University of Virginia Library


79

EXCITATIONS.


85

The Hostesse.

The Syrian Hostesse, with a Greek Wreath crown'd,
Shaking her wither'd side to th'Bagpipes sound,
Drunk, 'fore the Tavern a loose Measure leads,
And with her elbow blows the squeaking Reeds.

86

Who would the Summers dusty labours ply,
That might on a soft Couch carowsing ly?
Here's Musick, Wine, Cups, and an Arbour made
Of cooling flags, that cast a grateful shade:
A Pipe whereon a Shepherd sweetly playes,
Whilst the Mænalian Cave resounds his layes:
A Hogshead of brisk wine new pierc'd: a Spring
Of pleasant Water ever murmuring:
Wreaths twisted with the purple Violet;
White Garlands with the blushing Rose beset;
And Osier Baskets with fair Lillies fraught
From the Bank-side by Achelois brought:
Fresh Cheese in Rushy Cradles layd to dry:
Soft Plums, by Autumn ripend leisurely:
Chessenuts, and A ples sweetly streakt with red;
Neat Ceres by young Love and Bacchus led:
Black Mulberries, an overcharged Vine;
Green Cowcumbers, that on their stalks decline:
The Gardens Guardian, with no dreadful look,
Nor other weapon then a pruning-book.
Tabor and Pipe come hither: see, alasse.
Thy tir'd Beast sweats; spare him; our wel-lov'd Asse.
The Grassehopper chirps on her green seat,
The Lizard peeps out of his cold retreat;
Come, in this shade thy weary Limbs repose,
And crown thy drowsie Temples with the Rose.
A Maids Lip safely maist thou rifle here;
Away with such whose Foreheads are severe.
Flowers why reservst thou for unthankful Dust?
To thy cold Tomb wilt Thou these Garlands trust?
Bring Wine and Dice; hang them the morrow weigh:
Death warns, I come (saith he) live while you may.

92

The Debauche.

Let 's not rime the hours away;
Friends! We must no longer play:
Brisk Lyæus (see!) invites
To more ravishing delights.
Let's give o're this Fool Apollo;
Nor his Fiddle longer follow:
Fye upon his forked Hill,
With his Fiddlestick and Quill;
And the Muses, though they're gamesome,
They are neither young nor handsome;
And their Freaks in sober sadnesse
Are a meer Poetick Madnesse:
Pegasus is but a Horse,
He that follows him is worse.
See the Rain soaks to the skin,
Make it rain as well within.

93

Wine my Boy; Wee'l sing and laugh,
All night revel, rant, and quaffe;
Till the Morn stealing behind us
At the Table sleeplesse finde us.
When our Bones (alasse) shall have
A cold lodging in the Grave,
When swift Death shall overtake us,
We shall sleep and none can wake us.
Drink we then the juice o'th' Vine,
Make our breasts Lyæus Shrine;
Bacchus, our debauche beholding,
By thy Image I am moulding,
Whilst my Brains I do replenish
With this draught of unmixt Rhenish;
By thy full-branch'd Ivy Twine;
By this sparkling Glasse of Wine;
By thy Thyrsus so renown'd;
By the Healths with which th'art crown'd;
By the Feasts which thou do'st prize;
By thy numerous Victories;
By the Howls by Mænad's made;
By this Hau-gou Carbonade;
By thy colours, red and white;
By the Tavern thy delight;
By the sound thy Orgies spred;
By the shine of Noses red;
By thy Table free for all;
By the jovial Carnivall;
By thy language Cabalistick;
By thy Cymbal, Drum and his stick;
By the Tunes thy Quart-pots strike up;
By thy Sighes, the broaken Hick-up;

94

By thy mystick Sect of Ranters;
By thy never-tamed Panthers;
By this sweet, this fresh and free air;
By thy Goat, as chaste as We are;
By thy fulsome Cretan Lasse;
By the Old Man on the Asse;
By thy Couzins in mix'd shapes;
By the flowre of fairest Grapes;
By thy Biskes fam'd far and wide;
By thy store of Neats-tongues dry'd;
By thy Incense, Indian smoake;
By the Joyes thou dost provoke;
By this salt Westphalia Gammon;
By these Sauz'iges that inflame one;
By thy tall Majestick Flaggons;
By Mas, Tope, and thy Flap-dragons;
By this Olive's unctuous savour;
By this Ownge, the Wines flavour;
By this Cheese orerun with Mites;
By thy dearest Favorites;
To thy frolick Order call us,
Knights of the deep Bowle install us;
And to shew thy self divine,
Never let it want for Wine.

101

Aristenætus to Philocalus.

Nature with beauty Lais did invest,
But Venus crown'd with sweetness 'bove the rest,
And registred her sacred name in Heaven
To make the number of the Graces even
By golden Love instructed, Mortal Hearts
To wound with her bright Eyes unerring darts
Her Sexes Wonder, Natures Masterpiece
And living Image she of Venus is.
Her cheeks a mixed red and white disclose,
That emulates the splendour of the Rose:
Yet these the tincture of her Lip out-vies
Pure black her even-arched eye brows dies
Beneath whose Sable Hemispheres the bright
Suns of her Eyes, move with full Orbs of Light.
The black and white here kindly disagree
Grac'd by each others Contrariety:
In these the Graces are enthron'd, and there
By all that see ador'd: her curious Hair
In which the Jacynths colour is exprest
By hands of Nature curld, of Venus drest.
Her neck by a rich Carquanet embrac'd
With the fair letters of her name enchac'd:

102

Her Garment to her shape though loose, so fit,
As if not made for her, but she for it.
Beautious in the becoming Dresse she wears,
But Beauties self, she, when that's off, appears.
And when she moves this curious frame her Gate
Expresseth quicknesse intermixt with state.
Such motion in tall Cypresses we finde,
Or Palms when breath'd on by some gentle winde;
Yet with this difference; them Zephyr moves,
But she is wafted on the breath of Loves.
Her his Original the Painter makes,
When or the Graces or their Queen he takes.
Her Breasts in envy of each other swell,
And their kinde silken Bands coyly repel:
But when she speaks; what clouds of Syrens watch
About her Lips, and her soft accents snatch:
The Cæstus she of Cytheræa wears,
A matchlesse form which no exception bears.
How fell this Mistresse (Venus) to my share?
Was I the Judge that sentenc'd thee most fair?
Thou not from me didst the rich Ball receive,
Yet to me freely dost this Hellen give.
To thy kinde power what offring shall I pay?
Her all that see, that none may envy, pray.
She darts so glorious, yet so mild a Light,
As dazels not, but cleers the Gazers sight.
Old men beholding her accuse their Fate,
Wish hers had earlier been, or theirs more late.
The Power that angry Nature did deny
The dumb, by signes they in her praise supply:
None knows who sums in her all Beauties store,
Or what to say or how she should give o're.

109

Gold.

Thou much lov'd cause of all the toyles
That wait on life,
Mettle whose yellow splendour smiles
Worlds into strife,
More sharp more deadly, of lesse worth
Then is the steel that digs thee forth.

110

Fool that he was who took the pains
To loose thy bands
Sifting the Earths discolour'd vains,
The Waters sands,
And freed thee from thy prison, where
Confin'd by pious Natures care.
A swarm of Furies came along
From Hell with thee,
Deceit, Ambition, Envy, Wrong,
Hate, Crueltie,
And that unsatiable thirst
Which where most cherish'd rageth worst.
For thee the Oceans ancient peace.
The first ship broke,
And on the Empire of the Seas
Impos'd a yoke;
Boreas with pride the Pine beheld
That scorn'd his breath to court it fell'd.
Churlish dissentions flattring Sire
Who love untiest,
Distracted Kingdoms sets on fire,
And concord flyest,
The Plunderer thou mak'st thy prey
The thief steal'st from himself away.

111

With Gold love heads the surest Dart
His Quiver bears;
Which in the coldest womans heart,
Impression wears:
Their flinty bosomes never dread,
The arrow that is tipt with lead.
You richest treasures Nature owns
Can you refuse,
The noblest of affections
The meanest choose.
Why seek you gems and gold? there are
Gems in your eyes, gold in your hair.
Worth it derives from our esteem,
Thought onely bright
By darkned judgements, yet though dim,
Dazles our sight,
More then the Planet of the day,
To whom he owes his sickly ray.
Happy those men who free from want,
The earth possest,
Of wealth yet wisely ignorant,
As that of Rest:
They Poverty their Treasure priz'd;
And Gold the golden age despis'd.

112

He that to Heaven would take his way,
Ere he begin,
Must down this glitt'ring burthen lay,
This bait of sin,
Or its oppressive earthly weight
Will clog his wings, and check his flight.

114

Adonis.

Ah poor Adonis all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
Had but thy councel o're thy will prevail'd,
Nor thee thy life, nor me thy love had fail'd.
The Rose forsakes thy lip, the sweets are fled
Breath'd in thy kisses, yet I'le kisse thee dead:
Kisse and rekisse thee but thou neither art,
Of kisses sensible, nor of my smart.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
The Woods in sighs, Rivers in tears lament,
Echo in groanes her griefs and mine doth vent.
In purple every drooping flower is drest,
And mourning garments every field invest.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.

115

You his lov'd Hounds obsequious to his call,
Couch'd at his feet, lament your Masters fall;
Take your eternal leave; Then, swift as Fame
Fly to the Woods, and there his death proclaim.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
You milk-white Doves, which to Jove starry Court,
Through fleeting clouds my Chariot did transport,
Go mount the Heavens, and to the Gods make known,
That all my joyes like faithlesse dreams are flown.
Ah poor Adonis all my Cupids be
Thy Mournrners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
You silver Swans now from your harnesse free,
Fly 'bout the painted mead at liberty;
And to the flowers recount, Venus hath shed
As many tears as drops Adonis bled.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
And you my sister Graces go and tell
To savage Rocks, where Beasts more savage dwell;
Cold in her lap Cythera's Lover lyes,
And Death (like slumber) dwels upon his eyes.
Ah poor Adonis, all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
My sons, on his pale corps your tresses strew,
Let each his Torch extinguish'd, Quiver, Bow,
And broken Arrows bring then, with sad cries
Surrounding me, perform his Obsequies.
His eyes, one with his rosy fingers close,
The other, on his arm his head repose:
This fan the winde upon him with his wing,
To bath him, that fetch water from the spring.

116

Ah poor Adonis all my Cupids be
Thy Mourners, all my joyes are dead with thee.
Dear Love, e're thou descend into the deep,
Shake from thy eyes, a while, this mortal sleep;
Look up a little; hear me but relate,
The dismal story of my haplesse fate:
Then in a kisse breath out thy soul in mine,
Whilst I my trembling lips impose on thine;
And drink Loves latest draught, which through each part,
Like divine Nectar, gliding to my heart,
Shall there for ever dwell instead of thee
Who Minion now to Proserpine must be.
This said, her bodie gently she inclines,
And weeping to his lips her lips she joyns;
To catch the Reliques of his soul not flown,
And kindly gives them burial in her own.

130

[Along the mead Europa walks]

Along the mead Europa walks
To choose the fairest of its gems,
Which plucking from their slender stalks,
She weaves in fragrant diadems.
Where ere the beautious virgin treads,
The common people of the field,
To kisse her feet bowing their heads,
Homage as to their Goddesse yield.
Twixt whom ambitious wars arise,
which to the Qeen shall first present
A gift Arabian spice outvies,
The votive offring of their scent.
When deathlesse Amaranth this strife,
Greedy by dying to decide,
Begs she would her green thread of life,
As loves fair destiny divide.
Pliant Acanthus now the Vine,
And Ivy enviously beholds,
Wishing her odorous arms might twine
About this Fair in such strict folds.

131

The Violet by her foot opprest,
Doth from that touch enamour'd rise,
But loosing strait what made her blest,
Hangs down her head, looks pale, and dies.
Clitia to new devotion won,
doth now her former faith deny,
Sees in her face a double Sun,
And glories in Apostasy.
The Gilliflower which mocks the skies,
(The meadows painted Rainbow) seeks
A brighter lustre from her eyes,
And richer scarlet from her cheeks.
The jocund flower de Luce appears,
Because neglected, discontent;
The Morning furnish'd her with tears,
Her sighs expiring odours vent.
Narcissus in her eyes once more,
Seems his own beauty to admire;
In water not so clear before,
As represented now in fire.
The Crocus who would gladly claim
A priviledge above the rest,
Begs with his triple tongue of flame,
To be transplanted to her breast.
The Hyacinth in whose pale leaves
The hand of Nature writ his fate,

132

With a glad smile his sigh deceives
In hopes to be more fortunate.
His head the drowsie Poppy rais'd,
Awak'd by this approaching morn,
And view'd her purple light amaz'd,
Though his (alasse) was but her scorn.
None of this aromatick croud,
But for their kinde death humbly call,
Courting her hand, like Martyrs proud,
By so divine a fate to fall.
The Royal Maid th'applause disdains
Of vulgar flowers, and onely chose
The bashful glory of the plains
Sweet daughter of the Spring, the Rose.
She like her self a Queen appears,
Rais'd on a verdant thorny throne,
Guarded by amorous winds, and wears
A purple Robe, a golden crown.

156

[Venus whose fair Deity]

Venus whose fair Deity
Cnidus doth and Cyprus sway,
Round about the Cupids fly,
And the wanton Graces play.
Thee our pious Mother Earth,
Life, and love of plants desires,
Trees receive, and give new birth,
Warm'd with thy enlivening fires.
Thee the thirsty furrows call,
When in drops of welcome rain,
Gems from thy rich bosome fall,
And adorn the glittring plain.
On the Heliconian Hill,
And Olympus simples grow,
Fed by thee, to which their skill
Chiron, and wise Circe owe.
In a blush the Rose her shame
Doth for wounding thee discover,
Yet, to sooth thy amorous flame
Wears the picture of thy Lover.
Over all, thy power presides;
What the foodful Earth maintains,
What through air or water glides,
Or the dark Abisse restrains.

157

Thee the nights black Regent knew,
When ore Ætna his fair prize,
Swift Tartarian Horses drew,
Shook the Earth, ore-cast the Skies.
On the liquid Marble Plain,
Thy sharp darts impression make,
Not the waters of the Main,
Could the fires of Neptune slake.
Gods Celestial Thee have felt
Slily proving strange escapes,
Jove himself thy flame did melt
Into misbeseeming shapes.
The kinde heat thy Torch inspires
In young virgins, no art smothers:
Not thy self is from those fires
Free, with which thou scorchest others.
Some remains of Mars's love,
Yet in thy warm breast are left,
May he ever constant prove,
Nor the Sun betray your theft.
Men and Maids thy Name invoke,
That, in thy strict fetters bound,
They may joyntly bear thy yoke,
Be with numerous issue crown'd.

158

Flowers and Mirtles see we bring,
With our gifts thy Altars blaze,
Boyes imposing incense, sing,
Virgins answer in thy praise.
Erycine appear, appear,
Thy bright star no longer hide,
Come enjoy thy pleasures here,
Freely as on wondring Ide.