In the crimson liquor swim;
     From thy plenteous hand divine,
     Let a river run with wine. 
       God of youth, let this day here
       Enter neither care nor fear!

     ASPATIA’S SONG

     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!

LEANDRO’S SONG

BY FLETCHER

Dearest, do not you delay me,
Since thou know’st I must be gone;
Wind and tide, ’tis thought, doth stay me,
But ’tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian 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 that’s quickly spoken,
Which 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 rich,
And not of too high a pitch: 
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where’s thy gain?

     May I find a woman wise,
     And 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 mine,
     When ’tis his, and his, and thine?

     May I find a woman true,
     There is beauty’s fairest hue,
     There is beauty, love, and wit: 
     Happy he can compass it!

ODE TO MELANCHOLY

By Fletcher

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly! 
There’s 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 that’s fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained 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.

     TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,

     UPON HIS ‘FOX’

     By Beaumont