Ben Jonson.


194   Hymn to Diana

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
   Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
   State in wonted manner keep:
     Hesperus entreats thy light,
     Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
   Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia’s shining orb was mad
   Heaven to clear when day did close:
     Bless us then with wishàed sight,
     Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
   And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
   Space to breathe, how short soever:
     Thou that mak’st a day of night—
     Goddess excellently bright.

195                                                To Celia

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 thirst that from the soul doth rise
   Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
   Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
   It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
   And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
   Not of itself but thee!

196                                      Simplex Munditiis

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

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;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

197                              The Shadow

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;
   Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
   Let her alone, she will court you.
     Say, are not women truly, then,
     Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even, shades are longest;
   At noon they are or short or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
   But grant us perfect, they’re not known.
     Say, are not women truly, then,
     Styled but the shadows of us men?

198   A Nymph’s Secret

I LOVE, and He loves me again,
   Yet dare I not tell, Who;
For if the Nymphs should know my Swain,
   I fear they’d love him too!
   Yet if it be not known;
The pleasure is as good as none;
For that’s a narrow joy, is but our own.

I’ll tell! that, if they be not glad,
   They may yet envy me;
But then, if I grow jealous mad,
   And of them, pitied be,
   It were a plague ’bove scorn;
And yet it cannot be forborne,
Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

He is (if they can find him) fair,
   And fresh and fragrant too
As summer’s sky, or purgàed air,
   And looks as lilies do
   That are, this morning, blown.
Yet, yet, I doubt, he is not known;
And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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