John Fletcher (1579 – 1625)
Jacobean playwright.
'Twas when young Eustace wore his heart in's breeches.
Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Under the gallow-tree.
Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves.
Fortune, now see, now proudly
Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph; look,
Look what thou hast brought this land to!—
Go far—too far you cannot, still the farther
The more experience finds you: And go sparing;—
One meal a week will serve you, and one suit,
Through all your travels; for you'll find it certain,
The poorer and the baser you appear,
The more you look through still.
There is no jesting with edge tools.
Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will;
'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.
Drink today, and drown all sorrow;
You shall perhaps not do't tomorrow.
Let no man fear to die : We love to sleep all,
And death is but the sounder sleep.