Memory

Then die-that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

93 T

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

TO THE ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fettered me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods at will

For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thús, and go

And tell her this, but do not so!-
Lest a handsome anger fly

Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I!

Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn:

Only she sings not, while my sorrows can
Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.

So shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;

So from the honeysuckle sheaves

The bee goes when the day is done;

So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds, kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath
As night, they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be
Some that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory:

But could they teach Forgetfulness,

I'd learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades

Men from themselves, to think they be
Headless, or other bodies' shades,

Hath long and bootless dwelt with me;
For could I think she some idea were,
I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not: nor would I,

For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved company

Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then no future time might hap to know
That she deserved, or I did love her so.

Ye hours, then, but as minutes be!

(Though so I shall be sooner old) Till I those lovely graces see,

Which, but in her, can none behold; Then be an age! that we may never try

More grief in parting, but grow old and die.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

To Lucasta, Going Beyond the Seas 933

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Loved I not Honor more.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

Ir to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that when I am gone

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale

To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue god's rage;

For whether he will let me pass

Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls:

Above the highest sphere we meet

Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate
Our after-fate,

And are alive in the skies,

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined

In Heaven, their carthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT
OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year:
Chloris is gone; and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair

To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah! how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great God of Love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst placed such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs
And every life but mine recall,

I only am by Love designed
To be the victim for mankind.

John Dryden [1631–1700]

WRITTEN AT SEA, IN 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

Bring 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: