. Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern. er EAREST, do not you delay me, Since thou knowst I must be gone;Wind and tide, tis thought, doth stay me,But tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smellIndian odors far excel. Oh then speak, thou fairest fair! Kill not him that vows to serve thee;But perfume this neighboring air. Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:Tis a word thats quickly being restrained, a heart is broken. TRUE BEAUTY MAY I find a woman fair,And her mind as clear as air:If her beauty go alone,Tis to me as if twere none. May
. Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern. er EAREST, do not you delay me, Since thou knowst I must be gone;Wind and tide, tis thought, doth stay me,But tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smellIndian odors far excel. Oh then speak, thou fairest fair! Kill not him that vows to serve thee;But perfume this neighboring air. Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:Tis a word thats quickly being restrained, a heart is broken. TRUE BEAUTY MAY I find a woman fair,And her mind as clear as air:If her beauty go alone,Tis to me as if twere none. May I find a woman not of too high a pitch:If that pride should cause me, lover, wheres thy gain ? May I find a woman her falsehood not disguise:Hath she wit as she hath will,Double armed she is to ill. May I find a woman kind,And not wavering like the wind:How should I call that love tis his, and his, and thine ? May I find a woman is beautys fairest is beauty, love, and wit:Happy he can compass it!. Sri FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER ^^8 ODE TO MELANCHOLYBv Fletcher H TENCE, all you vain delights,As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly!Theres naught in this life sweet,If man were wise to see t,But only melancholy;Oh, sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies,A look thats fastened to the ground,A tongue chained up without a sound! Fountain heads, and pathless which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks when all the fowlsAre 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; Nothings so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. TO MY DEAR FRIEND. MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON, UPON HIS FOX By Beaumont IF IT might stand with justice to allowThe swift conversion of all follies, nowSuch is my mercy, that I could admitAll sorts should equally approve the witOf thi
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