When these my Letters come into thy view,
Think them not forc'd, or fain'd, or strange, or new;
Thou know'st no way, no means, no course exempted
Left now unsought, unprov'd, or unattempted,
All Rules, Regards, all secret Helpes of Art,
What Knowledge, Wit, Experience can impart;
And in the old Worlds Ceremonies doted,
Good dayes for Love, Times, Houres, and Minutes noted;
And where Art left, Love teacheth more to find,
By signes in presence to expresse the Mind.
Oft hath mine Eye told thine Eye, Beautie griev'd it,
And beg'd but for one Looke, to have reliev'd it,
And still with thine Eyes motion, mine Eye mov'd,
Lab'ring for Mercie, telling how it lov'd;
You blusht, I blusht; your Cheeke pale, pale was mine,
My Red, thy Red, my Whitenesse answer'd thine;
You sigh'd, I sigh'd, we both one Passion prove,
But thy sigh is for Hate, my sigh for Love:
If a word pass'd, that insufficient were,
To helpe that word, mine Eye let forth a Teare;
And if that Teare did dull or senselesse prove,
My Heart would fetch a Throb, to make it move.
Oft in thy Face, one Favour from the rest
I singled forth, that pleas'd my Fancie best;
This likes me most, another likes me more,
A third, exceeding both those lik'd before:
Then one, as Wonder were derived thence,
Then that, whose rarenesse passeth excellence.
Whilst I behold thy Globe-like rowling Eye,
Thy lovely Cheeke (me thinkes) stands smiling by,
And tells me, those are Shadowes and Supposes,
But bids me thither come, and gather Roses;
Looking on that, thy Brow doth call to mee,
To come to it, if Wonders I will see:
Now have I done, and then thy dimpled Chinne
Againe doth tell me newly I begin,
And bids me yet to looke upon thy Lip,
Lest wond'ring least, the great'st I over-slip:
My gazing Eye on this and this doth sease,
Which surfets, yet cannot Desire appease.
(Now like I Browne (O lovely Browne thy Haire)
Onely in Brownnesse, Beautie dwelleth there.
Then love I Blacke, thine Eye-ball blacke as Jet,
Which in a Globe, pure Crystalline, is set:
Then white; but Snow, nor Swan, nor Ivorie please,
Then are thy Teeth more whiter then all these;
In Browne, in Blacke, in Purenesse, and in White,
All Love, all Sweets, all Rarenesse, all Delight:
Thus thou, vile Theefe, my stolne Heart hence do'st carrie,
And now thou flyest into a Sanctuarie.
Fie peevish Girle, ingratefull unto Nature;
Did she to this end frame thee such a Creature,
That thou her glorie shouldst encrease thereby,
And thou alone do'st scorne Societie?
Why, Heaven made Beautie like her selfe to view,
Not to be lock'd up in a smoakie Mew:
A Rosie-tincted Feature is Heavens Gold,
Which all Men joy to touch, all to behold.
It was enacted when the World begun,
That so rare Beautie should not live a Nunne;
But if this Vow thou needs wilt undertake,
O were mine Armes a Cloyster for thy sake:
Still may his Paines for ever be augmented,
This Superstition idly that invented;
Ill might he thrive, who brought this Custome hither,
That holy People might not live together.
A happie Time, a good World was it then,
When holy Women liv'd with holy Men;
But Kings in this yet priviledg'd may bee,
Ile be a Monke, so I may live with thee.
Who would not rise to ring the Mornings Knell,
When thy sweet Lips might be the sacring Bell?
Or what is he, not willingly would fast,
That on those Lips might feast his Lips at last?
Who to his Mattens early would not rise,
That might reade by the Light of thy faire Eyes?
On Worldly Pleasures who would ever looke,
That had thy Curles his Beads, thy Browes his Booke?
Wert Thou the Crosse, to Thee who would not creepe,
And wish, the Crosse still in his Armes to keepe?
Sweet Girle, Ile take this holy Habit on me,
Of meere Devotion that is come upon me;
Holy Matilda, Thou the Saint of mine,
Ile be thy Servant, and my Bed thy Shrine.
When I doe offer, be thy Brest the Altar,
And when I pray, thy Mouth shall be my Psalter.
The Beades that we will bid, shall be sweet Kisses,
Which we will number, if one Pleasure misses;
And when an Ave comes, to say Amen,
We will begin, and tell them o're againe:
Now all good Fortune give me happy Thrift,
As I should joy t'absolve thee after Shrift.
But see, how much I doe my selfe beguile,
And doe mistake thy meaning all this while:
Thou took'st this Vow, to equall my Desire,
Because thou wouldst have me to be a Frier,
And that we two should comfort one another,
A holy Sister, and a holy Brother,
Thou as a Votresse to my Love alone,
“She is most chaste, that's but injoy'd of One.
Yea, now thy true Devotion doe I find,
And sure, in this I much commend thy Mind;
Else here thou do'st but ill Example give,
And in a Nun'rie thus thou shouldst not live.
Is't possible, the House that thou art in
Should not be toucht (though with a Veniall sinne?)
When such a shee-Priest comes her Masse to say,
Twentie to one they all forget to pray:
Well may we wish, they would their Hearts amend,
When we be witnesse, that their Eyes offend;
All Creatures have Desires, or else some lye,
Let them thinke so that will, so will not I.
Do'st thou not thinke our Ancestors were wise,
That these Religious Cells did first devise?
As Hospitals were for the Sore and Sicke,
These for the Crook'd, the Halt, the Stigmaticke,
Lest that their Seed, mark'd with Deformitie,
Should be a Blemish to Posteritie.
Would Heav'n her Beautie should be hid from sight,
Ne'r would she thus her selfe adorne with Light;
With sparkling Lamps nor would she paint her Throne;
But she delighteth to be gaz'd upon:
And when the golden glorious Sunne goes downe,
Would she put on her Starre-bestudded Crowne,
And in her Masking Sute, the spangled Skie,
Come forth to bride it in her Revelrie;
And gave this Gift to all Things in Creation,
That they in this should imitate her Fashion.
All Things that faire, that pure, that glorious beene,
Offer themselves of purpose to be seene.
In Sinkes and Vaults the ugly Toads doe dwell;
The Divels, since most ugly, they in Hell.
Our Mother (Earth) ne'r glories in her Fruit,
Till by the Sunne clad in her Tinsell Sute;
Nor doth she ever smile him in the Face,
Till in his glorious Armes he her imbrace:
Which proves she hath a Soule, Sense, and Delight,
Of Generations feeling Appetite.
Well Hypocrite (in Faith) wouldst thou confesse,
What ere thy Tongue say, thy Heart saith no lesse.
Note but this one thing (if nought else perswade)
Nature of all things Male and Female made,
Shewing her selfe in our Proportion plaine;
For never made she any thing in vaine:
For as thou art, should any have beene thus,
She would have left ensample unto us.
The Turtle, that's so true and chaste in love,
Shewes by her Mate something the spirit doth move:
Th'Arabian Bird, that never is but one,
Is onely chaste, because she is alone:
But had our Mother Nature made them Two,
They would have done as Doves and Sparrowes doe;
And therefore made a Martyr in desire,
To doe her Penance lastly in the Fire:
So may they all be rosted quicke, that bee
Apostata's to Nature, as is shee.
Find me but one so young, so faire, so free,
(Woo'd, su'd, and sought by him that now seekes thee)
But of thy Minde, and here I undertake,
To build a Nun'rie for her onely sake.
O, hadst thou tasted of those rare Delights,
Ordain'd each where to please great Princes sights!
To have their Beautie and their Wits admir'd,
(Which is by nature of your Sexe desir'd)
Attended by our Traynes, our Pompe, our Port,
Like Gods ador'd abroad, kneel'd to in Court,
To be saluted with the cheerefull Crie
Of Highnesse, Grace, and soveraigne Majestie:
“But unto them that know not Pleasures price,
“All's one, a Prison, and a Paradise.
If in a Dungeon, clos'd up from the Light,
There is no diff'rence 'twixt the Day and Night;
“Whose Pallat never tasted daintie Cates,
“Thinkes homely Dishes Princely Delicates.
Alas, poore Girle, I pittie thine estate,
That now thus long hast liv'd disconsolate;
Why now at length, yet let thy Heart relent,
And call thy Father backe from Banishment;
And with those Princely Honours here invest him,
Of which, fond Love, not Hate hath dispossest him.
Call from Exile thy deare Allies and Friends,
To whom the furie of my Griefe extends;
And if thou take my counsell in this case,
I make no doubt thou shalt have better Grace:
And leave thy Dunmow, that accursed Cell,
There let blacke Night and Melancholy dwell;
Come to the Court, where all Joyes shall receive thee,
And till that Houre, yet with my Griefe I leave thee.
[_]
This Epistle of King John to Matilda, is much more
Poeticall then Historicall, making no mention at all of
the Occurrents of the Time, or State, touching onely his love to
her, and the extremitie of his Passions forced by his desires,
rightly fashioning the Humour of this King, as hath beene
truely noted by the most authenticall Writers: whose nature
and disposition is trulyest discerned in the course of his Love;
first, jesting at the Ceremonies of the Services of those Times;
then, going about by all strong and probable Arguments, to reduce
her to Pleasures and Delights; next, with promises of
Honour, which he thinketh to be the last and greatest Meanes,
and to have greatest power in her Sexe; with promise of calling
home of her Friends, which he thought might be a great inducement to his desires.
