THOMAS CAMPION

(D. 1619)

THRICE toss those oaken ashes in the air,
And thrice three times tie up this true love's knot;
Thrice sit you down in this enchanted chair,
And murmur soft "She will or she will not'.
Go, burn those poisoned weeds in that blue fire,
This cypress gathered out a dead man's grave,
These screech-owls' feathers and this prickling briar,
That all thy thorny cares an end may have.
Then come, you fairies, dance with me a round:
Dance in a circle, let my love be centre!
Melodiously breathe an enchanted sound :
Melt her hard heart that some remorse may enter!
In vain are all the charms I can devise:

She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

JOHN DONNE

(1573-1631)

TO DEATH

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery... Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!

JOHN DONNE

Ar the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow ;
All whom Death, war, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain; and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste Death's woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ; ·
For if above all those my sins abound,

"Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,

When we are there. Here on this holy ground Teach me how to repent; for that's as good

As if thou'dst sealed my pardon with thy blood.

BEN JONSON

(1573-1637)

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH

I THAT have been a lover, and could shew it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.

Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it

To those true numerous graces;

whereof some

But charm the senses, others overcome

Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it :

For in your verse all Cupid's armoury,

His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.

But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus' ceston every line you make,

RICHARD BARNEFIELD

(1574-1627)

TO HIS FRIEND MASTER R. L.

IF music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd Whenas himself to singing he betakes.

One god is god of both, as poets feign;

One knight loves both, and both in thee remain,