Collected English Verse — John Fletcher. b. 1579, d. 1625 (Part 2 of 2)

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
   What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
   The chaste Moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
   Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
   Doting at the altar dies;
     Ilion, in a short hour, higher
     He can build, and once more fire.

221   God Lyaeus

GOD Lyaeus, ever young,
Ever honour’d, ever sung,
Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes
Dance upon the mazer’s¹ brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine:
   God of youth, let this day here
   Enter neither care nor fear.

222   Beauty Clear and Fair

      BEAUTY clear and fair,
      Where the air
Rather like a perfume dwells;
   Where the violet and the rose
   Their blue veins and blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else:

      Where to live near
      And planted there
Is to live, and still live new;
   Where to gain a favour is
   More than light, perpetual bliss—
Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recall
    To this light,
A stranger to himself and all!
  Both the wonder and the story
  Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
I am your servant, and your thrall.

223   Melancholy

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There’s naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see’t,
   But only melancholy—
   O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixàed eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fasten’d to the ground,
A tongue chain’d up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
   A midnight bell, a parting groan—
   These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

224   Weep no more

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:
Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as wingàed dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.