 | The poems (1923) |  |
97
POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITION OF 1665.
Sonnet
[Innumerable Beauties, thou white haire]
Innumerable Beauties, thou white haireSpredde forth like to a Region of the Aire,
Curld like a sea, and like Ethereall fire
Dost from thy vitall principles aspire
To bee the highest Element of faire,
From thy proud heights, thou so com̄andst desire
That when it would presume, it grows, dispare,
And from it selfe a Vengeance, doth require,
While absolute in that thy braue com̄and
Knittinge each haire, into an awfull frowne
Like to an Hoste of Lightninges, thou dost stand
To ruine all that fall not prostrate doune
While to the humble like a beamy Croune
Thou seemest wreathed, by some im̄ortall Hande.
To one Blacke, and not very Hansome, who expected com̄endation.
What though your eyes bee starres, your haire, bee night
And all that Beauty wch addornes yor face
Yeeld in effect but such a sullen Light
It hardly serves, for to sett of that Grace
Wch every shaddowe yeeldeth in his Place,
Yet more then any other you delight.
And all that Beauty wch addornes yor face
Yeeld in effect but such a sullen Light
It hardly serves, for to sett of that Grace
Wch every shaddowe yeeldeth in his Place,
Yet more then any other you delight.
98
For since I loue not wth mine eyes but Hart
Your red or white so little could incline,
Whither it came from nature or from art,
I should not thinke it eyther yours or mine,
As that wch doth but wth the skinne confine
And wth the Light that gave it first departe.
Your red or white so little could incline,
Whither it came from nature or from art,
I should not thinke it eyther yours or mine,
As that wch doth but wth the skinne confine
And wth the Light that gave it first departe.
Let novises in Love themselves addresse
Vnto those parts, which superficiall bee,
Cloris, I must ingeniously confesse
Nothinge appeares a reall faire to me
Wch at the most but sometimes I do see
But never can at any time possesse;
Vnto those parts, which superficiall bee,
Cloris, I must ingeniously confesse
Nothinge appeares a reall faire to me
Wch at the most but sometimes I do see
But never can at any time possesse;
Giue me a Beauty at such distance sett
That all the senses wch I would imploy
Beinge wth in an euen compasse mett
Each sense may there such equall share injoy
That neyther one the other shall destroy
Or force it for to pay its fellowes debt.
That all the senses wch I would imploy
Beinge wth in an euen compasse mett
Each sense may there such equall share injoy
That neyther one the other shall destroy
Or force it for to pay its fellowes debt.
So though wth douelike murmurs I did rest
Faster enchanted then wth any spell
Lyinge wth in your armes, vpon your brest
Sippinge a Nectar kisse, whose fragrant smell
My tongue wth in your Lipps alone should tell,
I would not thinke my powers were opprest.
Faster enchanted then wth any spell
Lyinge wth in your armes, vpon your brest
Sippinge a Nectar kisse, whose fragrant smell
My tongue wth in your Lipps alone should tell,
I would not thinke my powers were opprest.
Then leaue your simpringe, Cloris, and make hast
Wth out delightinge thus to heare me pray,
That all your sweets I may together tast.
Should I too longe on one Perfection stay
I might bee forced to linger on my way
Or leave thee wth the prayse, of beinge chast.
Wth out delightinge thus to heare me pray,
That all your sweets I may together tast.
Should I too longe on one Perfection stay
I might bee forced to linger on my way
Or leave thee wth the prayse, of beinge chast.
99
To [Iohn Davies of Hereford].
Thine Art and Subiect both such Worth containeThat thou art best requited in thy paine.
Imilce pleads that her son may not be sacrificed.
What is this with blood to stainThe sacred temples? 'tis, alas! the main
Cause of all sin, that men are ignorant,
And do the knowledge of God's nature want.
Go, pray for what is just with frankincense,
And let the cruel rites of slaughter hence
Be banish'd; God is mild and near allied
To mortals, 'tis enough that we have dy'd
The altars with the blood of slaughter'd beasts,
Or if within the gods most cruel breasts
This wickedness is fixt; let me be slain
Who am the mother. Why would you so fain
Deprive all Lybia of this towardness?
119
DOUBTFUL POEMS
Inconstancy.
Inconstancy's the greatest of synns
It neyther endes well, nor beginns.
All other ffaultes, wee simplye doe
This 'tis the same ffaulte, and next to:
It neyther endes well, nor beginns.
All other ffaultes, wee simplye doe
This 'tis the same ffaulte, and next to:
Inconstancye, noe synn will proue
Yf wee consider that wee Love
But the same beautye in another fface
Lyke, the same Bodye, in another place.
Yf wee consider that wee Love
But the same beautye in another fface
Lyke, the same Bodye, in another place.
Ode: Of our Sense of Sinne.
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there doth sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blinde, yet still
We leade her way; and thus, whil'st we doe ill,
We suffer it.
She there doth sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus, blinde, yet still
We leade her way; and thus, whil'st we doe ill,
We suffer it.
Vnhappy he, whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th'errours of the last place, are
The greatest still.
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care;
In number, th'errours of the last place, are
The greatest still.
Yet we, that should the ill we new begin
As soone repent,
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen
But past us; neither felt, but onely in
Our punishment.
As soone repent,
(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen
But past us; neither felt, but onely in
Our punishment.
120
But we know our selves least; There outward shews
Our mindes so store,
That our soules, no more then our eyes disclose
But forme and colour. Onely he who knowes
Himselfe, knowes more.
Our mindes so store,
That our soules, no more then our eyes disclose
But forme and colour. Onely he who knowes
Himselfe, knowes more.
A Divine Love.
Why should dull Art, which is wise Nature's ape,
If she produce a shape
So farre beyond all patternes, that of old
Fell from her mold,
As thine (admir'd Lucinda) not bring forth
An equall wonder, to express that worth
In some new way, that hath
Like her great work, no print of vulgar path?
If she produce a shape
So farre beyond all patternes, that of old
Fell from her mold,
As thine (admir'd Lucinda) not bring forth
An equall wonder, to express that worth
In some new way, that hath
Like her great work, no print of vulgar path?
Is it because the rapes of Poetry,
Rifeling the spacious sky
Of all its fires, light, beauty, influence,
Did those dispence
On ayrie Creations, that surpast
The reall workes of Nature, she at last
To prove their raptures vain,
Shew'd such a light as Poets could not feign?
Rifeling the spacious sky
Of all its fires, light, beauty, influence,
Did those dispence
On ayrie Creations, that surpast
The reall workes of Nature, she at last
To prove their raptures vain,
Shew'd such a light as Poets could not feign?
Or is it 'cause the factious wits did vie
With vain Idolatry,
Whose Goddess was supreme, and so had hurld
Schism through the world,
Whose Priest sung sweetest layes; thou didst appear,
A glorious mysterie, so dark, so clear,
As Nature did intend
All should confess, but none might comprehend?
With vain Idolatry,
Whose Goddess was supreme, and so had hurld
Schism through the world,
121
A glorious mysterie, so dark, so clear,
As Nature did intend
All should confess, but none might comprehend?
Perhaps all other beauties share a light
Proportion'd to the sight
Of weak mortality, scatt'ring such loose fires,
As stir desires,
And from the brain distill salt amorous rhumes;
Whilst thy immortall flame such dross consumes,
And from the earthly mold
With purging fires severs the purer gold.
Proportion'd to the sight
Of weak mortality, scatt'ring such loose fires,
As stir desires,
And from the brain distill salt amorous rhumes;
Whilst thy immortall flame such dross consumes,
And from the earthly mold
With purging fires severs the purer gold.
If so, then why in Fames immortall scrowl,
Doe we their names inroul,
Whose easie hearts, and wanton eyes did sweat
With sensuall heat?
If Petrark's unarm'd bosome catch a wound
From a light glance, must Laura be renown'd?
Or both a glory gain,
He from ill-govern'd Love, she from Disdain?
Doe we their names inroul,
Whose easie hearts, and wanton eyes did sweat
With sensuall heat?
If Petrark's unarm'd bosome catch a wound
From a light glance, must Laura be renown'd?
Or both a glory gain,
He from ill-govern'd Love, she from Disdain?
Shall he more fam'd in his great Art become,
For wilfull martyrdome?
Shall she more title gain to chast and fair
Through his despair?
Is Troy more noble 'cause to ashes turn'd?
Than Virgin Cities that yet never burn'd?
Is fire, when it consumes
Temples, more fire, than when it melts perfumes?
For wilfull martyrdome?
Shall she more title gain to chast and fair
Through his despair?
Is Troy more noble 'cause to ashes turn'd?
Than Virgin Cities that yet never burn'd?
Is fire, when it consumes
Temples, more fire, than when it melts perfumes?
122
Cause Venus from the Ocean took her form
Must Love needs be a storm?
Cause she her wanton shrines in Islands reares,
Through seas of tears,
O'er Rocks and Gulphs, with our own sighs for gale,
Must we to Cyprus, or to Paphos sail?
Can there no way be given,
But a true Hell that leads to her false Heaven?
Must Love needs be a storm?
Cause she her wanton shrines in Islands reares,
Through seas of tears,
O'er Rocks and Gulphs, with our own sighs for gale,
Must we to Cyprus, or to Paphos sail?
Can there no way be given,
But a true Hell that leads to her false Heaven?
To a Lady that desired I would love her.
I
Now you have freely given me leave to love,What will you do?
Shall I your mirth or passion move
When I begin to woo?
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?
II
Each petty Beauty can disdain, and I,'Spite of your hate,
Without your leave can see, and die.
Dispense a nobler fate!
Tis easy to destroy: you may create.
III
Then give me leave to love, and love me too;Not with design
To raise, as Love's curst rebels do,
When puling poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubber'd eyne.
123
IV
Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clearYour Beauty's rays;
Joys are pure streams: your eyes appear
Sullen in sadder lays:
In cheerful numbers they shine bright with praise,
V
Which shall not mention to express you FairWounds, flames, and darts,
Storms in your brow, nets in your hair,—
Suborning all your parts
Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.
VI
I'll make your eyes like morning suns appearAs mild and fair;
Your brow as crystal smooth and clear;
And your dishevell'd hair
Shall flow like a calm region of the air.
VII
Rich Nature's store, which is the Poet's treasure,I'll spend to dress
Your beauties, if your mine of pleasure
In equal thankfulness
You but unlock; so we each other bless.
| The poems (1923) | |