THE NOBLE NATURE.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make Man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night—

It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

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BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

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TO SLEEP.

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet [light],
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or gentle rain.
Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

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SONG TO PAN.

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
All ye virtues and ye powers

That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,

Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground

With his honour and his name

That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,
He is ever good, and must

Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,

And deserve your master's love.

Now, good-night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell:
Thus I end my evening knell.

J. FLETCHER.

MELANCHOLY.

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought 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 fasten'd to the ground,

A tongue chain'd 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.

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