 | The poems (1923) |  |
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) | |