XCI.

I will complain, yet praise,
I will bewail, approve;
And all my sour-sweet days
I will lament, and love.

I

EASTER.

GOT me flowers to strew thy way,

I got me boughs off many a tree;

But thou wast up by break of day,

And brought'st thy sweets along with thee.

The sun arising in the east,

Though he give light, and the east perfume,

If they should offer to contest

With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we miss: There is but one, and that one ever.

XCII.

SERVANT'S SONG.

F Love his arrows shoot so fast,

IF

JAMES SHIRLEY, 1594-1666.

Soon his feathered stock will waste;

But I mistake in thinking so,

Love's arrows in his quiver grow;

How can he want artillery?

That appears too true in me :

Two shafts feed upon my breast,

Oh! make it quiver for the rest,

Kill me with love, thou angry son
Of Cytherea, or let one,

One sharp golden arrow fly,

To wound her heart for whom I die.

Cupid, if thou be'st a child,

Be no god, or be more mild.

XCIII.

FLY my soul! What hangs upon

Thy drooping wings,

And weighs them down

With love of gaudy mortal things?

The sun is now i' the east; each shade
As he doth rise

Is shorter made,

That earth may lessen to our eyes:
Oh! be not careless then, and play
Until the star of peace

Hide all his beams in dark recess.

Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,

When all the shadows do increase.

XCIV.

SONG OF CALCHAS.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still:

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

XCV.

SIMON WASTELL, circa 1600.

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

EFORE my face the picture hangs

BEFO

That daily should put me in mind Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs,

That shortly I am like to find :

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon that I must die.

I often look upon the face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;

I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose had sometime been ;

I see the bones, across that lie,

Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must: I see the sentence eke that saith

'Remember, man, that thou art dust.'

But yet, alas! but seldom I

Do think indeed that I must die.