Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth: Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. A SONG OF CRUEL LOVE.[119] [From _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_.] Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, though sealed in vain. Hide, oh hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears; But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee. SWEET MELANCHOLY.[120] [From _The Nice Valor_.] Hence, all your vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy: O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened on the ground, A tongue chained 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. [Footnote 119: The first stanza of this song was probably Shakspere's.] [Footnote 120: This should be compared with Milton's _Il Penserosa_.] CAESAR'S LAMENT OVER POMPEY. [From _The False One._] O thou conqueror, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity: Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? What poor fate followed thee and plucked thee on To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian? The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger That honorable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man was? That never heard thy name sung but in banquets And loose lascivious pleasures? To a boy That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness?... Egyptians, dare you think your high pyramides, Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, Are monuments fit for him? No, brood of Nilus, Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven; No pyramid set off his memories, But the eternal substance of his greatness, To which I leave him. JOHN MILTON. FAME. [From _Lycidas._]