The Golden Treasury. Unknown

Care no more to clothe and eat;

              To thee the reed is as the oak:

           The sceptre, learning, physic, must

           All follow this, and come to dust.

           Fear no more the lightning flash

              Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

           Fear not slander, censure rash;

              Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:

           All lovers young, all lovers must

           Consign to thee, and come to dust.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

      46. A SEA DIRGE

           Full fathom five thy father lies:

              Of his bones are coral made;

           Those are pearls that were his eyes:

              Nothing of him that doth fade,

           But doth suffer a sea-change

           Into something rich and strange;

           Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

           Hark! now I hear them,—

              Ding, dong, Bell.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

      47. A LAND DIRGE

           Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

           Since o'er shady groves they hover

           And with leaves and flowers do cover

           The friendless bodies of unburied men.

           Call unto his funeral dole

           The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole

           To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm

           And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;

           But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

           For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

J. WEBSTER.

      48. POST MORTEM

           If Thou survive my well-contented day

           When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

           And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

           These poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover:

           Compare them with the bettering of the time,

           And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

           Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme

           Exceeded by the height of happier men.

           O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought—

           "Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,

           A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

           To march in ranks of better equipage:

           But since he died, and poets better prove,

           Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

W. SHAKESPEARE.

      49. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

           No longer mourn for me when I am dead

           Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

           Give warning to the world, that I am fled

           From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

           Nay, if you read this line, remember not

           The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

           That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

           If thinking on me then should make you woe.

           O if, I say, you look upon this verse

           When I perhaps compounded am with clay

           Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

           But let your love even with my life decay;

           Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

           And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

      50. MADRIGAL

           Tell me where is Fancy bred,

           Or in the heart or in the head?

           How begot, how nourishéd?

                Reply, reply.

           It is engender'd in the eyes,

           With gazing fed; and Fancy dies

           In the cradle where it lies:

           Let us all ring fancy's knell;

           I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.

                     —Ding, dong, bell.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

      51. CUPID AND CAMPASPE

           Cupid and my Campaspe play'd

           At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

           He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

           His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

           Loses them too; then down he throws

           The coral of his lip, the rose

           Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

           With these, the crystal of his brow,

           And then the dimple on his chin;

           All these did my Campaspe win:

           At last he set her both his eyes—

           She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

              O Love! has she done this to thee?

              What shall, alas! become of me?

J. LYLYE.

      52

           Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,

            With night we banish sorrow;

           Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

            To give my Love good-morrow!

           Wings from the wind to please her mind,

            Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

           Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,

            To give my Love good-morrow;

              To give my Love good-morrow

              Notes from them both I'll borrow.

           Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast!

            Sing, birds, in every furrow;

           And from each hill, let music shrill