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Tell Faith — it's fled the City;

Tell — how the Country erreth ; Tell — Manhood shakes off pity;

Tell Virtue least preferreth. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.

But what promise or profession

From his hands could purchase scope, Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beauty for a hope?

Or for the sight

Of lingering night
Forego the present joys of noon?

Though ne'er so fair,

Her speeches were,
Forego me now, come to me soon.
How, at last, agreed these lovers?

She was fair, and he was young:
The tongue may tell what th' eye dis-

Joys unseen are never sung.
Did she consent,

Or he relent;
Accepts he night, or grants she noon;

Left he her a maid,

Or not; she said,
Forego me now, come to me soon.

DULCINA. (Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh on doubtful

authority.] As at noon Dulcina rested

In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.

But from her look
A wound he took



(GEORGE WITHER was born at Brentworth in Hampshire, June 11, 1588, and died in the year 1667; his literary achievement, both in verse and prose, being proportioned to his length of years. The dates of his chief works are as follows: 1612, the Elegy on Prince Henry; 1613, Epithalamia ; 1613, Abuses Stript and Whipt; 1615, Fidelia and Shepherd's Hunting. To the same year must also be ascribed his share in Browne's Shepherd's Pipe ; 1618, the Motto; 1622, the Mistress of Philarete; 1623, the Hymns and Songs of the Church; 1628, Britain's Remembrancer; 1634, Emblems; 1641, Hallelujah.

The above list is very far indeed from exhausting the complete catalogue of Wither's voluminous works. He was an ardent politician, and in the stirring times of the Civil War was perpetually pouring forth songs and broadsheets in justification of the cause he had taken up. Probably no library in England possesses an absolutely complete collection of Wither's works. Certainly the British Museum and the Bodleian do not. The Rev. T. Corser, of Stand, near Manchester, is said to have had the fullest collection in existence, but that has been since dispersed. The poems have been collected by the Spenser Society, but it is a matter for regret that they are not to be had in a more generally accessible form. It is one of the most striking blemishes of Chalmers' collection that Wither is absolutely ignored in it. Of modern editors of portions of his works the chief is Sir Egerton Brydges, who republished the Shepherd's Hunting and the Fidelia at the beginning of this century, and also gave long extracts from Wither's other poems in his Censura Literaria. The Hymns and Songs of the Church, and the Hallelujah were republished for Russell Smith in 1856 and 1857.)

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The King of kings, when He was born,

Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as

these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,

Where oxen lay, and asses fed : Warm rooms we do to thee afford,

An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings, known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,

What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go,

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for

And by His torments and His pain

Thy rest and ease securèd be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,

A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it

not, Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.


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?



[From Hallelujah.) On those great waters now I am,

Of which I have been told, That whosoever thither came

Should wonders there behold.
In this unsteady place of fear,

Be present, Lord, with me;
For in these depths of water here

I depths of danger see.

Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

A stirring courser now I sit,

A headstrong steed I ride, That champs and foams upon the bit

Which curbs his lofty pride. The softest whistling of the winds

Doth make him gallop fast; And as their breath increased he finds

The more he maketh haste.

Take Thou, oh Lord! the reins in hand,

Assume our Master's room;

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1568–1639. (BORN, 1568; died, 1639. “How happy is he born and taught,” said to have been printed in 1614; see Courtly Poets, ed. Hannah, 1875. It was quoted to Drummond by Ben Jonson in 7618 or 1619: “ Sir Edward (Henry] Wotton's verses of a happy life he hath by heart.” “You meaner beauties of the night,” printed with music in Est's Sixth Set of Books, 1624. It was probably written a few years before. In 1651, Reliquiae Wottonianae.)

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY | Who hath his life from rumors freed, LIFE.

Whose conscience is his strong re.

treat; How happy is he born and taught

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, That serveth not another's will,

Nor ruin make oppressors great.
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill !

Who God doth late and early pray Whose passions not his master's are, More of his grace than gifts to end, Whose soul is still prepar’d for death,

And entertains the harmless day Untied unto the world by care

With a religious book or friend. Of public fame or private breath. Who envies none that chance doth raise, This man is freed from servile hands, Nor vice hath ever understood;

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; How deepest wounds are given by praise, Lord of himself, though not of lands,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good. And having nothing, yet hath all.

Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passion understood
By your weak accents,

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

what's your

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 moon shall rise?
Ye 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 seen,

In sweetness of her looks and mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.


years of

1605–1687. [EDMUND Waller was born, March 3, 1605, at Coleshill, in Warwickshire. At seventeen

age he was elected member of parliament for Agmondesham. He married early, and lost his wife soon; after her death he paid court to Lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter of the Earl of Leicester. He protracted his unsuccessful suit, celebrating the lady under the title of Sacharissa, until in 1639 she married the Earl of Sunderland. In 1640 he entered parliament again, and made himself remarkable by_his opposition to the King's measures, but when the Civil War became imminent he took the Royalist side. In 1643 he was arrested as one of the leaders of a plot against the Parliament, and having with difficulty preserved his life, proceeded to France on his release. After some years he returned to England and made his peace with Cromwell; at the Restoration he eagerly laid his homage at the feet of Charles II. He was made Provost of Eton, and sat in several parliaments after the Restoration. He died of dropsy, at Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire, on the 21st of October, 1687. His poems, first published in 1645, were very frequently reprinted during his lifetime, and always with additions.]


ON A GIRDLE. The seas are quiet when the winds give That which her slender waist confined o'er;

Shall now my joyful temples bind : So calm are we when passions are no It was my heaven's extremest sphere, more;

The pale which held that lovely dear. For then we know how vain it was to My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, boast

Did all within this circle move! Of fleeting things too certain to be lost. A narrow compass ! and yet there Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. Conceal that emptiness which age de- Give me but what this ribbon bound, scries.

Take all the rest the sun goes round.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and

decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that

GO, LOVELY ROSE! time has made : Stronger by weakness wiser men become Go, lovely Rose ! As they draw near to their eternal home: Tell her that wastes her time and me, Leaving the old, both worlds at once That now she knows, they view

When I resemble her to thee, That stand upon the threshold of the new. How sweet and fair she seems to be.

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