The early lark is waken'd from her bed,
Being only by love's pain's disquited;
But, singing in the morning's ear, she weeps,
Being deep in love, at lovers' broken sleeps ;
But say, a golden slumber chance to tie,
With silken strings, the cover of love's eye,
Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present
Pleasures, whose fading, leaves more discontent,

JOHN MARSTON.

Born 1566, died 1634.

LOVE ETERNAL.

If love be holy, if that mystery
Of co-united hearts be sacrament;
If the unbounded Goodness hath infus'd
A sacred ardour of a mutual love

Into our species; if those amorous joys,

Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death,
Spring from a cause above our reason's reach;
If that clear flame deduce its heat from Heaven,
"Tis, like its cause, eternal; always one,

As is the instiller of divinest love,

Unchang'd by time, immortal, maugre death,

4

HENRY CONSTABLE.

Born 1568, died 1604.

BONG TO DIAPHENIA.

Diaphen's like the daffy-down-dilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,
Heigho! how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams;

How blest were I if thou would'st prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
Fair sweet how I do love thee!

I do love thee as cach flower
Loves the sun's life-giving power:

For dead, thy breath to life might move me!

Diaphenia, like to all things bless'd
When all thy praises are express'd,
Dear joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their careful king:-

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Born 1568, died 1639.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood

By your weak accents! what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own!
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be scen
In form and beauty of her mind;
By virtue first, then choice, a queen!
Tell me if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

E

THOMAS CAMPION.

Born about 1570, died about 1640.

OF HIS MISTRESS' FACE.

And would you see my mistress' face? It is a flow'ry garden place,

Where knots of beauty have such grace, That all is work, and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born;
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,
Weak to dazzle and to vex;
It is the Idea of her sex,
Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is a face of death that smiles, Pleasing though it kills the whiles; Where Death and Love, in pretty wiles; Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair Beauty's freshest youth:
It is the feign'd Elisium's truth 8
The spring that wintered hearts renew'th,
And this is that my soul pursu'th.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

Born 1570, died 1638.

THE FLIRT.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lip could move had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours arc but like the wind,

Which kisseth every thing it meets;
And since thou can'st with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be lov'd by nonc.

The morning rose, that untouched stands,
Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells!
But pluck'd and strain'd, through ruder hands,
Her sweet no longer with her dwells,
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, e'er long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile;
Like sear-flowers to be thrown aside,

And I will sigh when some will smile;
To see thy love for more than one,
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.