WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For ’tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part, Can tie those parts and make me one of all; The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do’t; except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners are manacled when they’re condemned to die. Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me; For since I am Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry If into others’ hands these relics came. As ’twas humility To afford to it all that a soul can do, So ’twas some bravery That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. RICHARD BARNEFIELD 1574(?)–(?) THE NIGHTINGALE AS it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull’st ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by: That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. —Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapped in lead: All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me. BEN JONSON 1574–1637 CHARIS’ TRIUMPH SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamoured do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that love’s world compriseth! Do but look on her, she is bright As love’s star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife.