Bridal Song

CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee
   We obey.
Joy to this great company!
   And no day
Come to steal this night away
   Till the rites of love are ended,
And the lusty bridegroom say,
   Welcome, light, of all befriended!

Pace out, you watery powers below;
   Let your feet,
Like the galleys when they row,
   Even beat;
Let your unknown measures, set
   To the still winds, tell to all
That gods are come, immortal, great,
   To honour this great nuptial!

poem by John Fletcher
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Hence, All You Vain Delights from the Nice Valour

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
O 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.

poem by John Fletcher
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The Dead Host's Welcome

It is late and cold; stir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold:
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You'll find but cold drink in the grave:
Plover, partridge, for your dinner,
And a capon for the sinner,
You shall find ready when you're up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round,
And I shall smile, though under ground.

poem by John Fletcher
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Away, Delights

AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,
   For I must die.
Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling
   Lie after lie.
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
   Alas, for pity go
   And fire their hearts
That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,
   For I will die;
And all those griefs that think to overgrow me
   Shall be as I:
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry--
   'Alas, for pity stay,
   And let us die
With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.'

poem by John Fletcher
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Orpheus I am, Come from the Deeps Below

Orpheus I am, come from the deeps below,
To thee, fond man, the plagues of love to show.
To the fair fields where loves eternal dwell
There's none that come, but first they pass through hell:
Hark, and beware! unless thou hast loved, ever
Beloved again, thou shalt see those joys never.

Hark how they groan that died despairing!
Oh, take heed, then!
Hark how they howl for over-daring!
All these were men.

They that be fools, and die for fame,
They lose their name;
And they that bleed,
Hark how they speed!

Now in cold frosts, now scorching fires
They sit, and curse their lost desires;
Nor shall these souls be free from pains and fears,

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poem by John Fletcher
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Beauty Clear and Fair

BEAUTY clear and fair,
   Where the air
Rather like a perfume dwells;
   Where the violet and the rose
   Their blue veins and blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else:

   Where to live near
   And planted there
Is to live, and still live new;
   Where to gain a favour is
   More than light, perpetual bliss--
Make me live by serving you!

Dear, again back recall
   To this light,
A stranger to himself and all!
   Both the wonder and the story
   Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
I am your servant, and your thrall.

poem by John Fletcher
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Melancholy

HENCE, all you vain delights,
   As short as are the nights
   Wherein you spend your folly!
There 's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
   But only melancholy--
   O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that 's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd 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.

poem by John Fletcher
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Love's Emblems

NOW the lusty spring is seen;
   Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
   Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow,
   And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
   Woodbines of sweet honey full:
   All love's emblems, and all cry,
   'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'

Yet the lusty spring hath stay'd;
   Blushing red and purest white
   Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid:
Cherries kissing as they grow,
   And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
   Winding gently to the waist:
   All love's emblems, and all cry,

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poem by John Fletcher
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Hear, ye Ladies

HEAR, ye ladies that despise
   What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples and be wise:
   Fair Callisto was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
   To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
   Doted on a silver swan;
   Danae, in a brazen tower,
   Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
   What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
   The chaste Moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
   Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
   Doting at the altar dies;
   Ilion, in a short hour, higher

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poem by John Fletcher
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Philaster

To give a stronger testimony of love
Than sickly promises (which commonly
In princes find both birth and burial
In one breath), we have drawn you, worthy sir,
To make your fair endearments to our daughter,
And worthy services known to our subjects,
Now loved and wondered at; next, our intent
To plant you deeply our immediate heir
Both to our blood and kingdoms. For this lady
(The best part of your life, as you confirm me,
And I believe), though her few years and sex
Yet teach her nothing but her fears and blushes,
Desires without desire, discourse and knowledge
Only of what herself is to herself,
Make her feel moderate health; and, when she sleeps,
In making no ill day, knows no ill dreams.
Think not, dear sir, these undivided parts
That must mold up a virgin, are put on
To show her so, as borrowed ornaments
To talk of her perfect love to you, or add

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poem by John Fletcher
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