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LXVII.

THE PASSIONATE LORD'S SONG.

HENCE, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,

But only melancholy;

Oh! sweetest melancholy.

Welcome, folded arms,

and fixed eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound!

Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

LXVIII.

L

ASPATIA'S SONG.

AY a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear;

Say I died true;

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

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LXIX.

THOMAS MIDDLETON, 1580?-1627.

L

HIPPOLITO'S SONG.

OVE is like a lamb, and love is like a lion;

Fly from love, he fights; fight, then does he fly on.

Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing;

Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesing;
Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying;

Love does dote in liking, and is mad in loathing;
Love indeed is anything, yet indeed is nothing.

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LXX.

A HYMN.

DROP, drop, slow tears,

PHINEAS FLETCHER, 1581-1650.

And bathe those beauteous feet,

Which brought from heaven

The news and Prince of peace:

Cease not, wet eyes,

His mercies to entreat;

To cry for vengeance

Sin doth never cease:

In your deep floods

Drown all my faults and fears;

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LXXI.

THOMAS CAREW, 1589 ?-1639.

A

SONG.

SK me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose ;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past ;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

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