Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again. _J. Webster_ LXVII _POST MORTEM_ If Thou survive my well-contented day When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover; Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought-- 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' _W. Shakespeare_ LXVIII _THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH_ No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. _W. Shakespeare_ LXIX _YOUNG LOVE_ Tell me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourishéd? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes; With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies: Let us all ring Fancy's knell; I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. --Ding, dong, bell. _W. Shakespeare_ LXX _A DILEMMA_ Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. _Anon._ LXXI _ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL_