FANCIES are but streams
Of vain pleasure;
They who by their dreams
True joys measure,
Feasting, starve, laughing, weep,
Playing, smart; whilst in sleep
Fools, with shadows smiling,
Wake and find
Hopes like wind,
Idle hopes, beguiling.
Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them;
Wake now, awake! see and taste them!
John Ford (?) [f. 1639]
THE morn's my constant mistress,
And the lovely owl my marrow;
The flaming drake,
And the night-crow, make
Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo;
For oft, when he lies sleeping,
I behold the stars
At mortal wars,
And the rounded welkin weeping.
The moon embraces her shepherd,
And the Queen of Love her warrior;
While the first does horn
The stars of the morn,
And the next the heavenly farrier.
rrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
e uncouth cell,
ding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
-Raven sings;
er Ebon shades, and low-browed Rocks,
thy Locks,
mmerian desert ever dwell.
Jou Goddess fair and free,
lept Euphrosyne,
heart-easing Mirth, Venus, at a birth,
ter Graces more, nèd Bacchus bore;
as some Sager sing)
ind that breathes the Spring,
Aurora playing,
er once a-Maying,
eds of Violets blue,
own Roses washed in dew,
ith thee, a daughter fair, lithe, and debonair.
e, Nymph, and bring with thee thful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the Cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn-door,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft listening how the Hounds and horn
Clearly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Some time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the Furrowed Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his scythe,
very Shepherd tells his tale
the Hawthorn in the dale.
ht mine eye hath caught new pleasures t the Landscape round it measures, t Lawns, and Fallows Gray, ethe nibbling flocks do stray, tains on whose barren breast aboring clouds do often rest: ows trim with Daisies pied, ow Brooks, and Rivers wide. rs, and Battlements it sees med high in tufted Trees, e perhaps some beauty lies, Cynosure of neighboring eyes. by a Cottage chimney smokes, betwixt two aged Oaks, re Corydon and Thyrsis met. at their savory dinner set
erbs, and other Country Messes,
th the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
then in haste her Bower she leaves,
Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
f the earlier season lead,
he tanned Haycock in the Mead.
etimes with secure delight
up-land Hamlets will invite,
n the merry Bells ring round,
the jocund rebecks sound
many a youth, and many a maid,
cing in the Chequered shade;
young and old come forth to play
a Sunshine Holyday,
the live-long day-light fail; n to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, h stories told of many a feat, v Faery Mab the junkets eat. was pinched, and pulled she said; he, by Friar's Lantern led, s how the drudging Goblin sweat, earn his Cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy Flail hath threshed the Corn
That ten day-laborers could not end,
Then lies him down, the Lubbar Fiend,
And stretched out all the Chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first Cock his Matin rings.
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds soon lulled asleep,
Towered Cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthful Poets dream
On Summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native Wood-notes wild;
And ever, against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Airs,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
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