LXII

      DIRGE OF LOVE

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      Come away, come away, Death,

       And in sad cypres let me be laid;

       Fly away, fly away, breath;

       I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

       My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.

      Not a flower, not a flower sweet

       On my black coffin let there be strown;

       Not a friend, not a friend greet

       My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

       A thousand thousand sighs to save,

       Lay me, O where

       Sad true lover never find my grave,

       To weep there.

      W. Shakespeare

LXIII

      TO HIS LUTE

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      My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow

       With thy green mother in some shady grove,

       When immelodious winds but made thee move,

       And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

      Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,

       Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

       Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,

       What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

      Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

       But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;

       Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;

       For which be silent as in woods before:

      Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,

       Like widow'd turtle, still her loss complain.

      W. Drummond

LXIV

      FIDELE

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      Fear no more the heat o' the sun

       Nor the furious winter's rages;

       Thou thy worldly task hast done,

       Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;

       Golden lads and girls all must,

       As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

      Fear no more the frown o' the great,

       Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;

       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

LXV

      A SEA DIRGE

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      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

LXVI

      A LAND DIRGE

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      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

LXVII

      POST MORTEM

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      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 deceased 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

LXVIII

      THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

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      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