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, So many voluntaries and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight. AMET. Now for the bird! MEN. 140 The bird, ordained to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds; which when her warbling "Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge PURITAN AND CAVALIER GEORGE WITHER (1588–1667) FROM FAIR VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHILARETÉ FAIR VIRTUE'S SWEET GRACES Think not, though, my Muse now sings Mere absurd or feigned things! If to gold I like her hair, Or to stars her eyes so fair, Though I praise her skin by snow, Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath she In its kind as white in snow. 'Tis no grace to her at all, So to portrait every part, All men might those beauties see As they do appear to me, I would scorn to make compare When in sweet discourse they move? Or her lovelier teeth, the while She doth bless him with a smile? 370 380 390 400 Him to flatter most suppose, That prefers before the rose, Or the lilies while they grow, Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow, Her complexion whom he loveth; And yet this, my Muse approveth. For in such a beauty meets Unexpressèd moving sweets, That the like unto them no man Ever saw but in a woman. Look on moon! on stars! or sun! To your mind, such sweet contents; SONNET IV Shall I, wasting in despair, Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May! What care I how fair she be? Should my heart be grieved or pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? 410 420 8 But he whose wisdom hath contrived One body of all saints he makes, So every member doth obtain As members of one body do! None jealous, but all striving how For as the soul is all in all, And all through ev'ry member too, That He may His own love employ, The seed of this content was sown And when the saints are sealed all, THOMAS HEYWOOD (d. 1650?) GO, PRETTY BIRDS! Ye little birds, that sit and sing Within her garden alleys, Go, pretty birds, about her bower! Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, To her is only known my love; Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so! See that your notes strain not too low! For still, methinks, I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble! 36 42 48 54 60 8 16 pastoral pact WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) 150 No thirst of glory tempts me, for my strains On straw and dirt mix'd by the sweating hyne, 165 Whose names would die but for some hired pen. Each man that lives, according to his power, I like the pleasing cadence of a line 170 176 Struck by the consort of the sacred Nine. 180 190 146 Now was the Lord and Lady of the May Meeting the May-pole at the break of day, And Cælia, as the fairest on the green, Not without some maids' envy chosen queen. Now was the time com'n, when our gentle swain Must in his harvest or lose all again. Now must he pluck the rose lest other hands, Or tempests, blemish what so fairly stands: And therefore, as they had before decreed, Our shepherd gets a boat, and with all speed, 150 In night, that doth on lovers' actions smile, Arrived safe on Mona's fruitful isle. Between two rocks (immortal, without mother,) That stand as if out-facing one another, |