This black den, which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;

The rude portals, that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect,
Wall'd about with disrespect,
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou, best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content,
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent;
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;

Though thou be to them a scorn
That to nought but earth are born,—

Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee.

Though our wise ones call it madness,
May I never taste of gladness,

If I love not thy madd'st fits

More than all their greatest wits:
And though some, too, seeming holy,

Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn

What makes knaves and fools of them.

GEORGE WITHER:

"The Shepherd Poet from Prison to his Muse."

L'ALLEGRO.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways

As ne'er were known before:

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,

And love thee more and more.

MONTROSE.

L'ALLEGRO.

TRUE BEAUTY.

AY I find a woman fair,

And her mind as clean as air;
If her beauty go alone,

'Tis to me as if 'twere none.

May I find a woman rich,
And of not too high a pitch;
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her wisdom not disguise;
Hath she wit as well as will?
Double arm'd she is to kill.

May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind;
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine?

May I find a woman true,
There is beauty's fairest hue;
There is beauty, love, and wit,-

Happy He can compass it.

F. BEAUMONT. 1586-1616.

ASK ME NO MORE.

SK me no more, where Jove bestows,
When Juhe is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, 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 downward fall at dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fix'd become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

CAREW. 1589-1639.