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.

James Shirley.

CXLIV.

A PASTORAL MORALIZING.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow,
and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
"Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry;
"Teru, teru!" by and by ;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain!
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee; Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead;

All thy friends are lapped in lead;

All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.

(Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.)

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find :

Every man will be thy friend

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,

Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement :
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawned on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.

These are certain signs to know

Faithful friend from flattering foe.

Richard Barnfield.

CXLV.

ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS.

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt

tears:

Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs : List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division, when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers,

Fall grief in showers,

Our beauties are not ours;

O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.

Ben Jonson.

CXLVI.

MELANCHOLY.

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;

O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd 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. J. Fletcher.

CXLVII.

THE RIGHT LOVE.

LOVE not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart,—
For those may fail, or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever:

Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why-
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever!

Anon.

CXLVIII.

THE WORLD'S FALLACIES.

FALSE world, thou liest thou canst not lend The least delight:

Thy favours cannot gain a friend,

They are so slight :

Thy morning pleasures make an end

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st:

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest

With heaven; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou liest.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure:

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st,

There's none can give where thou deny'st;

Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world

thou liest.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou viest;

If seen, and then revied, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world,

thou liest.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure.

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man, that thou rely'st

On earth: vain man, thou doat'st; vain earth,

thou liest.