Occasional Verses of Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbery and Castle-Island ::

Uncessant Minutes, whil'st you move you tell
The time that tells our life, which though it run
Never so fast or farr, you'r new begun
Short steps shall overtake; for though life well

May scape his own Account, it shall not yours,
You are Death's Auditors, that both divide
And summ what ere that life inspir'd endures
Past a beginning, and through you we bide

The doom of Fate, whose unrecall'd Decree
You date, bring, execute; making what's new
Ill and good, old, for as we die in you,
You die in Time, Time in Eternity.

Ditty.

Deep Sighs, Records of my unpitied Grief,
Memorials of my true, though hopeless Love,
Keep time with my sad thoughts, till wish'd Relief
My long despairs for vain and causless prove.

Yet if such hap never to you befall,
I give you leave, break time, break heart and all.

Lord, thus I sin, repent, and sin again,
As if Repentance only were, in me,
Leave for new Sin; thus do I entertain
My short time, and thy Grace, abusing thee,
And thy long-suffering; which though it be
Ne'r overcome by Sin, yet were in vain,
If tempted oft: thus we our Errours see

Before our Punishment, and so remain
Without Excuse; and, Lord, in them 'tis true,
Thy Laws are just, but why dost thou distrain
Ought else for life, save life? that is thy due:
The rest thou mak'st us owe, and mayst to us
As well forgive; But oh! my sins renew,
Whil'st I do talk with my Creator thus.

A Description.

I sing her worth and praises, Ey,
Of whom a Poet cannot ly,

μικροκοσμος, μακροκοσμος.

The little World the Great shall blaze;
Sea, Earth, her Body; Heaven, her Face;
Her Hair, Sun-beams; whose every part
Lightens, enflames, each Lover's Heart:
That thus you prove the

Sol et homo generant hominem.

Axiom true,
Whilst the Sun help'd Nature in you.
Her Front, the White and Azure Sky,
In Light and Glory raised, Ey,
Being o'recast by a Cloudy frown,
All Hearts and Eyes dejecteth down.
Her each Brow a Cœlestial Bow,
Which through this Sky her Light doth show,
Which doubled, if it strange appear,
The Sun's likewise is doubled there.
Her either Cheek a Blushing Morn,
Which, on the Wings of Beauty born,
Doth never set, but only fair
Shineth, exalted in her hair.
Within her Mouth, Heavens Heav'n reside,
Her Words the Soul's there Glorifi'd.
Her Nose th' Æquator of this Globe,
Where Nakedness, Beauties best Robe,
Presents a form all Hearts to win.
Last Nature made that dainty Chin;
Which that it might in every fashion
Answer the rest a Constellation,
Like to a Desk, she there did place,
To write the Wonders of her Face.
In this Cœlestial Frontispiece,
Where Happiness eternal lies;
First aranged stand three Senses,
This Heavens Intelligences.

Whose several Motions, sweet combin'd,
Come from the first Mover, her Mind.
The weight of this harmonique Sphere,
The Atlas of her Neck doth bear;
Whose Favours Day to Us imparts,
When Frowns make Night in Lovers Hearts.
Two foming Billows are her Breasts,
That carry, rais'd upon their Crests,
The Tyrian Fish: More white's their Fome,
Then that, whence Venus once did come:
Here take her by the Hand, my Muse,
With that sweet Foe, to make my Truce,
To compact Manna, best compar'd,
Whose dewy inside's not full hard.
Her Waste's an envers'd Pyramis,
Upon whose Cone Love's Trophee is:
Her Belly is that Magazine,
At whose peep Nature did resigne
That pretious Mould, by which alone,
There can be framed such a One:
At th' entrance of which hidden Treasure,
Happy making above measure,
Two Alabaster Pillars stand,
To warn all passage from that Land;
At foot whereof engraved is,
The sad Non Ultra of Mans Bliss:
The Back of this most pretious Frame
Holds up in Majesty the same:
Where, to make Musick to all Hearts,
Love bound the descant of her parts:
Though all this Beauties Temple be,
There's known within no Deity

Save Vertues, shrin'd within her Will:
As I began, so say I still,
I sing her Worth and Praises, Ey,
Of whom a Poet cannot ly.

To her Face.

Fatal Aspect! that hast an Influence
More powerful far than those Immortal Fires
That but incline the Will and move the Sense,
Which thou alone constrain'st, kindling Desires
Of such an holy force, as more inspires
The Soul with Knowledge, than Experience
Or Revelation can do with all
Their borrow'd helps: Sacred Astonishment
Sits on thy Brow, threatning a sudden fall
To all those Thoughts that are not lowly sent,
In wonder and amaze, dazling that Eye
Which on those Mysteries doth rudely gaze,
Vow'd only unto Loves Divinity:
Sure Adam sinn'd not in that spotless Face.

To her Body.

Regardful Presence! whose fix'd Majesty
Darts Admiration on the gazing Look,
That brings it not: State sits inthron'd in thee,
Divulging forth her Laws in the fair Book
Of thy Commandements, which none mistook,
That ever humbly came therein to see

Their own unworthiness: Oh! how can I
Enough admire that Symmetry, exprest
In new proportions, which doth give the Ly
To that Arithmetique which hath profest
All Numbers to be Hers? thy Harmony.
Comes from the Spheres, and there doth prove
Strange measures so well grac'd, as Majesty
It self, like thee would rest, like thee would move.

To her Mind.

Exalted Mind! whose Character doth bear
The first Idea of Perfection, whence
Adam's came, and stands so, how canst appear
In words? that only tell what here-
Tofore hath been; thou need'st as deep a sence
As prophecy, since there's no difference
In telling what thou art, and what shall be:
Then pardon me that Rapture do profess,
At thy outside, that want, for what I see,
Description, if here amaz'd I cease
Thus—
Yet grant one Question, and no more, crav'd under
Thy gracious leave, How, if thou would'st express
Thy self to us, thou should'st be still a wonder?

Thus ends my Love, but this doth grieve me most,
That so it ends, but that ends too, this yet,
Besides the Wishes, hopes and time I lost,
Troubles my mind awhile, that I am set

Free, worse then deny'd: I can neither boast
Choice nor success, as my Case is, nor get
Pardon from my self, that I loved not
A better Mistress, or her worse; this Debt
Only's her due, still, that she be forgot
Ere chang'd, lest I love none; this done, the taint
Of foul Inconstancy is clear'd at least
In me, there only rests but to unpaint
Her form in my mind, that so dispossest
It be a Temple, but without a Saint.

Upon Combing her Hair.

Breaking from under that thy cloudy Vail,
Open and shine yet more, shine out more clear
Thou glorious golden-beam-darting hair,
Even till my wonderstrucken Senses fail.

Shoot out in light, and shine those Rays on far,
Thou much more fair than is the Queen of Love,
When she doth comb her in her Sphere above,
And from a Planet turns a Blazing-Star.

Nay, thou art greater too, more destiny
Depends on thee, then on her influence,
No hair thy fatal hand doth now dispence,
But to some one a thred of life must be.

While gracious unto me, thou both dost sunder
Those Glories which, if they united were,
Might have amazed sense, and shew'st each hair,
Which if alone had been too great a wonder.

And now spread in their goodly length, sh' appears
No Creature which the earth might call her own,
But rather one, that in her gliding down,
Heav'ns beams did crown, to shew us she was theirs.

And come from thence, how can they fear times rage
Which in his power else on earth most strange
Such Golden treasure doth to Silver change
By that improper Alchimy of Age.

But stay, me-thinks, new Beauties do arise,
While she withdraws these Glories which were spread,
Wonder of Beauties, set thy radiant head,
And strike out day from thy yet fairer eyes.

Ditty in imitation of the Spanish Entre tantoque L' Avril.

Now that the April of your youth adorns
The Garden of your face,
Now that for you each knowing Lover mourns,
And all seek to your Grace:
Do not repay affection with Scorns.

What though you may a matchless Beauty vaunt,
And that all Hearts can move,
By such a power, as seemeth to inchant?
Yet without help of Love
Beauty no pleasure to it self can grant.

Then think each minute that you lose, a day,
The longest Youth is short,
The shortest Age is long; time flies away,
And makes us but his sport;
And that which is not Youth's is Age's prey.

See but the bravest Horse, that prideth most,
Though he escape the Warr,
Either from master to the man is lost,
Or turn'd unto the Carr,
Or else must die with being ridden Post.

Then lose not beauty, Lovers, time, and all,
Too late your fault you see,
When that in vain you would these dayes recall;
Nor can you vertuous be,
When without these you have not wherewithall.

The State-progress of Ill.

I say, 'tis hard to write Satyrs. Though Ill
Great'ned in his long course, and swelling still,
Be now like to a Deluge, yet, as Nile.
'Tis doubtful in his original; this while
We may thus much on either part presume,
That what so universal are, must come
From causes great and far. Now in this state
Of things, what is least like Good, men hate,
Since 'twill be the less sin. I do see
Some Ill requir'd, that one poison might free

The other; so States, to their Greatness, find
No faults requir'd but their own, and bind
The rest. And though this be mysterious still,
Why should we not examine how this Ill
Did come at first, how't keeps his greatness here,
When 'tis disguis'd, and when it doth appear.
This Ill having some Attributes of God,
As to have made it self, and bear the rod
Of all our punishments, as it seems, came
Into the world, to rule it, and to tame
The pride of Goodness, and though his Reign
Great in the hearts of men he doth maintain
By love, not right, he yet the tyrant here
(Though it be him we love, and God we fear)
Pretence yet wants not, that it was before
Some part of Godhead, as Mercy, that store
For Souls grown Bankrupt, their first stock of Grace,
And that which the sinner of the last place
Shall number out, unless th' Highest will shew
Some power, not yet reveal'd to Man below.

But that I may proceed, and so go on
To trace Ill in his first progression,
And through his secret's wayes, and where that he
Had lest his nakedness as well as we,
And did appear himself, I note, that in
The yet infant-world, how mischief and sin,
His Agents here on earth, & easie known,
Are now conceal'd Intelligencers grown:

For since that as a Guard th' Highest at once
Put Fear t'attend their private actions,
And Shame, their publick, other means being fail'd:
Mischief, under doing of Good was vail'd,
And Sin, of Pleasure; though in this disguise
They only hide themselves from mortal eyes.
Sins, those that both com-and o-mitted be,
Once hot and cold, but in a third degree,
Are now such poisons, that though they may lurk
In secret parts awhile, yet they will work,
Though after death: Nor ever come alone,
But sudden fruitful multiply e'r done.
While in this monstrous birth they only dy
Whom we confess, those live which we deny.
Mischiefs like fatal Constellations
Appear unto the ignorant at once,
In glory and in hurt, while th' unseen part
Of the great Cause may be perchance, the Art
Of th' Ill, and hiding it, which that I may
Ev'n in his first original display,
And best example, sure, amongst Kings, he
Who first wanted succession to be
A Tyrant, was wise enough to have chose
An honest man for King, which should dispose
Those beasts, which being so tame, yet otherwise,
As it seems, could not heard: And with advise
Somewhat indifferent for both, he might
Yet have provided for their Childrens right.
If they grew wiser, not his own, that so
They might repent, yet under treason, who
Ne'r promis'd faith: though now we cannot spare,
(And not be worse) Kings, on those tearms they are

No more than we could spare (and have been sav'd)
Original sin. So then those Priests that rav'd
And propheci'd, they did a kind of good
They knew not of, by whom the choice first stood.

Since then, we may consider now, as fit,
State-government, and all the Arts of it,
That we may know them yet, let us see how
They were deriv'd, done, and are maintain'd now,
That Princes may by this yet understand
Why we obey, as well as they command.

State, a proportion'd colour'd table, is,
Nobility the master-piece, in this
Serves to shew distances, while being put
'Twixt sight and vastness they seem higher, but
As they're further off, yet as those blew hills,
Which th' utmost border of a Region fills
They are great and worse parts, while in the steep
Of this great Prospective, they seem to keep
Further absent from those below, though this
Exalted Spirit that's sure a free Soul, is
A greater privilege, than to be born
At Venice, although he seek not rule, doth scorn
Subjection, but as he is flesh, and so
He is to dulness, shame, and many moe
Such properties, knows, but the Painters Art,
All in the frame is equal; that desert
Is a more living thing, and doth obey,
As he gives poor, for God's sake, (though they
And Kings ask it not so) thinks Honours are
Figures compos'd of lines irregular
And happy-high, knows no election
Raiseth man to true Greatness, but his own.

Mean while, sugred Divines, next place to this,
Tells us, Humility and Patience is.
The way to Heaven, and that we must there
Look for our Kingdom, that the great'st rule here
Is for to rule our selves; and that they might
Say this the better, they to no place have right
B'inheritance, while whom Ambition swayes,
Their office is to turn it other wayes.

Those yet, whose harder minds Religion
Cannot invade, nor turn from thinking on
A present greatness, that Combin'd curse of Law,
Of officers, and neighbours spite, doth draw
Within such whirlpools, that till they be drown'd,
They n'er get out, but only swim them round.

Thus brief, since that the infinite of Ill
Is neither easie told, nor safe, I will
But only note, how freeborn man subdu'd
By his own choice, that was at first indu'd
With equal power over all, doth now submit
That infinite of Number, Spirit, Wit,
To some eight Monarchs, then why wonder men
Their rule of Horses?
The World, as in the Ark of Noah, rests,
Compos'd as then, few Men, and many Beasts.

Aug. 1608. At Merlow in France.

Satyra Secunda.

Of Travellers from Paris.

Ben Johnson, Travel is a second birth,
Unto the Children of another earth,
Only as our King Richard was, so they appear,
New born to another World, with teeth and hair,
While got by English Parents carried in
Some Womb of thirty tun, and lightly twin,
They are delivered at Callis, or at Diep,
And strangely stand, go, feed themselves, nay keep
Their own money streightwayes; but that is all,
For none can understand them, when they call
For any thing. No more then Badger,
That call'd the Queen Monsieur, laid a wager
With the King of his Dogs, who understood
Them all alike, which, Badger thought, was good.

But that I may proceed, since their birth is
Only a kind of Metempsy hosis;
Such Knowledge, as their memory could give,
They have for help, what time these Souls do live
In English Clothes, a body which again
They never rise unto: but as you see,
When they come home, like Children yet that be
Of their own bringing up; all they learn, is
Toyes, and the Language: but to attain this,
You must conceive, they'r cousen'd, mock'd & come
To Fauxbourgs, St, Germans, there take a Room

Lightly about th' Ambassadors, and where,
Having no Church, they come, Sundays, to hear
An invitation, which they have most part,
If their outside but promise a desert,
To sit above the Secretaries place,
Although it be almost as rare a case,
To see English well cloth'd here, as with you
At London, Indians: But that your view
May comprehend at once them gone for Bloys,
Or Orleans; learn'd French, now no more Boys,
But perfect Men at Paris, putting on
Some forc'd disguise, or labour'd fashion,
To appear strange at home, besides their stay,
Laugh and look on with me, to see what they
Are now become; but that the poorer sort,
A subject not fit for my Muse nor sport,
May pass untouch'd; let's but consider, what
Elpus is now become, once young, handsom, and that
Was such a Wit, as very well with four
Of the six might have made one, and no more,
Had he been at their Valentine, and could
Agree, Tom Rus should use the stock, who would
Carefully, in that, ev'n as 'twere his own,
Put out their jests, briefly, one that was grown
Ripe to another taste, than that wherein
He is now seasoned and dry'd, as in
His face, by this you see, which would perplex
A stranger to define his years, or sex;
To which his wrinkles, when he speaks, doth give
That Age, his words should have, while he doth strive
As if such births had never come from brain,
To shew, he's not deliver'd without pain,

Nor without After-throws. Sometimes, as Grace
Did overflow in circles o'r his face,
Ev'n to the brim, which he thinks Sure,
If this posture do but so long endure.
That it be fix'd by Age, he'll look as like
A speaking sign, as our St. George, to strike.
That, where he is, none but will hold their peace,
If th' have but th' least good manners, or confess,
If he should speak, he did presume too far
In speaking then, when others readier are.
Now, that he speaks, are complemental speeches,
That never go off but below the breeches
Of him he doth salute, while he doth wring,
And with some loose French words, which he doth string,
Windeth about the arms, the legs, and sides,
Most serpent-like, of any man that bides
His indirect approach, which being done
Almost without an introduction,
If he have heard but any bragging French
Boast of the favour of some noble Wench,
He'll swear, 'twas he did her Graces possess,
And damn his own soul for the wickedness
Of other men, strangest of all in that,
But I am weary to describe you what,
E're this, you can As for the little fry
That all along the street turn up the eye
At every thing they meet, that have not yet
Seen that swoln vitious Queen, Margaret,
Who were a monster ev'n without her sin;
Nor the Italian Comedies, wherein
Women play Boys—I cease to write.
To end this Satyre, and bid thee good night.

Sept. 1608.

[I must depart, but like to his last breath]

I must depart, but like to his last breath
That leaves the seat of life, for liberty
I go, but dying, and in this our death,
Where soul and soul is parted, it is I
The deader part yet fly away,
While she alas, in whom before
I liv'd, dyes her own death and more,
I feeling mine too much, and her own stay.

But since I must depart, and that our love
Springing at first but in an earthly mould,
Transplanted to our souls, now doth remove
Earthly effects, what time and distance would,
Nothing now can our loves allay
Though as the better Spirits will
That both love us and know our ill,
We do not either all the good we may.

Thus when our souls that must immortal be,
For our loves cannot dye, nor we, (unless
We dye not both together) shall be free
Unto their open and eternal peace,
Sleep, Death's Embassadour, and best
Image, doth yours often so show,
That I thereby must plainly know
Death unto us must be freedom and rest.

May 1608.

Madrigal.

How should I love my best?
What though my love unto that height be grown,
That taking joy in you alone
I utterly this world detest,
Should I not love it yet as th' only place
Where Beauty hath his perfect grace,
And is possest?

But I beauties despise,
You, universal beauty seem to me,
Giving and shewing form and degree
To all the rest, in your fair eyes,
Yet should I not love them as parts whereon
Your beauty, their perfection
And top, doth rise.

But ev'n my self I hate
So far my love is from the least delight
That at my very self I spite,
Sensless of any happy state,
Yet may I not with justest reason fear
How hating hers, I truly her
Can celebrate?

Thus unresolved still
Although world, life, nay what is fair beside
I cannot for your sake abide,
Methinks I love not to my fill,
Yet if a greater love you can devise,
In loving you some otherwise,
Believe't, I will.

Another.

Dear, when I did from you remove,
I left my Joy, but not my Love,
That never can depart,
It neither higher can ascend
Nor lower bend
Fixt in the center of my heart
As in his place,
And lodged so, how can it change,
Or you grow strange?
Those are earth's properties, and base
Each where, as the bodies divine
Heav'ns lights and you to me will shine.

To his Friend Ben. Johnson,

of his Horace made English.

'Twas not enough, Ben Johnson, to be thought
Of English Poets best, but to have brought

In greater slate, to their acquaintance, one
So equal to himself and thee, that none
Might be thy second, while thy Glory is,
To be the Horace of our times and his.

Epitaph. Cæcil. Boulser

quæpost languescentem morbum non sine inquietudine spiritus & conscientiæ obiit.

Intelligitur de figura mortis præfigenda.

Methinks Death like one laughing lyes,
Shewing his teeth, shutting his eys,
Only thus to have found her here
He did with so much reason fear,
And she despise.

For barring all the gates of sin,
Death's open wayes to enter in,
She was with a strict siege beset,
To what by force he could not get,
By time to win.

This mighty Warrior was deceived yet,
For what he, mutin in her powers, thought
Was but their zeal,
And what by their excess might have been wrought,
Her fasts did heal.

Till that her noble soul, by these, as wings,
Transcending the low pitch of earthly things,

As b'ing reliev'd by God, and set at large,
And grown by this worthy a higher charge,
Triumphing over Death, to Heaven fled,
And did not dye, but left her body dead.

July 1609.

Epitaph. Guli. Herbert de Swansey

qui sine prole obiit

Aug. 1609.

Great Spirit, that in new ambition,
Stoop'd not below his merit,
But with his proper worth being carry'd on,
Stoop'd at no second place, till now in one
He doth all place inherit:

Live endless here in such brave memory,
The best tongue cannot spot it,
While they which knew, or but have heard of thee,
Must never hope thy like again can be,
Since thou hast not begot it.

In a Glass-Window for Inconstancy.

Love, of this clearest, frailest Glass,
Divide the properties, so as
In the division may appear
Clearness for me, frailty for her.

Elegy for the Prince.

Must he be ever dead? Cannot we add
Another life unto that Prince that had
Our souls laid up in him? Could not our love,
Now when he left us, make that body move,
After his death one Age? And keep unite
That frame wherein our souls did so delight?
For what are souls but love? Since they do know
Only for it, and can no further go.
Sense is the Soul of Beasts, because none can
Proceed so far as t'understand like Man:
And if souls be more where they love, then where
They animate, why did it not appear
In keeping him alive: Or how is fate
Equal to us, when one man's private hate
May ruine Kingdoms, when he will expose
Himself to certain death, and yet all those
Not keep alive this Prince, who now is gone,
Whose loves would give thousands of lives for one:
Do we then dye in him, only as we
May in the worlds harmonique body see
An universally diffused soul
Move in the parts which moves not in the whole?
So though we rest with him, we do appear
To live and stir a while, as if he were
Still quick'ning us? Or do (perchance) we live
And know it not? See we not Autumn give
Back to the earth again what it receiv'd
In th' early Spring? And may not we deceiv'd

Think that those powers are dead, which do but sleep,
And the world's soul doth reunited keep?
And though this Autumn gave, what never more
Any Spring can unto the world restore,
May we not be deceiv'd, and think we know
Our selves for dead? Because that we are so
Unto each other, when as yet we live
A life his love and memory doth give,
Who was our worlds soul, and to whom we are
So reunite, that in him we repair
All other our affections ill bestow'd:
Since by this love we now have such abode
With him in Heaven as we had here, before
He left us dead. Nor shall we question more,
Whether the Soul of man be memory,
As Plato thought: We and posterity
Shall celebrate his name, and vertuous grow,
Only in memory that he was so;
And on those tearms we may seem yet to live,
Because he lived once, though we shall strive
To sigh away this seeming life so fast,
As if with us 'twere not already past.
We then are dead, for what doth now remain
To please us more, or what can we call pain,
Now we have lost him? And what else doth make
Diff'rence in life and death, but to partake
Nor joy, nor pain? Oh death, could'st not fulfil
Thy rage against us no way, but to kill
This Prince, in whom we liv'd? that so we all
Might perish by thy hand at once, and fall
Under his ruine, thenceforth though we should
Do all the actions that the living would,

Yet we shall not remember that we live,
No more then when our Mothers womb did give
That life we felt not: Or should we proceed
To such a wonder, that the dead should breed,
It should be wrought to keep that memory,
Which being his, can, therefore, never dy.

Novemb. 9. 1612.

Epitaph of King James.

Here lyes King James, who did so propagate
Unto the World that blest and quiet state
Wherein his Subjects liv'd, he seem'd to give
That peace which Christ did leave, and so did live,
As once that King and Shepherd of his Sheep,
That whom God saved, here he seem'd to keep,
Till with that innocent and single heart
With which he first was crown'd, he did depart
To better life: Great Brittain so lament,
That Strangers more then thou may yet resent
The sad effects, and while they feel the harm
They must endure from the victorious arm
Of our King Charles, may they so long complain,
That tears in them force thee to weep again.

A Vision.

A Lady combing her hair.

Within an open curled Sea of Gold

The hair

A Bark of Ivory, one day, I saw,

The Comb

Which striking with his Oars did seem to draw

The teeth of the Comb.

Tow'rds, a fair Coast, wch! then did behold.

Her side

A Lady held the Stern, while her white hand
Whiter then either Ivory or Sail,

The Cuff or smock sleeve,

Over the surging Waves did so prevail,
That she had now approached near the Land.

Her powder.

When suddenly, as if she fear'd some wrack,
And yet the Sky was fair, and Air was clear,
And neither Rock, nor Monster did appear,

Wart

Doubting the Point, which spi'd, she turned back.

Lice.

Then with a Second course I saw her steer

Combing in another place.

As if she meant to reach some other Bay,
Where being approach'd, she likewise turn'd away,
Though in the Bark some Waves now entred were.

Hairs in the Comb.

Thus varying oft her course, at last I found,
While I in quest of the Adventure go,
The Sail took down, and Oars had ceas'd to row,

She had given over combing.

And that the Bark it self was run aground.

Wherewith Earths fairest Creature I beheld,

Her face.

For which both Bark and Sea I gladly lost.

Her hair put up, and Comb cast away.

Let no Philosopher of Knowledge boast,
Unless that he my Vision can unfold.

Tears, flow no more, or if you needs must flow,
Fall yet more slow,
Do not the world invade,
From smaller springs then yours rivers have grown,
And they again a Sea have made,
Brackish like you, and which like you hath flown.

Ebb to my heart, and on the burning fires
Of my desires,
Let your torrents fall,
From smaller sparks then theirs such sparks arise
As into flame converting all,
This world might be but my love's sacrifice.

Yet if the tempests of my sighs so slow
You both must flow,
And my desires still burn,
Since that in vain all help my love requires.
Why may not yet their rages turn
To dry those tears, and to blow out those fires.

Italy 1614.

Ditty to the tune of A che del Quantomio of Pesarino.

Where now shall these Accents go?
At which Creatures silent grow

While Woods and Rocks do speak?
And seem to break
Complaints too long for them to hear,
Saying, I call in vain:

Echo
All in vain.
Where there is no relief;

Ec.
Here is no relief.

Ah why then should I fear
Unto her rocky heart to speak that grief,
In whose laments these bear a part?
Then cruel heart
Do but some answer give,
I do but crave—Do you forbid to live, or bid to live.

Echo
Live.

Ditty.

Can I then live to draw that breath
Which must bid farewell to thee?
Yet how should death not seize on me?
Since absence from the life I hold so dear must needs be death,
While I do feel in parting
Such a living dying,
As in this my most fatal hour
Grief such a life doth lend
As quick'ned by his power,
Even death cannot end.

I am the first that ever lov'd,
He yet that for the place contends
Against true love so much offends,
That even this way it is prov'd.

For whose affection once is shown,
No longer can the World beguile,
Who see his pennance all the while,
He holds a Torch to make her known.

You are the first were ever lov'd,
And who may think this not so true,
So little knows of love or you,
It need not otherwise be prov'd.

For though the more judicious eyes
May know when Diamonds are right,
There is requir'd a greater light
Their estimate and worth to prise.

While they who most for beauty strives,
Can with no Art so lovely grow
As she who doth but only ow
So much as true affection gives.

Thus first of Lovers I appear,
For more appearance makes me none;
And thus are you belov'd alone,
That are pris'd infinitely dear.

Yet as in our Northern Clime
Rare fruits, though late, appear at last;
As we may see, some years b'ing past,
Our Orenge-trees grow ripe with time.

So think not strange, if Love to break
His wonted silence now make bold,
For a Love is seven years old,
Is it not time to learn to speak?

Then gather in that which doth grow
And ripen to that fairest hand;
'Tis not enough that trees do stand,
If their fruit fall and perish too.

Epitaph of a stinking Poet.

Here stinks a Poet, I confess,
Yet wanting breath stinks so much less.

A Ditty to the tune of Coseferite,

made by Lorenzo Allegre to one sleeping to be sung.

Ah wonder.
So fair a Heaven
So fair, &c.
And no Starr shining,
Ay me, and no Starr, &c.
'Tis past my divining.

Yet stay.
May not perchance this be some rising Morn?
Which in the scorn
Of our Worlds light discloses,
This Air of Violets, that Sky of Roses?
Tis so.

An Oriental Sphere
Doth open and appear,
Ascending bright.
Then since thy hymen I chant
May'st thou new pleasures grant.
Admired light.

Epitaph on Sir Edward Saquevile's Child,

who dyed in his Birth.

Reader, here lies a Child that never cry'd,
And therefore never dy'd,
'Twas neither old nor yong,
Born to this and the other world in one:
Let us then cease to mone,
Nothing that ever dy'd hath liv'd so long.

Kissing.

Come hither Womankind, and all their worth,
Give me thy Kisses as I call them forth.
Give me the billing-Kiss, that of the Dove,
A Kiss of love;
The melting Kiss, a Kiss that doth consume
To a perfume;
The extract-Kiss, of every sweet a part,
A Kiss of Art;
The Kiss which ever stirs some new delight,
A Kiss of Might;

The twaching smacking Kiss, and when you cease
A Kiss of Peace;
The Musick-Kiss, crotchet and quaver time,
The Kiss of Rime,
The Kiss of Eloquence, which doth belong
Unto the tongue;
The Kiss of all the Sciences in one,
The Kiss alone.
So 'tis enough.

Ditty.

If you refuse me once, and think again,
I will complain,
You are deceiv'd: Love is no work of Art,
It must be got and born,
Not made and worn,
Or such wherein you have no part.

Or do you think they more then once can dy
Whom you deny?
Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day,
Like the old Poets fain,
And tell the pain
They met but in the common way.

Or do you think it is too soon to yield,
And quit the Field?
You are deceiv'd, they yield who first intreat;
Once one may crave for love,
But more would prove
This heart too little, that too great.

Give me then so much love, that we may burn
Past all return,
Who mid'st your beauties, flames, and spirit lives,
So great a light must find
As to be blind
To all but what their fire gives.

Then give me so much love, as in one point
Fix'd and conjoynt
May make us equal in our flames arise,
As we shall never start
Until we dart
Lightning upon the envious eyes.

Then give me so much love, that we may move
Like starrs of love,
And glad and happy times to Lovers bring;
While glorious in one sphere
We still appear,
And keep an everlasting Spring.

Elegy over a Tomb.

Must I then see, alas! eternal night
Sitting upon those fairest eyes,
And closing all those beams, which once did rise
So radiant and bright,
That light and heat in them to us did prove
Knowledge and Love?

Oh, if you did delight no more to stay
Upon this low and earthly stage,
But rather chose an endless heritage,
Tell us at least, we pray,
Where all the beauties that those ashes ow'd
Are now bestow'd?

Doth the Sun now his light with yours renew?
Have Waves the curling of your hair?
Did you restore unto the Sky and Air,
The red, and white, and blew?
Have you vouchsafed to flowrs since your death
That sweetest breath?

Had not Heav'ns Lights else in their houses slept,
Or to some private life retir'd?
Must not the Sky and Air have else conspir'd,
And in their Regions wept?
Must not each flower else the earth could breed
Have been a weed?

But thus enrich'd may we not yield some cause
Why they themselves lament no more?
That must have changed course they held before,
And broke their proper Laws,
Had not your beauties giv'n this second birth
To Heaven and Earth?

Tell us, for Oracles must still ascend,
For those that crave them at your tomb:
Tell us, where are those beauties now become,
And what they now intend:

Tell us, alas, that cannot tell our grief,
Or hope relief.

1617.

Epitaph on Sir Francis Vere.

Reader,

If thou appear
Before this tomb, attention give,
And do not fear,
Unless it be to live,
For dead is great Sir Francis Vere.

Of whom this might be said, should God ordain
One to destroy all sinners, whom that one
Redeem'd not there, that so he might atone
His chosen flock, and take from earth that stain,
That spots it still, he worthy were alone
To finish it, and have, when they were gone,
This World for him made Paradise again.

To Mrs. Diana Cecyll.

Diana Cecyll, that rare beauty thou dost show
Is not of Milk, or Snow,
Or such as pale and whitely things do ow.
But an illustrious Oriental Bright,
Like to the Diamonds refracted light,
Or early Morning breaking from the Night.

Nor is thy hair and eyes made of that ruddy beam,
Or golden-sanded stream,
Which we find still the vulgar Poets theme,
But reverend black, and such as you would say,
Light did but serve it, and did shew the way,
By which at first night did precede the day.

Nor is that symmetry of parts and form divine
Made of one vulgar line,
Or such as any know how to define,
But of proportions new so well exprest,
That the perfections in each part confest,
Are beauties to themselves, and to the rest.

Wonder of all thy Sex! let none henceforth inquire
Why they so much admire,
Since they that know thee best ascend no higher;
Only be not with common praises woo'd
Since admiration were no longer good,
When men might hope more then they understood.

To her Eyes.

Black eyes, if you seem dark,
It is because your beams are deep,
And with your soul united keep
Who could discern
Enough into them, there might learn,
Whence they derive that mark;

And how their power is such,
That all the wonders which proceed from thence,
Affecting more the mind then sense,
Are not so much
The works of light, as influence.

As you then joined are
Unto the Soul, so it again
By its connexion doth pertain
To that first cause,
Who giving all their proper Laws,
By you doth best declare
How he at first b'ing hid
Within the veil of an eternal night.
Did frame for us a second light,
And after bid
It serve for ordinary sight.

His Image then you are,
If there be any yet who doubt
What power it is that doth look out
Through that your black.
He will not an example lack,
If he suppose that there
Were grey, or hasle Glass,
And that through them, though sight or soul might shine,
He must yet at the last define,
That beams which pass
Through black, cannot but be divine.

To her Hair.

Black beamy hairs, which so seem to arise
From the extraction of those eyes,
That into you she destin-like doth spin
The beams she spares, what time her soul retires,
And by those hallow'd fires,
Keeps house all night within.

Since from within her awful front you shine,
As threads of life which she doth twine,
And thence ascending with the fatal rays,
Do crown those temples, where Love's wonders wrought
We afterwards see brought
To vulgar light and praise.

Lighten through all your regions, till we find
The causes why we are grown blind,
That when we should your Glories comprehend
Our sight recoils, and turneth back again,
And doth, as 'twere in vain,
It self to you extend.

Is it, because past black, there is not found
A fix'd or horizontal bound?
And so as it doth terminate the white,
It may be said all colours to infold,
And in that kind to hold
Somewhat of infinite?

Or is it, that the centre of our sight
Being vailed in its proper night
Discerns your blackness by some other sense,
Then that by which it doth py'd colours see,
Which only therefore be
Known by their difference?

Tell us, when on her front in curls you lye
So diapred from that black eye,
That your reflected forms may make us know
That shining light in darkness all would find,
Were they not upward blind
With the Sun beams below.

Sonnet of Black Beauty.

Black beauty, which above that common light,
Whose Power can no colours here renew,
But those which darkness can again subdue,
Do'st still remain unvary'd to the sight.

And like an object equal to the view,
And neither chang'd with day, nor hid with night,
When all these colours which the world call bright,
And which old Poetry doth so persue,

Are with the night so perished and gone,
That of their being there remains no mark,
Thou still abidest so intirely one,
That we may know thy blackness is a spark
Of light inaccessible, and alone
Our darkness which can make us think it dark.

Another Sonnet to Black it self.

Thou Black, wherein all colours are compos'd,
And unto which they all at last return,
Thou colour of the Sun where it doth burn,
And shadow, where it cools, in thee is clos'd
Whatever nature can, or hath dispos'd
In any other here: from thee do rise
Those tempers and complexions, which disclos'd,
As parts of thee, do work as mysteries,
Of that thy hidden power, when thou dost reign
The characters of fate shine in the Skies,
And tell us what the Heavens do ordain,
But when Earth's common light shines to our eys,
Thou so retir'st thy self, that thy disdain
All revelation unto Man denys.

The first Meeting.

As sometimes with a sable Cloud
We see the Heav'ns bow'd,
And darkning all the fire,
Untill the lab'ring fires they do contain
Break forth again,
Ev'n so from under your black hair
I saw such an unusual blaze
Light'ning and sparkling from your eyes,
And with unused prodigies
Forcing such [OMITTED] amaze,

That I did judge your Empire here
Was not of love alone, but fear.

But as all that is violent
Doth by degrees relent,
So when that sweetest face,
Growing at last to be serene and clear,
Did now appear
With all its wonted heav'nly Grace,
And your appeased eyes did send
A beam from them so soft and mild,
That former terrors were exil'd,
And all that could amaze did end;
Darkness in me was chang'd to light,
Wonder to love, love to delight.

Nor here yet did your goodness cease
My heart and eyes to bless,
For being past all hope,
That I could now enjoy a better state,
An orient gate
(As if the Heav'ns themselves did ope)
First found in thee, and then disclos'd
So gracious and sweet a smile,
That my soul ravished the while,
And wholly from it self unloos'd,
Seem'd hov'ring in your breath to rise,
To feel an air of Paradise.

Nor here yet did your favours end,
For whil'st I down did bend,

As one who now did miss
A soul, which grown much happier then before,
Would turn no more,
You did bestow on me a Kiss,
And in that Kiss a soul infuse,
Which was so fashion'd by your mind,
And which was so much more refin'd,
Then that I formerly did use,
That if one soul found joys in thee,
The other fram'd them new in me.

But as those bodies which dispense
Their beams, in parting hence
Those beams do recollect,
Until they in themselves resumed have
The forms they gave,
So when your gracious aspect
From me was turned once away,
Neither could I thy soul retain,
Nor you gave mine leave to remain,
To make with you a longer stay,
Or suffer'd ought else to appear
But your hair, nights hemisphere,

Only as we in Loadstones find
Vertue of such a kind,
That what they once do give,
B'ing neither to be chang'd by any Clime,
Or forc'd by time,
Doth ever in its subjects live;

So though I be from you retir'd,
The power you gave yet still abides,
And my soul ever so guides,
By your magnetique touch inspir'd,
That all it moves, or is inclin'd,
Comes from the motions of your mind.

A merry Rime sent to the Lady Wroth

upon the Birth of my L. of Pembroke's Child, born in the Spring.

Madam, though I am one of those
That every Spring use to compose,
That is, add feet unto round Prose:
Yet you a further art disclose,
And can, as every body knows,
Add to those feet fine dainty toes.
Satyrs add nails, but they are shrews,
My Muse therefore no further goes,
But for her feet craves shooes and hose.
Let a fair season add a Rose,
While thus attired wee'l oppose
The tragick buskins of our foes.
And herewith, Madam, I will close,
And 'tis no matter how it shews,
All I care is, if the child grows.

The Thought.

1

If you do love, as well as I,
Then every minute from your heart
A thought doth part:
And winged with desire doth fly
Till it hath met in a streight line,
A thought of mine
So like to yours, we cannot know
Whether of both doth come or go,
Till we define
Which of us two that thought doth ow.

2

I say then, that your thoughts which pass,
Are not so much the thoughts you meant,
As those I sent:
For as my image in a Glass
Belongs not to the Glass you see,
But unto me.
So when your fancy is so clear,
That you would think you saw me there,
It needs must be,
That it was I did first appear.

3

Likewise when I send forth a thought,
My reason tells me, 'tis the same,
Which from you came,

And which your beauteous Image wrought;
Thus while our thoughts by turns do lead
None can precede;
And thus while in each others mind
Such interchanged forms we find,
Our loves may plead
To be of more then vulgar kind.

4

May you then often think on me,
And by that thinking know 'tis true
I thought on you:
I in the same belief will be,
While by this mutual address
We will possess
A love must live, when we do dy,
Which rare and secret property
You will confess,
If you do love as well as I.

To a Lady who did sing excellently.

1

When our rude & unfashion'd words, that long
A being in their elements enjoy'd,
Sensless and void,
Come at last to be formed by thy tongue,
And from thy breath receive that life and place,
And perfect grace,

That now thy power diffus'd through all their parts
Are able to remove
All the obstructions of the hardest hearts,
And teach the most unwilling how to love.

2

When they again, exalted by thy voice,
Tun'd by thy soul, dimiss'd into the air,
To us repair,
A living, moving, and harmonious noise,
Able to give the love they do create
A second state,
And charm not only all his griefs away,
And his defects restore,
But make him perfect, who, the Poets say,
Made all was ever yet made heretofore.

3

When again all these rare perfections meet,
Composed in the circle of thy face,
As in their place,
So to make up of all one perfect sweet,
Who is not then so ravish'd with delight
Ev'n of thy sight,
That he can be assur'd his sense is true,
Or that he die, or live,
Or that he do enjoy himself, or you,
Or only the delights, which you did give?

1618.

Melander suppos'd to love Susan, but did love Ann.

Who doth presume my Mistress's name to scan,
Goes about more then any way he can,
Since all men think that it is Susan.

Echo
Ann.

What say'st? Then tell who is as white as Swan,
While others set by her are pale and wan,
Then, Echo, speak, Is it not Susan?

Ec.
Ann.

Tell, Echo, yet, whose middle's but a span,
Some being gross as bucket, round as pan;
Say, Echo, then, Is it not Susan?

Ec.
Ann.

Say, is she not soft as meal without bran,
Though yet in great hast once from me she ran,
Must I not however love Susan?

Ec.
Ann.

Echo to a Rock.

Thou heaven-threat'ning Rock, gentler then she!
Since of my pain
Thou still more sensible wilt be,
Only when thou giv'st leave but to complain.

Echo
Complain.

But thou dost answer too, although in vain
Thou answer'st when thou canst no pity show.

Echo
Oh.

What canst thou speak and pity too?
Then yet a further favour do,
And tell if of my griefs I any end shall know.

Echo
No.

Sure she will pity him that loves her so truly.

Echo
You ly.

Vile Rock, thou now grow'st so unruly,
That had'st thou life as thou hast voice,
Thou should'st dye at my foot.

Echo
Dye at my foot.

Thou canst not make me do't,
Unless thou leave it to my choice,
Who thy hard sentence shall fulfill,
When thou shalt say, I dye to please her only will.

Echo
I will.

When she comes hither, then, I pray thee, tell,
Thou art my Monument, and this my last farewell.

Echo
Well

Echo in a Church.

When shall my troubled soul, at large
Discharge
The burden of her sins, oh where?

Echo
Here.

Whence comes this voice I hear?
Who doth this grace afford?
If it be thou, O Lord,
Say, if thou hear my prayers when I call.

Echo
All.

And wilt thou pity grant when I do cry.

Echo
I.

Then though I fall,
Thy Grace will my defects supply,
But who will keep my soul from ill,
Quench bad desires, reform my Will?

Echo
I will.

O may that will and voice be blest,
Which yields such comforts unto one distrest,
More blessed yet, would'st thou thy self unmask,
Or tell, at least, who undertakes this task.

Echo
Ask.

Since now with crying I am grown so weak,
I shall want force even to crave thy name,
O speak before I wholly weary am.

Echo
I am

To his Mistress for her true Picture.

Death, my lifes Mistress, and the soveraign Queen
Of all that ever breath'd, though yet unseen,
My heart doth love you best, yet I confess,
Your picture I beheld, which doth express

No such eye-taking beauty, you seem lean,
Unless you'r mended since. Sure he did mean
No honour to you, that did draw you so;
Therefore I think it false: Besides, I know
The picture, Nature drew, (which sure's the best)
Doth figure you by sleep and sweetest rest:
Sleep, nurse of our life, care's best reposer,
Natures high'st rapture, and the vision giver:
Sleep, which when it doth seize us, souls go play,
And make Man equal as he was first day.
Yet some will say, Can pictures have more life
Then the original? To end this strife,
Sweet Mistress come, and shew your self to me,
In your true form, while then I think to see
Some beauty Angelick, that comes t'unlock
My bodies prison, and from life unyoke
My well divorced soul, and set it free,
To liberty eternal: Thus you see,
I find the Painters error, and protect
Your absent beauties, ill drawn, by th' effect:
For grant it were your work, and not the Graves,
Draw Love by Madness then, Tyrants by Slaves,
Because they make men such. Dear Mistress, then
If you would not be seen by owl-ey'd Men,
Appear at noon i'th' Air, with so much light,
The Sun may be a Moon, the Day a Night.
Clear to my Soul, but dark'ning the weak sense
Of those, the other Worlds Cimmeriens.
And in your fatal Robe, imbroidered
With Starr-characters, teaching me to read
The destiny of Mortals, while your clear brow
Presents a Majesty, to instruct me how

To love or dread nought else: May your bright hair,
Which are the threds of life, fair crown'd appear
With that your Crown of Immortality:
In your right hand the Keys of Heaven be;
In th' other those of the Infernal Pit,
Whence none retires, if once he enter it.
And here let me complain, how few are those
Whose souls you shall from earth's vast dungeon lose
To endless happiness? few that attend
You, the true Guide, unto their journeys end:
And if old Vertue's way narrow were,
'Tis rugged now, having no passenger.
Our life is but a dark and stormy night,
To which sense yields a weak and glimmering light;
While wandring Man thinks he discerneth all,
By that which makes him but mistake and fall:
He sees enough, who doth his darkness see;
These are great lights, by which less dark'ned be.
Shine then Sun-bright, or through my senses vail,
A day-star of the light doth never fail;
Shew me that Goodness which compounds the strife
'Twixt a long sickness and a weary life.
Set forth that Justice which keeps all in aw,
Certain and equal more then any Law.
Figure that happy and eternal Rest,
Which till Man do enjoy, he is not blest.
Come and appear then, dear Soul-ravisher,
Heav'ns lightest Usher, Man's deliverer,
And do not think, when I new beauties see,
They can withdraw my settled love from thee.
Flesh-beauty strikes me not at all, I know,
When thou do'st leave them to the grave, they show

Worse, then they now show thee: they shal not move
In me the least part of delight, or love,
But as they teach your power: Be the nut brown
The loveliest colour which the flesh doth crown:
I'll think it like a Nut, a fair outside,
Within which Worms and rottenness abide:
If fair, then like the Worm it self to be;
If painted, like their slime and sluttery.
If any yet will think their beauties best,
And will, against you, spite of all, contest,
Seize them with Age: so in themselves they'l hate
What they scorn'd in your picture, and too late
See their fault, and the Painters: Yet if this,
Which their great'st plague and wrinkled torture is,
Please not, you may to the more wicked sort,
Or such as of your praises make a sport,
Denounce an open warr, send chosen bands
Of Worms, your souldiers, to their fairest hands,
And make them lep'rous-scabb'd: upon their face
Let those your Pioneers, Ring-worms take their place,
And safely near with strong approaches got
Intrench it round, while their teeths rampire rot
With other Worms, may with a damp inbred
Sink to their senses, which they shall not dead:
And thus may all that e'r they prided in,
Confound them now: As for the parts within,
Send Gut-worms, which may undermine a way
Unto their vital parts, and so display
That your pale Ensign on the walls: then let
Those Worms, your Veteranes, which never yet
Did fail, enter Pel mel, and ransack all,
Just as they see the well-rais'd building fall:

While they do this, your Forragers command,
The Caterpillars, to devour their land;
And with them Wasps, your wing'd-worm-horsmen, bring,
To charge, in troop, those Rebels, with their sting:
All this, unless your beauty they confess.

And now, sweet Mistress, let m' a while digress,
T'admire these noble Worms, whom I invoke,
And not the Muses: You that eat through Oak
And bark, will you spare Paper, and my Verse,
Because your praises they do here reherse?

Brave Legions then, sprung from the mighty race
Of Man corrupted, and which hold the place
Of his undoubted Issue; you that are
Brain-born, Minerva-like, and like her warr,
Well-arm'd compleat-mail'd-jointed Souldiers,
Whose force Herculean links in pieces tears;
To you the vengeance of all spill-bloods falls,
Beast-eating Men, Men-eating Cannibals.
Death priviledg'd, were you in sunder smit
You do not lose your life, but double it:
Best framed types of the immortal Soul,
Which in your selves, and in each part are whole:
Last-living Creatures, heirs of all the earth,
For when all men are dead, it is your birth:
When you dy, your brave self-kill'd Generall
(For nothing else can kill him) doth end all.
What vermine breeding body then thinks scorn,
His flesh should be by your brave fury torn.

Willing, to you, this Carkass I submit,
A gift so free, I do not care for it:
Which yet you shall not take, untill I see
My Mistress first reveal her self to me.

Mean while, Great Mistress, whom my soul admires,
Grant me your true picture, who it desires,
That he your matchless beauty might maintain
'Gainst all men that will quarrels entertain
For a Flesh-Mistress, the worst I can do,
Is but to keep the way that leads to you,
And howsoever the event doth prove,
To have Revenge below, Reward above;
Hear, from my bodies prison, this my Call,
Who from my mouth-grate, and eye-window bawl.

Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney

lying in St. Paul's without a Monument, to be fastned upon the Church door.

Reader,

Within this Church Sir Philip Sidney lies,
Nor is it fit that I should more acquaint,
Lest superstition rise,
And Men adore,
Souldiers, their Martyr; Lovers, their Saint.

Epitaph for himself.

Reader,

The Monument which thou beholdest here,
Presents Edward Lord Herbert, to thy sight,
A man, who was so free from either hope or fear,
To have or loose this ordinary light,
That when to elements his body turned were,
He knew that as those elements would fight,
So his Immortal Soul should find above,
With his Creator, Peace, Joy, Truth, and Love.

Sonnet.

You well compacted Groves, whose light & shade
Mixt equally, produce nor heat, nor cold,
Either to burn the young, or freeze the old,
But to one even temper being made,
Upon a Grave embroidering through each Glade
An Airy Silver, and a Sunny Gold,
So cloath the poorest that they do behold
Themselves, in riches which can never fade,
While the wind whistles, and the birds do sing,
While your twigs clip, and while the leaves do friss,
While the fruit ripens which those trunks do bring,
Sensless to all but love, do you not spring
Pleasure of such a kind, as truly is
A self-renewing vegetable bliss.

Made upon the Groves near Merlow Castle.

To the C. of D.

1

Since in your face, as in a beauteous sphere,
Delight and state so sweetly mix'd appear,
That Love's not light, nor Gravity severe,
All your attractive Graces seem to draw.
A modest rigor keepeth so in aw,
That in their turns each of them gives the law.

2

Therefore though chast and vertuous desire
Through that your native mildness may aspire,
Untill a just regard it doth acquire;
Yet if Love thence a forward hope project,
You can, by vertue of a sweet neglect,
Convert it streight to reverend respect.

3

Thus, as in your rare temper, we may find
An excellence so perfect in each kind,
That a fair body hath a fairer mind;
So all the beams you diversly do dart,
As well on th' understanding as the heart,
Of love and honour equal cause impart.

Ditty.

1

Why dost thou hate return instead of love?
And with such merciless despite,
My faith and hope requite?
Oh! if th' affection cannot move,
Learn Innocence yet of the Dove,
And thy disdain to juster bounds confine;
Or if t'wards Man thou equally decline
The rules of Justice and of Mercy too,
Thou may'st thy love to such a point refine,
As it will kill more then thy hate can do.

2

Love, love, Melaina, then, though death insue,
Yet it is a greater fate,
To dye through love then hate,
Rather a victory persue,
To Beauties lawful conquest due,
Then tyrant eyes invenom with disdain:
Or if thy power thou would'st so maintain,
As equally to be both lov'd and dread,
Let timely Kisses call to life again,
Him whom thy eves have Planet-strucken dead.

3

Kiss, kiss, Melaina, then, and do not stay
Until these sad effects appear,
Which now draw on so near,
That did'st thou longer help delay,
My soul must fly so fast away,

As would at once both life and love divorce:
Or if I needs must dye without remorse,
Kiss and embalm me so with that sweet breath,
That while thou triumph'st o'r Love and his force,
I may triumph yet over Fate and Death.

Elegy for Doctor Dunn.

What though the vulgar and received praise,
With which each common Poet strives to raise
His worthless Patron, seem to give the height
Of a true Excellence; yet as the weight
Forc'd from his Centre, must again recoil,
So every praise, as if it took some foil,
Only because it was not well imploy'd,
Turns to those senseless principles and void,
Which in some broken syllables being couch'd,
Cannot above an Alphabet be vouch'd,
In which dissolved state, they use to rest,
Until some other in new forms invest
Their easie matter, striving so to fix
Glory with words, and make the parts to mix.

But since praise that wants truth, like words that want
Their proper meaning, doth it self recant;
Such tearms, however elevate and high,
Are but like Meteors, which the pregnant Sky
Varies in divers figures, till at last
They either be by some dark Cloud o'rcast,
Or wanting inward sustenance do devolve,
And into their first Elements resolve.

Praises, like Garments, then, if loose and wide,
Are subject to fall off; if gay and py'd,
Make men ridiculous; the just and grave
Are those alone, which men may wear and have.

How fitting were it then, each had that part
Which is their due: And that no fraudulent art
Could so disguise the truth, but they might own
Their rights, and by that property be known,

For since praise is publick inheritance,
If any Inter-Commoner do chance
To give or take more praise then doth belong
Unto his part, he doth so great a wrong,
That all who claim an equal interest,
May him implead untill he do devest
His usurpations, and again restore
Unto the publick what was theirs before.

Praises should then like definitions be
Round, neat, convertible, such as agree
To persons so, that, were their names conceal'd,
Must make them known as well as if reveal'd:
Such as contain the kind and difference,
And all the properties arising thence.
All praises else, as more or less then due,
Will prove, or strongly false, or weakly true.

Having deliver'd now, what praises are,
It rests that I should to the world declare
Thy praises, DUNN, whom I so lov'd alive.
That with my witty Carew I should strive
To celebrate the dead, did I not need
A language by it self, which should exceed
All those which are in use: I or while I take
Those common words, which men may even rake

From Dunghil wits, I find them so defil'd,
Slubber'd and false, as if they had exil'd
Truth and propriety, such as do tell
So little other things, they hardly spell
Their proper meaning, and therefore unfit
To blazon forth thy merits, or thy wit.

Nor will it serve, that thou did'st so refine
Matter with words, that both did seem divine,
When thy breath utter'd them: for thou b'ing gone,
They streight did follow thee: Let therefore none
Hope to find out an Idiom and sence,
Equal to thee, and to thy Eminence,
Unless our Gracious King give words their bound,
Call in false titles, which each where are found,
In Prose and Verse, and as bad Coin and light
Suppress them and their values, till the right
Take place, and do appear, and then in lieu
Of those forg'd Attributes stamp some anew,
Which being currant, and by all allow'd,
In Epitaphs and Tombs might be avow'd
More then their Escocheons. Mean while, because
Nor praise is yet confined to its Laws,
Nor rayling wants his proper dialect,
Let thy detraction thy late life detect;
And though they term all thy heat, frowardness;
Thy solitude, self-pride; fasts, niggardness,
And on this false supposal would inferr,
They teach not others right, themselves who err;
Yet as men to the adverse part do ply
Those crooked things which they would rectifie,
So would perchance, to loose and wanton Man
Such vice avail more then their vertues can.

The Brown Beauty.

1

While the two contraries of Black and White,
In the Brown Phaie are so well unite,
That they no longer now seem opposite,
Who doubts but love, hath this his colour chose,
Since he therein doth both th' extremes compose,
And as within their proper Centre close.

2

Therefore as it presents not to the view
That whitely raw and unconcocted hiew.
Which Beauty Northern Nations think the true;
So neither hath it that adust aspect,
The Moor and Indian so much affect,
That for it they all other do reject.

3

Thus while the White well shadow'd doth appear,
And black doth through his lustre grow so clear,
That each in other equal part doth bear;
All in so rare proportion is combin'd,
That the fair temper, which adorns her mind,
Is even to her outward form confin'd.

4

Phaie, your Sexes honour, then so live,
That when the World shall with contention strive
To whom they would a chief perfection give,
They might the controversie so decide,
As quitting all extreams on either side,
You more then any may be dignify'd.

An Ode upon a Question moved, Whether Love should continue for ever?

Having interr'd her Infant-birth,
The watry ground that late did mourn,
Was strew'd with flow'rs for the return
Of the wish'd Bridegroom of the earth.

The well accorded Birds did sing
Their hymns unto the pleasant time,
And in a sweet consorted chime
Did welcom in the chearful Spring.

To which, soft whistles of the Wind,
And warbling murmurs of a Brook,
And vari'd notes of leaves that shook,
An harmony of parts did bind.

While doubling joy unto each other,
All in so rare consent was shown,
No happiness that came alone,
Nor pleasure that was not another.

When with a love none can express,
That mutually happy pair,
Melander and Celinda fair,
The season with their loves did bless.

Walking thus towards a pleasant Grove,
Which did, it seem'd, in new delight
The pleasures of the time unite,
To give a triumph to their love.

They stay'd at last, and on the Grass
Reposed so, as o'r his breast
She bow'd her gracious head to rest,
Such a weight as no burden was.

While over eithers compass'd waste
Their folded arms were so compos'd,
As if in straitest bonds inclos'd,
They suffer'd for joys they did taste.

Long their fixt eyes to Heaven bent,
Unchanged, they did never move,
As if so great and pure a love
No Glass but it could represent.

When with a sweet, though troubled look.
She first brake silence, saying, Dear friend,
O that our love might take no end,
Or never had beginning took!

I speak not this with a false heart,
(Wherewith his hand she gently strain'd)
Or that would change a love maintain'd
With so much faith on either part.

Nay, I protest, though Death with his
Worst Counsel should divide us here,
His terrors could not make me fear,
To come where your lov'd presence is.

Only if loves fire with the breath
Of life be kindled, I doubt,
With our last air 'twill be breath'd out,
And quenched with the cold of death.

That if affection be a line,
Which is clos'd up in our last hour;
Oh how 'twould grieve me, any pow'r
Could force so dear a love as mine!

She scarce had done, when his shut eyes
An inward joy did represent,
To hear Celinda thus intent
To a love he so much did prize.

Then with a look, it seem'd, deny'd
All earthly pow'r but hers, yet so,
As if to her breath he did ow
This borrow'd life, he thus repli'd;

O you, wherein, they say, Souls rest.
Till they descend pure heavenly fires,
Shall lustful and corrupt desires
With your immortal seed be blest?

And shall our Love, so far beyond
That low and dying appetite,
And which so chast desires unite,
Not hold in an eternal bond?

Is it, because we should decline,
And wholly from our thoughts exclude
Objects that may the sense delude,
And study only the Divine?

No sure, for if none can ascend
Ev'n to the visible degree
Of things created, how should we
The invisible comprehend?

Or rather since that Pow'r exprest
His greatness in his works alone,
B'ing here best in's Creatures known,
Why is he not lov'd in them best?

But is't not true, which you pretend,
That since our love and knowledge here,
Only as parts of life appear,
So they with it should take their end?

O no, Belov'd, I am most sure,
Those vertuous habits we acquire,
As being with the Soul intire,
Must with it evermore endure.

For if where sins and vice reside,
We find so foul a guilt remain,
As never dying in his stain,
Still punish'd in the Soul doth bide.

Much more that true and real joy,
Which in a vertuous love is found,
Must be more solid in its ground,
Then Fate or Death can e'r destroy.

Else should our Souls in vain elect,
And vainer yet were Heavens laws,
When to an everlasting Cause
They gave a perishing Effect.

Nor here on earth then, nor above,
Our good affection can impair,
For where God doth admit the fair,
Think you that he excludeth Love?

These eyes again then, eyes shall see,
And hands again these hands enfold,
And all chast pleasures can be told
Shall with us everlasting be.

For if no use of sense remain
When bodies once this life forsake,
Or they could no delight partake,
Why should they ever rise again?

And if every imperfect mind
Make love the end of knowledge here,
How perfect will our love be, where
All imperfection is refin'd?

Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch,
Much less your fairest mind invade,
Were not our souls immortal made,
Our equal loves can make them such.

So when one wing can make no way,
Two joyned can themselves dilate,
So can two persons propagate,
When singly either would decay.

So when from hence we shall be gone,
And be no more, nor you, nor I,
As one anothers mystery,
Each shall be both, yet both but one.

This said, in her up-lifted face,
Her eyes which did that beauty crown,
Were like two starrs, that having faln down,
Look up again to find their place:

While such a moveless silent peace
Did seize on their becalmed sense,
One would have thought some Influence
Their ravish'd spirits did possess.

The Green-Sickness Beauty.

1

Though the pale white within your cheeks compos'd,
And doubtful light unto your eye confin'd,
Though your short breath not from it self unloos'd,
And careless motions of your equal mind,
Argue, your beauties are not all disclos'd.

2

Yet as a rising beam, when first 'tis shown,
Points fairer, then when it ascends more red,
Or as a budding Rose; when first 'tis blown,
Smells sweeter far, then when it is more spread,
As all things best by principles are known:

3

So in your green and flourishing estate
A beauty is discern'd more worthy love,
Then that which further doth it self dilate,
And those degrees of variation prove,
Our vulgar wits so much do celebrate.

4

Thus though your eyes dart not that piercing blaze,
Which doth in busie Lovers looks appear,
It is, because you do not need to gaze,
On other object then your proper sphere,
Nor wander further then to run that maze.

5

So, if you want that blood which must succeed,
And give at last a tincture to your skin,
It is, because neither in outward deed,
Nor inward thought, you yet admit that sin,
For which your Cheeks a guilty blush should need.

6

So, if your breath do not so freely flow,
It is because you love not to consume
That vital treasure, which you do bestow
As well to vegetate as to perfume
Your Virgin leaves, as fast as they do grow.

7

Yet stay not here, Love for his right will call,
You were not born to serve your only will,
Nor can your beauty be perpetual,
'Tis your perfection for to ripen still,
And to be gather'd rathen then to fall.

The Green-Sickness Beauty.

From thy pale look, while angry Love doth seem
With more imperiousness to give his Law,
Then where he blushingly doth beg esteem,
We may observe py'd beauty in such aw;

That the brav'st Colour under her command
Affrighted, oft before you doth retire,
While, like a Statue, of your self you stand
In such symmetrique form, as doth require
No lustre but his own: As then in vain
One should flesh-colouring to Statues add,
So were it to your native White a Stain,
If it in other ornaments were clad,
Then what your rich proportions do give,
Which in a boundless fair being unconfin'd
Exalted in your soul, so seem to live,
That they become an emblem of your mind,
That so, who to your Orient White should joyn
Those fading qualities most eyes adore,
Were but like one, who gilding Silver Coin,
Gave but occasion to suspect it more.

La Gralletta Gallante,

OR, The Sun-burn'd Exotique Beauty.

1

Child of the Sun, in whom his Rays appear,
Hatch'd to that lustre, as doth make thee wear
Heav'ns livery in thy skin, What need'st thou fear
The injury of Air, and change of Clime,
When thy exalted form is so sublime,
As to transcend all power of change or time?

2

How proud are they that in their hair but show
Some part of thee, thinking therein they ow
The greatest beauty Nature can bestow?
When thou art so much fairer to the sight,
As beams each where diffused are more bright
Then their deriv'd and secondary light.

3

But thou art cordial both to sight and taste,
While each rare fruit seems in his time to haste
To ripen in thee, till at length they waste
Themselves to inward sweets, from whence again,
They, like Elixirs, passing through each vein,
An endless circulation do maintain.

4

How poor are they then, whom if we but greet,
Think that raw juyce, which in their lips we meet,
Enough, to make us hold their Kisses sweet:
When that rich odour, which in thee is smelt,
Can it self to a balmy liquor melt,
And make it to our inward senses felt.

5

Leave then thy Country, Soil, and Mothers home,
Wander a Planet this way, till thou come
To give our Lovers here their fatal doom;
While if our beauties scorn to envy thine,
It will be just they to a Jaundise pine,
And by thy Gold shew like some Copper-mine.

Platonick Love.

1

Madam, your beauty and your lovely parts
Would scarce admit poetick praise and Arts
As they are Loves most sharp and piercing darts;
Though, as again they only wound and kill
The more deprav'd affections of our will,
You claim a right to commendation still.

2

For as you can unto that height refine
All Loves delights, as while they do incline
Unto no vice, they so become divine;
We may as well attain your excellence,
As without help of any outward sense
Would make us grow a pure Intelligence.

3

And as a Soul, thus being quite abstract,
Complies not properly with any act,
Which from its better Being may detract:
So through the virtuous habits you infuse,
It is enough that we may like and chuse,
Without presuming yet to take or use.

4

Thus Angels in their starry Orbs proceed
Unto affection, without other need
Then that they still on contemplation feed:

Though as they may unto this Orb descend,
You can, when you would so much lower bend,
Give joys beyond what man can comprehend.

5

Do not refuse then, Madam, to appear,
Since every radiant Beam comes from your Sphere,
Can so much more then any else endear,
As while through them we do discern each Grace,
The multiplied lights from every place,
Will turn and Circle, with their rays, your face.

Platonick Love.

1

Madam, believe't, Love is not such a toy,
As it is sport but for the Idle Boy,
Or wanton Youth, since it can entertain
Our serious thoughts, and make us know how vain
All time is spent we do not thus imploy.

2

For though strong passion oft on youth doth seize,
It is not yet affection, but disease,
Caus'd from repletion, which their blood doth vex,
So that they love not Woman, but the Sex,
And care no more then how themselves to please.

3

Whereas true Lovers check that appetite,
Which would presume further then to invite
The Soul unto that part it ought to take,
When that from this address it would but make
Some introduction only to delight.

4

For while they from the outward sense transplant
The love grew there in earthly mould, and scant,
To the Souls spacious and immortal field,
They spring a love eternal, which will yield
All that a pure affection can grant.

5

Besides, what time or distance might effect
Is thus remov'd, while they themselves connect
So far above all change, as to exclude
Not only all which might their sense delude,
But mind to any object else affect.

6

Nor will the proof of Constancy be hard,
When they have plac'd upon their mind that guard,
As no ignoble thought can enter there,
And Love doth such a vertue persevere,
And in it self so find a just reward.

7

And thus a love, made from a worthy choice,
Will to that union come, as but one voice
Shall speak, one thought but think the others will,
And while, but frailty, they can know no ill,
Their souls more then their bodies must rejoice.

8

In which estate nothing can so fulfill
Those heights of pleasure, which their souls instill
Into each other, but that love thence draws
New Arguments of joy, while the same cause
That makes them happy, makes them greater still.

9

So that however multipli'd and vast
Their love increase, they will not think it past
The bounds of growth, till their exalted fire
B'ing equally inlarg'd with their desire,
Transform and fix them to one Starr at last.

10

Or when that otherwise they were inclin'd
Unto those publick joys, which are assign'd
To blessed souls when they depart from hence
They would, besides what Heaven doth dispense,
Have their contents they in each other find.

The IDEA,

Made of Alnwick in his Expedition to Scotland with the Army, 1639.

All Beauties vulgar eyes on earth do see,
At best but some imperfect Copies be,
Of those the Heavens did at first decree.

For though th' Idea's of each sev'ral kind,
Conceiv'd above by the Eternal Mind,
Are such, as none can error in them find.

Since from his thoughts and presence he doth bear,
And shut out all deformity so farr,
That the least beauty near him is a Starr.

As Nature yet from far th' Idea's views,
And doth besides but vile materials chuse,
We in her works observe no small abuse:

Some of her figures therefore, foil'd and blurr'd,
Shew as if Heaven had no way concurr'd
In shapes so disproportion'd and absurd.

Which being again vex'd with some hate and spite,
That doth in them vengeance and rage excite,
Seem to be tortur'd and deformed quite.

While so being fixt, they yet in them contain
Another sort of ugliness and stain,
B'ing with old wrinkles interlin'd again.

Lastly, as if Nature ev'n did not know
What Colour every sev'ral part should ow,
They look as if their Galls did overflow.

Fair is the mark of Good, and foul of Ill,
Although not so infallibly, but still
The proof depends most on the mind and will:

As Good yet rarely in the Foul is met,
So 'twould as little by its union get,
As a rich Jewel that were poorly set.

For since Good first did at the Fair begin,
Foul being but a punishment for sin,
Fair's the true outside to the Good within.

In these the supreme Pow'r then so doth guide
Natures weak hand, as he doth add beside
All by which Creatures can be dignifi'd.

While you in them see so exact a line,
That through each sev'ral part a glimpse doth shine
Of their original and form divine.

Therefore the characters of fair and good
Are so set forth, and printed in their blood,
As each in other may be understood.

That Beauty so accompani'd with Grace,
And equally conspicuous in the face,
In a fair Womans outside takes the place.

Thus while in her all rare perfection meets,
Each, as with joy, its fellow beauty greets,
And varies so into a thousand sweets.

Or if some tempting thought do so assault,
As doubtful she 'twixt two opinions halt,
A gentle blush corrects and mends the fault,

That so she still fairer and better grows,
Without that thus she more to passion ows,
Then what fresh colour on her cheeks bestows.

To which again her lips such helps can add,
As both will chase all grievous thoughts and sad:
And give what else can make her good or glad.

As Statuaries yet having fram'd in Clay
An hollow Image, afterwards convey
The molten mettle through each several way;

But when it once unto its place hath past,
And th' inward Statua perfectly is cast,
Do throw away the outward Clay at last.

So when that form the Heav'ns at first decreed
Is finished within, Souls do not need
Their Bodies more, but would from them be freed.

For who still cover'd with their earth would ly?
Who would not shake their fetters off, and fly,
And be, at least, next to, a Deity?

However then you be most lovely here,
Yet when you from all Elements are clear,
You far more pure and glorious shall appear.

Thus from above I doubt not to behold
You second self renew'd in your own mold,
And rising thence fairer then can be told.

From whence ascending to the Elect and Blest
In your true joys you will not find it least,
That I in Heav'n shall know and love you best.

For while I do your coming there attend,
I shall much time on your Idea spend.
And note how far all others you transcend.

And thus, though you more then an Angel be,
Since being here to sin and mischief free,
You will have rais'd your self to their degree:

That so victorious over Death and I ate,
And happy in your everlasting state,
You shall triumphant enter Heaven gate.

Hasten not thither yet, for as you are
A Beauty upon Earth without compare,
You will shew best still where you are most rare.

Live all our lives then: If the picture can
Here entertain a loving absent man,
Much more th' Idea where you first began.

Platonick Love.

Disconsolate and sad,
So little hope of remedy I find,
That when my matchless Mistress were inclin'd
To pity me, 'twould scarcely make me glad,
The discomposing of so fair a Mind
B'ing that which would to my Afflictions add.

For when she should repent,
This Act of Charity had made her part
With such a precious Jewel as her Heart,
Might she not grieve that e'r she did relent?
And then were it fit I felt the smart
Untill I grew the greater Penitent.

Nor were't a good excuse,
When she pleas'd to call for her Heart again,
To tell her of my suffering and pain,
Since that I should her Clemency abuse,
While she did see what wrong she did sustain,
In giving what she justly might refuse.

Vex'd thus with me at last,
When from her kind restraint she now were gone,
And I left to the Manacles alone,
Should I not on another Rock be cast?
Since they who have not yet content, do mone
Far less then they whose hope thereof is past.

Besides I would deserve,
And not live poorly on the alms of Love,
Or claim a favour did not singly move
From my regard: If she her joys reserve
Unto some other, she at length should prove,
Rather then beg her pity I would sterve.

Let her then be serene,
Alike exempt from pity and from hate:
Let her still keep her dignity and state;
Yet from her glories something I shall glean,
For when she doth them every where dilate,
A beam or two to me must intervene.

And this shall me sustain,
For though due merit I cannot express,
Yet she shall know none ever-lov'd for less,
Or easier reward: Let her remain
Still Great and Good; and from her happiness
My chief contentment I will entertain.

Restrained hopes, though you dare not aspire,
To fly an even pitch with my desire,
Yet fall no lower, and at least take heed,
That you no way unto despair proceed,
Since in what form soe'r you keep intire,
I shall the less all other comforts need.

I know how much presumption did transcend,
When that affection could at most pretend
To be believ'd, would needs yet higher soar,
And love a Beauty which I should adore,
Though yet therein I had no other end,
But to assure that none could love her more.

Only may she not think her beauty less,
That on low Objects it doth still express
An equal force, while it doth rule all hearts
Alike in the remot'st as nearest parts;
Since if it did at any distance cease,
It wanted of that pow'r it should impart.

Small earthly lights but to some space extend,
And then unto the dim and dark do tend,
And common heat doth at some length so stop,
That it cannot so much as warm one drop,
While light and heat that doth from Heav'n descend
Warms the low Vally more then Mountains top.

Nor do they always best of the Heav'ns deserve,
Who gaze on't most, but they who do reserve
Themselves to know it, since not all that will
Climb up into a Steeple or a Hill,
So well its pow'r and influence observe,
As they who study and remark it still.

Would she then in full glory on me shine,
An Image of that Light which is divine,
I then should see more clear, while she did draw
Me upwards, and the vapors 'twixt us aw:
To open her eyes were to open mine,
And teach me wonders which I never saw.

Nor would there thus be any cause to fear,
That while her pow'r attractive drew me near,
The odds betwixt us would the lesser show,
Since the most common Understandings know,
That inequalities still most appear,
When brought together and composed so.

As there is nothing yet doth so excell,
But there is found, if not its parallel,
Yet something so conform, as though far least
May yet obtain therein an Interest,
Why may not faith and truth then join so well,
As they may suit her rare perfections best?

Then hope, sustain thy self, though thou art hid
Thou livest still, and must till she forbid;
For when she would my vows and love reject,
They would a Being in themselves project,
Since infinites as they, yet never did,
Nor could conclude without some good effect.

A Meditation upon his Wax-Candle burning out.

While thy ambitious flame doth strive for height,
Yet burneth down, as clogged with the weight
Of earthly parts, to which thou art combin'd,
Thou still do'st grow more short of thy desire,
And do'st in vain unto that place aspire,
To which thy native powers seem inclin'd.

Yet when at last thou com'st to be dissolv'd,
And to thy proper principles resolv'd,
And all that made thee now is discompos'd,
Though thy terrestrial part in ashes lies,
Thy more sublime to higher Regions flies,
The rest b'ing to the middle wayes expos'd.

And while thou doest thy self each where disperse,
Some parts of thee make up this Universe,
Others' a kind of dignity obtain,
Since thy pure Wax in its own flame consum'd,
Volumes of incense sends, in which perfum'd,
Thy smoak mounts where thy fire could not attain.

Much more our Souls then, when they go from hence,
And back unto the Elements dispense,

All that built up our frail and earthly frame
Shall through each pore & passage make their breach,
Till they with all their faculties do reach
Unto that place from whence at first they came.

Nor need they fear thus to be thought unkind
To those poor Carkasses they leave behind,
Since being in unequal parts commix'd
Each in his Element their place will get,
And who thought Elements unhappy yet,
As long as they were in their stations fix'd?

Or if they sally'd forth, is there not light
And heat in some, and spirit prone to fight?
Keep they not, in the Earth and Air, the field?
Besides, have they not pow'r to generate
When, more then Meteors, they

In the Constellation of Cassiopeia, 1572.

Starrs create,
Which while they last scarce to the brightest yield.

That so in them we more then once may live,
While these materials which here did give
Our bodies essence, and are most of use,
Quick'ned again by the worlds common soul,
Which in it self and in each part is whole,
Can various forms in divers kinds produce.

If then, at worst, this our condition be,
When to themselves our Elements are free,
And each doth to its proper place revert,
What may we not hope from our part divine,
Which can this dross of Elements refine,
And them unto a better state assert?

Or if as cloid upon this earthly stage,
Which represents nothing but change or age,
Our Souls would all their burdens here devest,
They singly may that glorious state acquire,
Which fills alone their infinite desire
To be of perfect happiness possest.

And therefore I, who do not live and move,
By outward sense so much as faith and love,
Which is not in inferior Creatures found,
May unto some immortal state pretend,
Since by these wings I thither may ascend,
Where faithful loving Souls with joys are crown'd.

October 14. 1664.

Enraging Griefs, though you most divers be,
In your first Causes, you may yet agree
To take an equal share within my heart,
Since if each grief strive for the greatest part,
You needs must vex your selves as well as me.

For your own sakes and mine then make an end,
In vain you do about a Heart contend,
Which though it seem in greatness to dilate,
Is but a tumor, which in this its state
The choicest remedies would but offend.

Then storm't at once, I neither feel constraint
Scorning your worst, nor suffer any taint
Dying by multitudes, though if you strive,
I fear my heart may thus be kept alive,
Until it under its own burden faint.

What is't not done? Why then, my God, I find,
Would have me use you to reform my mind:
Since through his help I may from you extract
An essence pure, so spriteful and compact,
As it will be from grosser parts refin'd.

Which b'ing again converted by his Grace
To godly sorrow, I may both efface
Those sins first caus'd you, and together have
Your pow'r to kill turn'd to a power to save,
And bring my Soul to its desired place.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

TO HIS WATCH,

When he could not sleep.

Ditty.

A Description.

To her Face.

To her Body.

To her Mind.

Upon Combing her Hair.

Ditty in imitation of the Spanish Entre tantoque L' Avril.

The State-progress of Ill.

Satyra Secunda.

Of Travellers from Paris.

[I must depart, but like to his last breath]

Madrigal.

Another.

To his Friend Ben. Johnson,

of his Horace made English.

Epitaph. Cæcil. Boulser

quæpost languescentem morbum non sine inquietudine spiritus & conscientiæ obiit.

Epitaph. Guli. Herbert de Swansey

qui sine prole obiit

In a Glass-Window for Inconstancy.

Elegy for the Prince.

Epitaph of King James.

A Vision. A Lady combing her hair.

Ditty to the tune of A che del Quantomio of Pesarino.

Ditty.

Epitaph of a stinking Poet.

A Ditty to the tune of Coseferite,

made by Lorenzo Allegre to one sleeping to be sung.

Epitaph on Sir Edward Saquevile's Child,

who dyed in his Birth.

Kissing.

Ditty.

Elegy over a Tomb.

Epitaph on Sir Francis Vere.

To Mrs. Diana Cecyll.

To her Eyes.

To her Hair.

Sonnet of Black Beauty.

Another Sonnet to Black it self.

The first Meeting.

A merry Rime sent to the Lady Wroth

upon the Birth of my L. of Pembroke's Child, born in the Spring.

The Thought.

1

2

3

4

To a Lady who did sing excellently.

1

2

3

Melander suppos'd to love Susan, but did love Ann.

Echo to a Rock.

Echo in a Church.

To his Mistress for her true Picture.

Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney

lying in St. Paul's without a Monument, to be fastned upon the Church door.

Epitaph for himself.

Sonnet.

To the C. of D.

1

2

3

Ditty.

1

2

3

Elegy for Doctor Dunn.

The Brown Beauty.

1

2

3

4

An Ode upon a Question moved, Whether Love should continue for ever?

The Green-Sickness Beauty.

1

2

A Vision.

A Lady combing her hair.