GIVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries, If they, importune, interrupt thy song, Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies. Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes, That since I saw thee now it is so long, And yet the tears that unto thee belong To thee as yet they did not sacrifice. I did not know that thou wert dead before; I did not feel the grief I did sustain; The greater stroke astonisheth the more; Astonishment takes from us sense of pain; I stood amazed when others' tears begun, And now begin to weep when they have done. Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619 111. Love is a Sickness LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho! Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619 112. Ulysses and the Siren Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, Possess these shores with me: The winds and seas are troublesome, And here we may be free. Here may we sit and view their toil That travail in the deep, And joy the day in mirth the while, And spend the night in sleep. Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were To be attain'd with ease, Then would I come and rest me there, And leave such toils as these. But here it dwells, and here must I With danger seek it forth: To spend the time luxuriously Becomes not men of worth. Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived With that unreal name; This honour is a thing conceived, And rests on others' fame: Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile The best thing of our life--our rest, And give us up to toil. Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were No honour nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear The time in idle sport: For toil doth give a better touch To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much As labour yields annoy. Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore Whereto tends all your toil, Which you forgo to make it more, And perish oft the while. Who may disport them diversely Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety As well as action may. Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame These toils and dangers please; And they take comfort in the same As much as you in ease; And with the thought of actions past Are recreated still: When Pleasure leaves a touch at last To show that it was ill. Siren. That doth Opinion only cause That 's out of Custom bred, Which makes us many other laws Than ever Nature did. No widows wail for our delights, Our sports are without blood; The world we see by warlike wights Receives more hurt than good.