LXX.

SONG FROM "VALENTIAN."

HEAR, ye ladies that despise,
What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples and be wise:

Fair Calisto was a nun;

Leda, sailing on the stream

To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doated on a silver swan;

Danaë, in a brazen tower,

Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do ;

Fear the fierceness of the boy :

The chaste moon he made to woo;

Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,

Doating at the altar dies;

Ilion, in a short hour, higher

He can build, and once more fire.

John Fletcher.

LXXI.

MAY-DAY.

GET up, get up for shame! the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair

Fresh-quilted colours through the air :
Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since; yet you not drest,

Nay! not so much as out of bed?

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,—

Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and

green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair :
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,

Against you come, some orient pearls unwept :
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night :
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:

Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street; each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch: Each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?

Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream :

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;

Many a kiss, both odd and even :
Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, Love's firmament:

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks pick'd :-Yet we're not aMaying.

-Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ;
And take the harmless folly of the time!

We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short; and our days run
As fast away as does the sun :-
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again :
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;

All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

-Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a-Maying.

Robert Herrick.

LXXII.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

GOD Lyæus, ever young,
Ever renown'd, ever sung;
Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine;
God of youth, let this day here

Enter neither care nor fear!

John Fletcher.

LXXIII.

FROM AN ASCETIC.

WHO prostrate lies at women's feet,
And calls them darlings dear and sweet;
Protesting love, and craving grace,

And praising oft a foolish face;

Are oftentimes deceived at last,

They catch at nought and hold it fast.

Anon.

LXXIV.

PENTHEA'S DYING SONG.

OH no more, no more, too late

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers

Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burnt out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.