Be kind to her, and, prithee, look
Thou write into thy doom's-day book
Each parcel of this Rarity

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie:
See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight:
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each grain and atom of this dust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee, my dear monument.
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw; my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake:

Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the Sun my bottom steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the van first took'st the field,

And gotten hast the victory,

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse like a soft drum
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear, (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet, and never part.

SONG.

Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,
Which like growing fountains rise,

To drown their banks: grief's sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrowed looks;

Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shore of discontent.

Then clear those waterish stars again,
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there,
Prolong my winter all the year,
And thy example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake.

SIR ROBERT HOWARD.

1622-1698.

[“Poems." (?) 1660.]

TO THE INCONSTANT CYNTHIA.

TELL me once, dear, how it does prove
That I so much forsworn could be?

I never swore always to love,

I only vowed still to love thee:

And art thou now what thou wert then,
Unsworn unto by other men?

In thy fair breast, and once fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone;
But others' oaths so blurred the scroll,
That I no more could read my own.

And am I still obliged to pay,
When you had thrown the bond away?

Nor must we only part in joy;

Our tears as well must be unkind:

Weep you, that could such truth destroy,

And I, that could such falseness find!
Thus we must unconcerned remain
In our divided joys and pain.

Yet we may love, but on this different score, You what I am, I what you were before.

CHARLES SACKVILLE.

EARL OF DORSET.

1637-1706.

SONG.

WRITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, THE NIGHT BEFORE

AN ENGAGEMENT.

To all you ladies now at land,

We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind,
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,

Roll up and down our ships at sea.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost

By Dutchmen or by wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way;
The tide shall bring them twice a day.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Brings floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And quit their fort at Goree;

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind? With a fa la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow shall we find :

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away,
We throw a merry main;

Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain,

Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;