Lines on his promised Pension.

I was promised on a time
To have reason for my rhyme ;
From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.5

Hymn in Honor of Beauty. Line 132.

For of the soul the body form doth take,
For soul is form, and doth the Body make.

Elegiac on a Friend's Passion for his Astrophell. The lineaments of gospel-books.

Mother Hubberd's Tale.

Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,
What hell it is in suing long to bide;

To loose good dayes, that might be better spent ;
To wast long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow;

To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;
To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires:
To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.
Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,
That doth his life in so long tendance spend!

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

1568-1639.

The Character of a Happy Life.

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!

DR. JOHN DONNE.

1573-1631.

FUNERAL ELEGIES ON THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

The Second Anniversary. Line 245.
We understood

Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
That one might almost say her body thought.

Elegy 8. The Comparison.

She and comparisons are odious.

BEN JONSON.

1574-1637.

To Celia.

[From "The Forest."]

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.*

The Sweet Neglect.

[From the "Silent woman." Act i. Sc. 5.1
Still to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art

That strike mine eyes, but not

Good Life, Long Life.

my

heart.

In small proportion we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

* Ἐμοὶ δὲ μόνοις πρόπινε τοῖς ὄμμασιν. . . . . Εἰ δὲ βούλει, τοῖς χείλεσι προσφέρουσα, πλήρου φιλημάτων τὸ ἔκπωμα, καὶ οὕτως δίδου. Philostratus, Letter xxiv.

Epitaph on Elizabeth.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learned and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

To the Memory of Shakespeare.

Soul of the age!

The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare rise.

Small Latin, and less Greek.

He was not of an age, but for all time.

Every Man in his Humor. Act ii. Sc. 3.

Get money; still get money, boy;

No matter by what means.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

1585-1616.

Letter to Ben Jonson.

What things have we seen

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been So nimble and so full of subtile flame,

As if that every one from whence they came

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life.

GEORGE WITHER.

1588-1667.

The Shepherd's Resolution.

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman 's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?*

* Shall I like a hermit dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me

What care I how fair she be.

Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.