C The Soldier Going to the Field
Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl,
To purify the air;
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, 5
And wakes the louder drum;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb:
For I must go, where lazy peace
Will hide her drowsy head; 10
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.
But first I’ll chide thy cruel theft;
Can I in war delight,
Who, being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight? 15
Thou know’st the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stol’n away.
Thy payment shall but double be; 20
Oh then with speed resign
My own seducèd heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.
Sir William Davenant.