THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD by WILLIAM DAVENANT

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,
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,
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of hte 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?

Thou know'st, the sacred laws of old
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stolen away.

Thy payment shall but double be;
O then with speed resign
My own seduced heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.

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