George Wither Poems

So now is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
...

Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
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I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e’er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
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Me so oft my fancy drew
Here and there, that I ne’er knew
Where to place desire before
So that range it might no more;
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How near me came the hand of Death,
When at my side he struck my dear,
And took away the precious breath
Which quicken’d my belovàd peer!1
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Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind
Of more sweetness than all art
Or inventions can impart;
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Now gentle sleep hath clos'd up those eyes
Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
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Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,
Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,
And free access unto that sweet lip lies
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Lord, living, here are we
As fast united, yet
As when our hands and hearts by Thee
Together first were knit,
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Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make
Within one valley a large silver lake:
About whose banks the fertile mountains stood
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