Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies By H. B. [i.e. Henry Bold] |
 |
|
To his Mistress when she was going into the Country.
|
|
 | Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies |  |
To his Mistress when she was going into the Country.
Yes, yes, it must be so, but must there be,
When you depart, no memory had of me,
My soule being rack't as large a distance too
To meet you there, as I must be from you,
While the glad spring for joy you shall be seen
Meet your approach, and cloath her self in green.
And the fresh morning to salute your rise,
Bedevves the ground from it's o're joyed eyes,
For joy like grief, vve knovv, sometimes appeares,
Writ on our cheeks, vvith characters of tears.
Go and be happy, go, and vvhen you see
The trusty Ivy clasp it's much loved tree,
And vvith it's amorous intvvinings cover
The vvelcome vvaste of it's imbraced lover:
Think it our Embleme then, and prov'd to be
The happy shadow of my love and me,
Go and be happy, and when some svveet brooks
(Calme as thy thoughts, and smooth as are thy looks)
Show thee thy face, then let thy thoughts supply
And though I be not, think that I am by;
For if the heart be taken for whole man,
I must be by thee, be thou where thou can.
Go and when some pretty birds on some smal spray,
Neer to thy window welcome in the day:
Awake, and think, when their sweet notes you heare,
I was before-hand, and had sung them there.
Go, and whate're thou chance to heare or see,
Be it bird, or brook, or shade or tree;
If it delights thee may my soule in it
Move thy true joyes under that counterfit.
So, aske not how I do when you are there,
For at your mercy well or ill I fare
For now me thinks my heart so high doth swell,
It must inforce a breath, farewell, farewell.
When you depart, no memory had of me,
My soule being rack't as large a distance too
To meet you there, as I must be from you,
While the glad spring for joy you shall be seen
Meet your approach, and cloath her self in green.
And the fresh morning to salute your rise,
Bedevves the ground from it's o're joyed eyes,
For joy like grief, vve knovv, sometimes appeares,
Writ on our cheeks, vvith characters of tears.
4
The trusty Ivy clasp it's much loved tree,
And vvith it's amorous intvvinings cover
The vvelcome vvaste of it's imbraced lover:
Think it our Embleme then, and prov'd to be
The happy shadow of my love and me,
Go and be happy, and when some svveet brooks
(Calme as thy thoughts, and smooth as are thy looks)
Show thee thy face, then let thy thoughts supply
And though I be not, think that I am by;
For if the heart be taken for whole man,
I must be by thee, be thou where thou can.
Go and when some pretty birds on some smal spray,
Neer to thy window welcome in the day:
Awake, and think, when their sweet notes you heare,
I was before-hand, and had sung them there.
Go, and whate're thou chance to heare or see,
Be it bird, or brook, or shade or tree;
If it delights thee may my soule in it
Move thy true joyes under that counterfit.
So, aske not how I do when you are there,
5
For now me thinks my heart so high doth swell,
It must inforce a breath, farewell, farewell.
The Knell.
When the sad toling of my bell you heare,Think tis some Anfels trump, and judgments neere,
Then if but to repent, you take the paine,
Your judgments past, lie down and sleep againe.
The Perfume.
Not that I think thy breath less sweet than this,Thy breath, in which no pleasant sweets I miss,
Not that I think thy white, than this less faire,
Thy white, to which all whites but blackness are:
Not that I think thy heart, then this less pure,
Thy heart, which no dull mixture can indure,
Send I this to thee, but as gold well try'd,
Admits allay when it is purifi'd,
So by this foile I would to thee in part
What is thy breath, thy whiteness, and thy heart.
6
As doth thy whiteness, the descending snow;
The snow descends, but by the winds being blown,
Thy sweetest breath, & whiter snows, thine own:
Thy heart less mixt than the sole Phœnix bed,
Proclaimes thee mistress of a Maiden-head,
And so there were no ashes after sire,
Would that ware conquer'd in my loves desire,
But if there be, why can it not suffice?
That one being dead another Phœnix rise.
Thy maiden-head being gone, we still shall prove;
Both being one unparallell'd in love,
But I have ridd'd, let me now unfold,
What is the perfume, what the snow, what gold;
All this, and each of these, thou know'st thou art,
And I should know more, did I know thy heart.
| Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | |