An Ode to Himself

Minds that are great and free

Should not on fortune pause;

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry

Be taken with false baits

Of worded balladry,

And think it poesy?

That die with their conceits,

And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre,
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet's line aspire
Sol's chariot for new fire,

To give the world again:

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.

And since our dainty age,
Cannot endure reproof,

Make not thyself a page,

To that strumpet the stage,

But sing high and aloof,

Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's

hoof.

The Invitation

IVE with me still, and all the meas

ures

Played to by the spheres I'll teach

thee;

Let's but thus dally, all the pleasures The moon beholds her man shall reach thee.

Dwell in mine arms, aloft we'll hover, And see fields of armies fighting: Oh, part not from me! I'll discover There all but books of fancy's writing.

Be but my darling, Age to free thee
From her curse shall fall a-dying;
Call me thy empress, Time to see thee
Shall forget his art of flying.

Good-Morrow

P

ACK, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;

Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks,
aloft

To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please` her mind

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;

And from each hill, let music shrill

Give my fair Love good-morrow!

Good-Morrow

Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phyllis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower:
Ah me! methinks I see her frown;
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her through your chirping bills As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known by love

Which from the world is hidden.