LONG LIFE.

    It is not growing like a tree
    In bulk, doth make men 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 beauty see;
  And in short measures life may perfect be.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

  Underneath this sable hearse
  Lies the subject of all verse,
  Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother;
  Death, ere thou hast slain another,
  Learn’d and fair and good as she,
  Time shall throw a dart at thee.

THE THANKLESS MUSE.

[From The Poetaster.]

  O this would make a learned and liberal soul
  To rive his stained quill up to the back,
  And damn his long-watched labours to the fire—­
  Things that were born when none, but the still night
  And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes;
  Were not his own free merit a more crown,
  Unto his travails than their reeling claps.[115]
  This ’tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips,
  And apts me rather to sleep out my time,
  Than I would waste it in contemned strifes
  With these vile Ibides,[116] these unclean birds
  That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge
  From their hot entrails.  But I leave the monsters
  To their own fate.  And, since the Comic Muse
  Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try
  If tragedy have a more kind aspect: 
  Her favors in my next I will pursue,
  Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one,
  So he judicious be, he shall be alone
  A theater unto me.  Once I’ll ’say[117]
  To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains,
    As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,
  Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,
    And more despair to imitate their sound. 
  I, that spend half my nights and all my days
    Here in a cell, to get a dark pale face,
  To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,
    And in this age can hope no other grace—­
  Leave me!  There’s something come into my thought
  That must and shall be sung high and aloof,
  Safe from the wolf’s black jaw and the dull ass’s hoof.[118]

[Footnote 115:  Applauses.] [Footnote 116:  Plural of ibis.] [Footnote 117:  That is, I will try once for all.] [Footnote 118:  That is, envy and stupidity.]

JOHN FLETCHER AND FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

A SONG OF TRUE LOVE DEAD.

[From The Maid’s Tragedy.]

  Lay a garland on my hearse
    Of the dismal yew;
  Maidens willow branches bear;
    Say I died true: 
  My love was false, but I was firm
    From my hour of birth: 
  Upon my buried body lie
    Lightly, gentle earth.