This sonnet was first printed in 1602. The text of the 1619 folio is followed.
EARE, why should you command me to my Rest
When now the Night doth summon all to sleepe? Methinkes this Time becommeth Lovers best;
Night was ordayn'd together Friends to keepe.
How happie are all other living Things,
Which though the Day dis-ioyne by sev'rall flight,
The quiet Ev'ning yet together brings,
And each returnes unto his Love at Night?
O, Thou that art so courteous else to all,
Why should'st thou, Night, abuse me onely thus,
That ev'ry Creature to his kind do'st call
And yet 'tis thou do'st only sever us?
Well could I wish it would be ever Day,
If when Night comes you bid me goe away.
From the 1619 folio, where it first appeared, This sonnet is undoubtedly one of the finest in the English language.
INCE ther's no helpe come let us kiss and part:
Nay I have done; You get no more of Me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I my selfe can free.
Shake hands for ever; Cancell all our Vowes;
And when we meet at any time againe,
Be it not seen in either of our Browes
That we one jot of former Love reteyne.
Now at the last gaspe of Loves latest Breath
When, his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death
And Innocence is closing up his Eyes;
Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From Death to Life thou might'st him yet recover.
From the Polyolbion (Song ix.) The first eighteen Songs were published in 1613. The sale seems to have been very slow. Nine years afterwards, when Songs xviii.-xxx. were printed, a new title-page was given to the unsold copies of the First Part, and all the Songs were bound together in one volume.
UT in things past so long (for all the world) we are
Like to a man embarqu't and travelling the Deepe;
Who sayling by some hill or promontory steepe
Which juts into the Sea, with an amazed eye
Beholds the Cleeves thrust up into the lofty skie;
And th' more that hee doth looke the more it Drawes his sight
Now at the craggy front, then at the wondrous weight.
But from the passed shore still as the swelling saile
(Thrust forward by the wind) the floating Barque doth haile,
The mightie Giant-heape so lesse and lesser still
Appeareth to the eye, untill the monstrous hill
At length shewes like a cloud; and further beeing cast,
Is out of kenning quite. So of the Ages past:
Those things that in their Age much to be wondered were,
Still as wing-footed Time them farther off doth beare
Doe lessen every howre.
Of all Birds only the Black
bird whistleth.
From the Polyolbion (Song xiii.)
WHEN Phoebus lifts his head out of the Winteres wave
No sooner doth the Earth her flowerie bosome brave,
At such time as the Yeere brings on the pleasant Spring,
But Hunts-up to the Morne the feathr'ed Sylvans sing:
And in the lower Grove as on the rising Knole,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,
Those Quirristers are pearcht with many a speckled breast.
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glittring East
Guilds every lofty top which late the humorous Night
Bespangled had with pearle to please the Mornings sight:
On which the mirthfull Quires with their cleere open throats
Unto the joyfull Morne so straine their warbling notes
That Hills and Valleys ring, and even the ecchoing Ayre
Seemes all compos'd of sounds about them every where.
The Throstell with shrill sharps, as purposely he song
T'awake the lustlesse Sunne, or chiding that so long
He was in comming forth that should the thickets thrill:
The Woosell neere at hand that hath a golden bill;
As Nature him had markt of purpose t' let us see
That from all other Birds his tunes should different bee;
For, with their vocall sounds they sing to pleasant May,
Upon his dulcet pype the Merle doth onely play.
When in the lower Brake the Nightingale hard-by
In such lamenting straines the joyfull howres doth ply,
As though the other Birds shee to her tunes would draw ;
And, but that Nature (by her all-constraining law)
Each Bird to her owne kind this season doth invite,
They else, alone to heare that Charmer of the Night
(The more to use their eares) their Voyces sure would spare
That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare
As man to set in Parts at first had learn'd of her
To Philomel the next the Linet we prefer,
And by that warbling bird the Wood-Larke place we then,
The Red-sparrow, the Nope, the Red-breast and the Wren;
The Yellow-pate, which though shee hurt the blooming tree,
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pype then shee;
And of these chaunting Fowles the Goldfinch not behind,
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind;
The Tydie for her notes as delicate as they,
The laughing Hecco then, the counterfetting Jay.
The Softer with the Shrill (some hid among the leaves,
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves)
Thus sing away the Morne untill the mounting Sunne
Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head ḥath runne,
And through the twisted tops of our close Covert creeps
To kisse the gentle Shade this while that sweetly sleeps.
And neere to these our Thicks, the wild and frightfull
Heards,
Not hearing other noyse but this of chattering Birds,
Feed fairely on the Launds, both sorts of seasoned Deere :
Here walke the stately Red, the freckled Fallowe there,
The Bucks and lusty Stags, amongst the Rascalls strew'd,
As sometimes gallant spirits amongst the multitude.
Of all the Beasts which we for our veneriall name
The Hart amongst the rest, the Hunters noblest game:
Of which most Princely Chase sith none did ere report
Or by description touch, t'expresse that wondrous sport
(Yet might have well beseem'd th'ancients nobler Songs)
To our old Arden heere most fitly it belongs.
Yet shall shee not invoke the Muses to her ayde,
But thee, Diana bright, a Goddesse and a mayd.
In many a huge-growne Wood, and many a shady Grove,
Which oft hast borne thy Bowe (great Huntresse) us'd to rove
At many a cruell beast and with thy darts to pierce
The Lyon, Panther, Ounce, the Beare and Tiger fierce;
And following thy fleet Game, chaste mightie Forrests Queene,
With thy disheveld Nymphs attyr'd in youthfull greene,
About the Launds hast scow'rd, and Wastes both farre and
neere,
Brave Huntresse, but no beast shall prove thy Quarries heere,
Save those the best of Chase, the tall and lusty Red,
The Stag for goodly shape and statelinesse of head
A description of Is fit'st to hunt at force. For whom when with his hounds
hunting the
The laboring Hunter tufts the thicke unbarbed grounds
Hart.
Where harbor'd is the Hart, there often from his feed
The dogs of him doe find; or thorough skilfull heed
The tract of The Huntsman by his slot* or breaking earth perceaves
Or entring of the thicke by
Where he hath gone to lodge.
One of the
Measures in winding the horne.
Now when the Hart doth heare
The often-bellowing hounds to sent his secret leyre,
He rouzing rusheth out and through the Brakes doth drive
As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.
And through the combrous thicks, as fearefully he makes,
Hee with his branched head the tender Saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moyst pearle doe seeme for him to weepe;
When after goes the Cry with yellings lowd and deepe
That all the Forrest rings and every neighbouring place,
And there is not a hound but falleth to the Chase.
Rechating with his horne which then the Hunter cheeres,
Whilst still the lustie Stag his high-palm'd head up-beares,
His body showing state, with unbent knees upright,
Expressing (from all beasts) his courage in his flight.
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