MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’ Here’s an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed That the earth did e’er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, ‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’ Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here’s a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON 1587–1642 TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY DO not conceal those radiant eyes, The starlight of serenest skies; Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, They turn to chaos’ endless night! Do not conceal those tresses fair, The silken snares of thy curled hair Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, The curious silk-worm work no more. Do not conceal those breasts of thine, More snow-white than the Apennine; Lest, if there be like cold and frost, The lily be for ever lost. Do not conceal that fragrant scent, Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent Perfumes; lest, it being supprest, No spices grow in all the rest. Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; Lest, music hearing no such thing, The nightingale forget to sing. Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all thy worth. Do not conceal no beauty, grace, That’s either in thy mind or face; Lest virtue overcome by vice Make men believe no Paradise. NATHANIEL FIELD 1587–1638 MATIN SONG RISE, Lady Mistress, rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thoughts of whom keep sin away? Rise, Madam! rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise; For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes. GEORGE WITHER 1588–1667 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! SLEEP, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep. Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.