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Lucasta

Epodes, Odes, Sonnets, Songs, &c. To which is added Aramantha, A Pastorall. By Richard Lovelace

Lovelace, Richard (1618-1658)

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THE DEDICATION. To the Right Honourable, my Lady ANNE LOVELACE.

To my best Brother on his Poems, called Lucasta.

On the POEMS.

To my much loved friend, Richard Lovelace Esq.

To my Noble and most ingenious Friend, Col. Richard Lovelace, upon his LUCASTA.

Another, upon the POEMS.

To his much honoured Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, on his Poems.

[The world shall now no longer mourne, nor vex]

To his Noble Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, upon his POEMS.

To Colonel RICHARD LOVELACE, on the publishing of his ingenious Poems.

To the Honorable, Valiant, and Ingenious Colonel Richard Lovelace, on his Exquisite POEMS.

To his Honoured and Ingenious Friend Col. Richard Lovelace, on his LUCASTA.

To my Deare Brother, Colonel Richard Lovelace.

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Aramantha.

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THE DEDICATION. To the Right Honourable, my Lady ANNE LOVELACE.

To the Richest Treasury
That e're fill'd Ambitious Eye;
To the faire bright Magazin
Hath impoverisht Loves Queen;
'To th'EXCHEQUER of all Honour,
(All take Pensions but from her)
'To the Taper of the Thore
Which the God himselfe but bore;
'To the Sea of Chast Delight
Let me cast the Drop I write.

And as at Loretto's shrine
Cæsar shovels in his Mine,
Th'Empres spreads her Carkanets
The Lords submit their Coronets,
Knights their Chased Armes hang by.
Maids Diamond-Ruby Fancies tye;
Whilst from the Pilgrim she wears
One poore false Pearl, but ten true tears:

So among the Orient Prize,
(Saphyr-Onyx Eulogies)
Offer'd up unto your Fame:
Take my Garnet-Dublet Name,
And vouchsafe 'midst those Rich Joyes
(With Devotion) these TOYES.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

To my best Brother on his Poems, called Lucasta.

Now y' have oblieg'd the age, thy wel known Worth
Is to our joy auspiciously brought forth.
Good morrow to thy Son, thy first borne flame,
Which as thou gav'st it birth, stamps it a name;
That Fate, and a discerning age shall set
The chiefest jewell in her Coronet.

Why then needs all this paines, those season'd pens,
That standing lifeguard to a booke, (kinde friends)
That with officious care thus guard thy gate,
As if thy Child were illigitimate.
Forgive their freedome, since unto their praise
They write to give, not to dispute thy Bayes.

As when some glorious Queen, whose pregnant wombe
Brings forth a Kingdome, with her first-borne Sonne;
Marke but the Subjects joyfull hearts, and eyes,
Some offer Gold, and others Sacrifice;
This slayes a Lambe, That not so rich as hee,
Brings but a Dove, This but a bended knee;
And though their gifts be various, yet their sence
Speaks only this one thought, Long live the Prince.

So, my best Brother, if unto your name
I offer up a thin blew burning flame;

Pardon my love, since none can make thee shine;
Vnlesse they kindle first their Torch at thine:
Then as inspir'd, they boldly write, nay that,
Which their amazed Lights but twinkl'd at,
And their illustrate thoughts doe voice this right,
Lucasta held their Torch, thou gav'st it Light.

Francis Lovelace Col.

On the POEMS.

How humble is thy Muse (Deare) that can daign
Such servants as my pen to entertaine?

When all the sonnes of wit glory to be
Clad in thy Muses gallant livery?
I shall disgrace my master, prove a staine,
And no addition to his honour'd traine.
Though all that read me will presume to swear
I neer read thee: yet if it may appear
I love the Writer and admire the writ,
I my owne want betray, not wrong thy wit.
Did thy worke want a prayse, my barren brain
Could not afford it: my attempt were vaine.
It needs no foyle: All that ere writ before
Are foyles to thy faire Poems and no more.
Then to be lodg'd in the same sheets with thine,
May prove disgrace to yours, but grace to mine.

Norris Jephson Col.

To my much loved friend, Richard Lovelace Esq.

Carmen Eroticum.

Deare Lovelace, I am now about to prove
I cannot write a verse but can write Love.
On such a subject as thy Booke, I coo'd
Write Books much greater, but not half so good.

But as the humble tenant that does bring
A chicke or egges for's offering,
Is tane into the buttry, and does fox
Equall with him that gave a stalled oxe:
So, (since the heart of ev'ry cheerfull giver
Makes pounds no more accepted then a stiver,)
Though som thy prayse in rich stiles sing, I may
In sliver stile write Love as well as they.
I write so well that I no Criticks feare;
For who'le read mine, when as thy booke's so neer,
Vnlesse thy selfe? then you shall secure mine
From those, and Ile engage my selfe for thine;
They'l do't themselves, thē this allay you'l take,
I love thy book, and yet not for thy sake.

John Jephson Col.

To my Noble and most ingenious Friend, Col. Richard Lovelace, upon his LUCASTA.

So from the pregnant braine of Jove did rise
Pallas, the Queene of wit, and beautious eyes:
As faire LUCASTA from thy temples flowes,
Temples no lesse ingenious then Joves.

Alike in birth, so shall she be in Fame,
And be immortall to preserve thy Name.

Another, upon the POEMS.

Now when the wars augment our woes and fears
And the shrill noise of drums oppresse our ears,
Now peace and safety from our shores are fled
To holes and cavernes to secure their head:
Now all the graces from the Land are sent,
And the nine Muses suffer banishment,
Whence spring these raptures? whence this heavenly rime?
So calme and even in so harsh a time:
Well might that charmer his faire Cælia crowne,
And that more polish't Tyterus renowne
His Sacarissa, when in groves and bowres
They could repose their limbs on beds of flowrs:
When wit had prayse, and merit had reward,
And every noble spirit did accord
To love the Muses, and their Priests to raise,
And interpale their browes with flourishing bayes;
But in a time distracted so to sing,
When peace is hurried hence on rages wing,
When the fresh bayes is from the Temple torne,
And every Art and Science made a scorne,
Then to raise up by musicke of thy Arts
Our drooping spirits and our grieved hearts,
Then to delight our souls, and to inspire
Our breast with pleasure, from thy charming Lyre,

Then to divert our sorrowes by thy straines
Making us quite forget our seven yeers paines
In the past wars, unlesse that Orpheus be
A sharer in thy glory: for when he
Descended downe for his Euridice,
He stroke his Lute with like-admired Art,
And made the damned to forget their smart.

John Pinchbacke Col.

To his much honoured Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, on his Poems.

He that doth paint the beauties of your verse
Must use your pensil, be polite, soft, terse;
Forgive that man whose best of Art is love,
If he no equall Master to you prove;

My heart is all my Eloquence, and that
Speaks sharp affection, when my words fall flat,
I reade you like my Mistresse, and discry
In every line the quicknesse of her eye,
Her smoothnesse in each syllable, her grace
To marshall ev'ry word in the right place:
It is the excellence, and soule of wit
When ev'ry thing is free, as well as fit,
For Metaphors packt up and crowded close,
Swath ye minds sweetnes, & display the throws,
And like those chickens hatcht in furnaces
Produce or one limbe more, or one limbe lesse
Then nature bids: survey such when they write
No clause but's justl'd with an Epithite;
So powerfully you draw when you perswade,
Passions in you, in us are Vertues made;
Such is the Magick of that lawfull shell
That where it doth but talke, it doth compell:
For no Apelles 'till this Time e're drew
A Venus to the waste so well as you.

W. RUDYERD.

[The world shall now no longer mourne, nor vex]

The world shall now no longer mourne, nor vex
For th'obliquity of a cross-grain'd sex;
Nor beauty swell above her Bankes, (and made
For Ornaments) the universe invade
So fiercely, that 'tis question'd in our Bookes,
Whether kils most, the Amazon's sword, or Lookes.
Lucasta in loves game discreetly makes
Women, and men joyntly to share the stakes,
And lets us know, when women scorne, it is
Mens hot Love, makes the Antiparisthesis.
And a Lay Lover here such comfort finds,
As Holy Writ gives to affected minds.
The Wilder Nymphs Lov's power could not comand
Are by thy Almighty Numbers brought to hand,
And flying Daphne's caught, amazed vow
They never heard Apollo court till now.
Tis not by force of Armes this feat is done.
For that would puzzle even the Knight o'th' Sun,
But 'tis by pow'r of Art, and such a way
As Orpheus us'd, when he made fiends obay.

J. NEEDLER, Hosp. Grayensis.

To his Noble Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, upon his POEMS.

SIR,

Ovr times are much degenerate from those
Which your sweet Muse which your fair Fortune chose,
And as complexions alter with the Climes,
Our wits have drawne th'infection of our times.
That candid Age no other way could tell
To be ingenious, but by speaking well.
Who best could prayse, had then the greatest prayse,
Twas more esteemd to give, then weare the Bayes:
Modest ambition studi'd only then,
To honour not her selfe, but worthy men.
These vertues now are banisht out of Towne,
Our Civill Wars have lost the Civicke crowne.
He highest builds, who with most Art destroys,
And against others Fame his owne employs.
I see the envious Caterpillar sit
On the faire blossome of each growing wit.

The Ayre's already tainted with the swarms
Of Insects which against you rise in arms.
Word-peckers, Paper-rats, Book-scorpious,
Of wit corrupted, the unfashion'd Sons.
The barbed Censurers begin to looke
Like the grim consistory on thy Booke:

And on each line cast a reforming eye,
Severer then the yong Presbytery.
Till when in vaine they have thee all perus'd,
You shall for being faultlesse be accus'd.
Some reading your Lucasta, will alledge
You wrong'd in her the Houses Priviledge.
Some that you under sequestration are,
Because you write when going to the Warre,
And one the Book prohibits, because Kent
Their first Petition by the Authour sent.

But when the beauteous Ladies came to know
That their deare Lovelace was endanger'd so:
Lovelace that thaw'd the most congealed brest,
He who lov'd best and them defended best.
Whose hand so rudely grasps the steely brand,
Whose hand so gently melts the Ladies hand.
They all in mutiny though yet undrest
Sally'd, and would in his defence contest.
And one the loveliest that was yet e're seen,
Thinking that I too of the rout had been.
Mine eyes invaded with a female spight,
(She knew what pain 't would be to lose that sight.)
O no, mistake not, I reply'd, for I
In your defence, or in his cause would dy.
But he secure of glory and of time
Above their envy or mine aid doth clime.
Him, valianst men, and fairest Nymphs approve,
His Booke in them finds Judgement, with you Love.

Andr. Marvell.

To Colonel RICHARD LOVELACE, on the publishing of his ingenious Poems.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

If the desire of Glory speak a mind
More nobly operative & more refin'd
What vast soule moves thee? Or what Hero's spirit
(Kept in'ts traduction pure) dost thou inherit,
That not contented with one single Fame,
Dost to a double glory spread thy Name?
And on thy happy temples safely set
Both th'Delphick wreath and Civic Coronet?

Wast not enough for us to know how far
Thou couldst in season suffer, act, and dare?
But we must also witnesse with what height
And what Ionick sweetnesse thou canst write?
And melt those eager passions that are
Stubborn enough t'enrage the God of war,
Into a noble Love which may aspire
In an illustrious Pyramid of Fire,
Which having gained his due station may
Fix there, and everlasting flames display.
This is the braver path time soone can smother
The dear-bought spoils & tropheis of the other.

How many fiery Heroes have there been,
Whose triumphs were as soone forgot, as seen?
Because they wanted some diviner one
To rescue thē from night and make thē known.

Such art thou to thy selfe: while others dream
Strong flatt'ries on a fain'd or borrow'd theam,
Thou shalt remaine in thine owne lustre bright,
And adde unto't LVCASTA'S chaster light.

For none so fit to sing great things as He
That can act o're all lights of Poetry.
Thus had Achilles his owne Gests design'd,
He had his Genius Homer far outshin'd.

JO. HALL.

To the Honorable, Valiant, and Ingenious Colonel Richard Lovelace, on his Exquisite POEMS.

Poets , and Painters have some near relation,
Compar'd with Fancy and Imagination;
The one paints shadowed persons (in pure kind,)
The other points the Pictures of the Mind
In purer Verse. And as rare Zeuxes fame
Shin'd till Apelles Art eclips'd the same
By a more exquisite, and curious line
In Zeuxeses (with pensill far more fine,)
So have our modern Poets, late done well
Till thine appear'd (which scarce have paralel.)

They like to Zeuxes Grapes beguile the sense,
But thine do ravish the Intelligence;
Like the rare banquet of Apelles, drawn,
And covered over with most curious Lawn.

Thus if thy careles draughts are cal'd the best
What would thy lines have beene, had'st thou profest
That faculty (infus'd) of Poetry?
Which adds such honour unto thy Chivalry?

Doubtles thy verse had all as far transcended
As Sydneyes Prose, who Poets once defended.

For when I read thy much renowned Pen,
My Fancy there finds out another Ben
In thy brave language, judgement, wit, & art,
Of every piece of thine, in every part:
Where thy seraphique Sydneyan fire is raised high,
In Valour, Vertue, Love, and Loyalty:

Virgil was styl'd the loftiest of All,
Ovid the smoothest, and most naturall,
Martiall concise, and witty, quaint, and pure,
Iuvenall grave and learned, though obscure:)

But all these rare ones, which I heere reherse
Do live againe in Thee, and in thy Verse:
Although not in the language of their time,
Yet in a speech as copious and sublime:

The rare Apelles, in thy Picture wee
Perceive, and in thy soule Apollo see.

Wel may each grace, & muse then crown thy praise
With Mars his Banner, and Minerva's Bayes.

FRA. LENTON.

To his Honoured and Ingenious Friend Col. Richard Lovelace, on his LUCASTA.

Chast as Creation meant us, and more bright
Then the first day in's uneclipsed light,
Is thy Lucasta, and thou offerest heere
Lines to her Name as undefil'd and cleere:
Such as the first indeed more happy dayes,
(When Vertue, Wit, and Learning, wore the bayes;
Now Vice assumes) would to her memory give
A Vestall Flame, that should for ever live
Plac't in a Christal Temple, rear'd to be
The Embleme of her thoughts integrity;
And on the Porch thy Name insculpt, my Friend,
Whose Love like to the flame can know no end:
The Marble steps that to the Alter brings
The hallowed Priests with their cleane Offerings
Shall hold their Names, that humbly crave to be
Votaries to'th shrine, and grateful Friends to thee:
So shal we live (although our Offrings prove
Meane to the World) for ever by thy Love.

THO. RAWLINS.

To my Deare Brother, Colonel Richard Lovelace.

Ile doe my nothing too; and try
To dabble to thy memory:
Not that I offer to thy Name,
Encomiums, of thy lasting Fame.
Those, by the Landed have been writ,
Mine's but a Yonger Brother-Wit;
A Wit thats hudled up in scarres,
Borne like my rough-selfe in the Warres;
And as a Squire in the fight,
Serves only to attend the Knight:
So 'tis my glory in this Field.
Where others act, to beare thy Shield.

Dudley Lovelace, Capt.

Song. To Lucasta,

Going beyond the Seas.

[_]

Set by Mr. Henry Lawes.

I

If to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone,
You or I were alone;
Then my Lucasta might I crave
Pity from blustring winde, or swallowing wave.

II

But I'le not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my saile,
Or pay a teare to swage
The foaming blew-Gods rage;
For whether he will let me passe
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

III

Though Seas and Land betwixt us both,
Our Faith and Troth,
Like separated soules,
All time and space controules:
Above the highest sphere wee meet
Unseene, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet.

IV

So then we doe anticipate
Our after-fate,
And are alive it'h' skies,
If thus our lips and eyes
Can speake like spirits unconfin'd
In Heav'n, their earthy bodies left behind.

Song. To Lucasta,

Going to the Warres.

[_]

Set by Mr. John Laniere.

I

Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkinde,
That from the Nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde,
To Warre and Armes I flie.

II

True; a new Mistresse now I chase,
The first Foe in the Field;
And with a stronger Faith imbrace
A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.

III

Yet this Inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee (Deare) so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.

A Paradox.

I

Tis true the beauteous Starre
To which I first did bow
Burnt quicker, brighter far
Then that which leads me now;
Which shines with more delight,
For gazing on that light
So long, neere lost my sight.

II

Through foule, we follow faire,
For had the World one face
And Earth been bright as Ayre,
We had knowne neither place;
Indians smell not their Neast;
A Swisse or Finne tastes best,
The Spices of the East.

III

So from the glorious Sunne,
Who to his height hath got,
With what delight we runne
To some black Cave, or Grot?
And Heav'nly Sydney you
Twice read, had rather view
Some odde Romance, so new.

IV

The God that constant keepes
Unto his Dieties,
Is poore in Joyes, and sleepes
Imprison'd in the skies:
This knew the wisest, who
From Juno stole, below
To love a Beare, or Cow.

Song. To Amarantha,

That she would dishevell her haire.

[_]

Set by Mr. Henry Lawes.

I

Amarantha sweet and faire,
Ah brade no more that shining haire!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee let it flye.

II

Let it flye as unconfin'd
As it's calme Ravisher, the winde;
Who hath left his darling th'East,
To wanton o're that spicie Neast.

III

Ev'ry Tresse must be confest;
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a Clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.

IV

Doe not then winde up that light
In Ribands, and o're-cloud in Night;
Like the Sun in's early ray;
But shake your head and scatter day.

V

See 'tis broke! Within this Grove
The Bower, and the walkes of Love,
Weary lye we downe and rest,
And fanne each others panting breast.

VI

Heere wee'l strippe and coole our fire
In Creame below, in milke-baths higher:
And when all Well's are drawne dry,
I'le drink a teare out of thine eye.

VII

Which our very Joyes shall leave
That sorrowes thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrowes weepe,
That joyes so ripe, so little keepe.

To Chloe,

Courting her for his Friend.

I

Chloe behold! againe I bowe,
Againe possest, againe I woe;
From my heat hath taken fire,
Damas, noble youth, and fries:
Gazing with one of mine eyes
Damas, halfe of me expires:
Chloe behold! Our Fate's the same,
Or make me Cinders too, or quench his Flame.

II

I'd not be King, unlesse there sate
Lesse Lords that shar'd with me in State;
Who by their cheaper Coronets know
What glories from my Diadem flow:
It's use and rate values the Gem,
Pearles in their shells have no esteem;
And I being Sun within thy Sphere,
'Tis my chiefe beauty thinner lights shine there.

III

The Us'rer heaps unto his store,
By seeing others praise it more;
Who not for gaine, or want doth covet,
But 'cause another loves, doth love it:
Thus gluttons cloy'd afresh invite
Their Gusts, from some new appetite;
And after cloth remov'd, and meate,
Fall too againe by seeing others eate.

Sonnet.

[Depose your finger of that Ring]

See! with what constant Motion
Even, and glorious, as the Sunne,
Gratiana steeres that Noble Frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voyce
That gave each winding Law and poyze,
And swifter then the wings of Fame.

II

She beat the happy Pavement
By such a Starre made Firmament,
Which now no more the Roofe envies;
But swells up high with Atlas ev'n
Bearing the brighter, nobler Heav'n,
And in her, all the Dieties.

III

Each step trod out a Lovers thought
And the Ambitious hopes he brought,
Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts;
Such sweet command, and gentle awe,
As when she ceas'd, we sighing saw
The floore lay pav'd with broken hearts.

IV

So did she move; so did she sing
Like the Harmonious spheres that bring
Unto their Rounds their musick's ayd;
Which she performed such a way,
As all th'inamour'd world will say
The Graces daunced, and Apollo play'd.

The Scrutinie.

Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. Thomas Charles.

I

VVhy should you sweare I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady it is already Morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

II

Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve houres space?
I must all other Beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new imbrace;
Could I still dote upon thy Face.

III

Not, but all joy in thy browne haire,
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and faire
Like skilfull Minerallist's that sound
For Treasure in un-plow'd-up ground.

IV

Then, if when I have lov'd my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoyles of meaner Beauties crown'd,
I laden will returne to thee,
Ev'n sated with Varietie.

Princesse Loysa drawing.

I saw a little Diety,
Minerva in Epitomy,
Whom Venus at first blush, surpris'd,
Tooke for her winged wagge disguis'd;
But viewing then whereas she made
Not a distrest, but lively shade
Of Eccho, whom he had betrayd,
Now wanton, and ith' coole oth' Sunne
With her delight a hunting gone;
And thousands more, whom he had slaine,
To live, and love, belov'd againe:
Ah this is true Divinity!
I will un-God that Toye cri'd she?
Then markt she Syrinx running fast

To Pans imbraces, with the haste
Shee fled him once, whose reede-pipe rent,
He finds now a new Instrument.
Theseus return'd, invokes the Ayre
And windes, then wafts his faire;
Whilst Ariadne ravish't stood
Halfe in his armes, halfe in the flood.

Proud Anaxerete doth fall
At Iphis feete, who smiles of all:
And he (whilst she his curles doth deck)
Hangs no where now, but on her neck.

Heere Phæbus with a beame untombes
Long-hid Leucothoë, and dombes
Her Father there; Daphne the faire
Knowes now no bayes but round her haire;
And to Apollo and his Sons
Who pay him their due Orisons,
Bequeaths her Lawrell-robe, that flame
Contemnes, Thunder and evill Fame.

There kneel'd Adonis fresh as spring,
Gaye as his youth, now offering
Her selfe those joyes with voice and hand,
Which first he could not understand.

Transfixed Venus stood amas'd,
Full of the Boye and Love, she gaz'd;
And in imbraces seemed more
Sencelesse and cold, then he before.
Uselesse Childe! In vaine (said she)
You beare that fond Artillerie:
See heere a Pow'r above the slow
Weake execution of thy bow.

So said, she riv'd the Wood in two,
Unedged all his Arrowes too,
And with the string their feathers bound
To that part whence we have our wound.

See, see! the darts by which we burn'd
Are bright Löysa's pencills turn'd;
With which she now enliveth more
Beauties, then they destroy'd before.

Princesse Katherine borne, christened, buried in one day.

An Elegie.

You that can aptly mixe your joyes with cries,
And weave white Iös with black Elegies,
Can Caroll out a Dirge, and in one breath
Sing to the Tune, either of life, or death;
You that can weepe the gladnesse of the spheres,
And pen a Hymne in stead of Inke with teares,
Here, here, your unproportion'd wit let fall
To celebrate this new-borne Funerall,
And greete that little Greatnesse, which from th'wombe
Dropt both a load to th'Cradle, and the Tombe.

Bright soule! teach us to warble, with what feet
Thy swathing linnen, and thy winding sheet,

Mourne or shout forth that Fonts solemnitie,
Which at once buried, and christ'ned thee,
And change our shriller passions with that sound.
First told thee into th'ayre, then the ground.

Ah wert thou borne for this, only to call
The King and Queen guests to your buriall?
To bid good night, your day not yet begun,
And showe's a setting, ere a rising Sun?

Or wouldst thou have thy life a Martyrdom?
Dye in the Act of thy Religion;
Fit, excellently, innocently good,
First sealing it with water, then thy blood?
As when on blazing wings a blest man sores,
And having past to God through fiery dores
Straight's roab'd wth flames, whē the same Elemēt
Which was his shame, proves now his Ornament;
Oh how he hast'ned death, burn't to be fryed,
Kill'd twice with each delay, 'till deified:
So swift hath been thy race, so full of flight,

Like him condemn'd, ev'n aged with a night,
Cutting all lets with clouds, as if th'hadst been
Like Angels plum'd, and borne a Cherubin.

Or in your journey towards Heav'n, say,
Tooke you the World a little in your way?
Saw'st and dislik'st its vaine pompe then didst flye
Up for eternall glories to the skye?
Like a Religious Ambitious one
Aspiredst for the everlasting Crowne?

Ah holy Traytour to your brother Prince,
Rob'd of his birth-right, and preheminence:
Could you ascend yon' Chaire of State e're him,
And snatch from th'heire the Starry Diadem?
Making your honours now as much uneven
As Gods on earth, are lesse then Saints in Heav'n.

Triumph! sing triumphs then! Oh put on all
Your richest lookes drest for this Festivall;
Thoughts full of ravisht reverence, with eyes
So fixt as when a Saint we canonize;

Clap wings with Seraphins before the Throne,
At this eternall Coronation,
And teach your soules new mirth, such as may be
Worthy this Birth-day to Divinity.

But ah! these blast your feasts, the Jubilies
We send you up are sad, as were our cries,
And of true joy, we can expresse no more
Thus crown'd, then when we buried thee before.

Princesse in heav'n forgivenes! whilst we
Resigne our office to the Hierarchy.

Love Conquer'd.

A Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. Henry Lawes.

I

The childish God of Love did sweare
Thus; by my awfull Bow and Quiver,
Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair,
I'le scatter all their vowes ith' Ayr,
And their knit imbraces shiver.

II

Up then to th'head with his best Art
Full of spite and envy blowne,
At her constant Marble Heart,
He drawes his swiftest surest Dart,
Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

III

Now the Prince of fires burnes!
Flames in the luster of her eyes;
Triumphant she, refuses, scornes;
He submits, adores, and mournes,
And is his Votresse Sacrifice.

IV

Foolish Boye! Resolve me now
What 'tis to sigh and not be heard?
He weeping, kneel'd, and made a vow,
The world shall love as yon' fast two,
So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.

A loose Saraband.

[_]

Set by Mr. Henry Lawes.

I

Ah me! the little Tyrant Theefe!
As once my heart was playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.

II

Proud of his purchase he surveyes,
And curiously sounds it,
And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruell still on he wounds it.

III

And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a Ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip,
And all it's rest confoundeth.

IV

Then as a Top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;
Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,
Then straight againe he strips it.

V

He cover'd it with false beliefe,
Which gloriously show'd it;
And for a morning-Cushionet,
On's Mother he bestow'd it.

VI

Each day with her small brazen stings,
A thousand times she rac'd it;
But then at night, bright with her Gemmes,
Once neere her breast she plac'd it.

VII

There warme it gan to throb and bleed;
She knew that smart and grieved;
At length this poore condemned Heart
With these rich drugges repreeved.

VIII

She washt the wound with a fresh teare,
Which my Lucasta dropped,
And in the sleave-silke of her haire,
'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

IX

She proab'd it with her constancie,
And found no Rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye,
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

X

Then prest she Narde in ev'ry veine
Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balme heald all it's paine
That from her hand distilled.

XI

But yet this heart avoyds me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to it's Physitians breast,
There proudly sits inthroned.

A forsaken Lady to her false Servant that is disdained by his new Mistris.

Were it that you so shun me 'cause you wish
(Cruels't) a fellow in your wretchednesse,
Or that you take some small ease in your owne
Torments, to heare another sadly groane,
I were most happy in my paines, to be
So truely blest, to be so curst by thee:
But Oh! my cries to that doe rather adde,
Of which too much already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to heare my moane;
Yet sadly hearst me with derision.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know,
And feelst thy selfe the flames I burne in, Oh!

How can you beg to be set loose from that
Consuming stake, you binde another at?

Uncharitablest both wayes, to denie
That pity me, for which your selfe must dye,
To love not her loves you yet know the paine
What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.

Flye on, flye on swift Racer, untill she
Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee,
The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan,
What terrour 'tis t'outgo, and be outgon.

Not yet looke back, nor yet, must we
Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally
And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still
By the weake Cordage of your untwin'd will,
Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne
And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne;
My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate
Made you hate love, and fall in love with hate.

But I am chang'd! bright reason that did give
My soule a noble quicknes, made me live
One breath yet longer, and to will, and see,
Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee:
That thou which proudly tramplest on my grave,
Thy selfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave,
That thou mightst sinking in thy triumphs moan,
And I triumph in my destruction.

Hayle holy cold! chaste temper hayle! the fire
Rav'd o're my purer thoughts I feele t'expire,
And I am candied Ice; yee pow'rs! If e're
I shall be forc't unto my Sepulcher;
Or violently hurl'd into my Urne,
Oh make me choose rather to freeze, then burne.

Orpheus to Beasts.

Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. Curtes.

I

Here, here, oh here Euridice,
Here was she slaine;
Her soule 'still'd through a veine:
The Gods knew lesse
That time Divinitie,
Then ev'n, ev'n these
Of brutishnesse.

II

Oh could you view the Melodie
Of ev'ry grace,
And Musick of her face,
You'd drop a teare,
Seeing more Harmonie
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.

Orpheus to Woods.

Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. Curtes.

Heark! Oh heark! you guilty Trees,
In whose gloomy Galleries
Was the cruell'st murder done,
That e're yet eclipst the Sunne;
Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted e're you sprout to sprigges;
Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,
Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but Coffins, and their Tombes.

The Grasse-hopper.

Ode.

To my Noble Friend, Mr. Charles Cottgn.

I

Oh thou that swing'st upon the waving haire
Of some well-filled Oaten Beard,
Drunke ev'ry night with a Delicious teare
Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

II

The Joyes of Earth and Ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy Poppy workes thou dost retire
To thy Carv'd Acron-bed to lye.

III

Up with the Day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt-plats of his Beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,
Thy selfe, and Melancholy streames.

IV

But ah the Sickle! Golden Eares are Cropt;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharpe frosty fingers all your Flowr's have topt,
And what sithes spar'd, Winds shave off quite.

V

Poore verdant foole! and now green Ice, thy Joys
Large and as lasting, as thy Peirch of Grasse,
Bid us lay in 'gainst Winter, Raine, and poize
Their flouds, with an o'reflowing glasse.

VI

Thou best of Men and Friends! we will create
A Genuine Summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

VII

Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
As Vestall Flames, the North-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd Winges, dissolve and flye
This Ætna in Epitome.

VIII

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewayle th'usurping of his Raigne;
But when in show'rs of old Greeke we beginne
Shall crie, he hath his Crowne againe!

IX

Night as cleare Hesper shall our Tapers whip
From the light Casements where we play,
And the darke Hagge from her black mantle strip,
And sticke there everlasting Day.

X

Thus richer then untempted Kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need:
Though Lord of all what Seas imbrace; yet he
That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.

Dialogue. Lucasta, Alexis.

[_]

Set by Mr. John Gamble.

I.

Lucasta.
Tell me Alexis what this parting is,
That so like dying is, but is not it?

Alexis.
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,
'Till kind how doe you call's us from the fit.

Chorus.
If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my Soule to thine:
Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right, for one where we can better live.

II.

Lucasta.
But Ah this ling'ring murdring Farewel!
Death quickly wounds, & wounding cures the ill.

Alexis.
It is the glory of a valiant Lover,
Still to be dying, still for to recover.

Chorus.
Souldiers suspected of their courage goe,
That Ensignes, and their Breasts untorne show:
Love nee're his Standard when his Hoste he sets,
Creates alone fresh-bleeding Bannerets.

III.

Alexis.
But part we when thy Figure I retaine
Still in my Heart, still strongly in mine Eye?

Lucasta.
Shadowes no longer then the Sun remaine,
But whē his beams that made 'em fly, they fly.

Chorus.
Vaine dreames of Love! that only so much blisse
Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse;
And deale a larger measure in our Paine
By showing Joy, then hiding it againe.

IV.

Alexis.
No, whilst light raigns, Lucasta stil rules here,
And all the night shines wholy in this sphere:

Lucasta.
I know no Morne but my Alexis Ray,
To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.

Chorus.

Lucasta wept, and still the bright
Inamour'd God of Day,
With his soft Handkercher of Light,
Kist the wet Pearles away.

II

But when her Teares his heate or'e came,
In Cloudes he quensht his Beames,
And griev'd, wept out his Eye of Flame
So drowned her sad Streames.

III

At this she smil'd, when straight the Sun
Cleer'd, with her kinde desires;
And by her eyes Reflection,
Kindled againe his Fires.

The Vintage to the Dungeon.

A Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. William Lawes.

Sing out pent Soules, sing cheerefully!
Care Shackles you in Liberty,
Mirth frees you in Captivity:
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Chorus.

Besides your pinion'd armes you'l finde
Griefe too can manckell the minde.

Live then Pris'ners uncontrol'd;
Drinke oth' strong, the Rich, the Old,
Till Wine too hath your Wits in hold;
Then if still your Jollitie,
And Throats are free;

Chorus.

Tryumph in your Bonds and Paines,
And daunce to th'Musick of your Chaines.

On the Death of Mrs. Elizabeth Filmer.

An Elegiacall Epitaph.

You that shall live awhile before
Old Time tyr's, and is no more;
When that this Ambitious Stone
Stoopes low as what it tramples on;
Know that in that Age when Sinne
Gave the World Law, and governd Queene,
A Virgin liv'd, that still put on
White Thoughts, though out of fashion;
That trac't the Stars 'spite of report,
And durst be good, though chidden for't:

Of Such a Soule that Infant Heav'n
Repented what it thus had giv'n;
For finding equall happy man.
Th'impatient Pow'rs snatcht it agen:
Thus Chaste as th'Ayre whither shee's fled,
She making her Celestiall bed
In her warme Alablaster lay
As cold as in this house of Clay;
Nor were the Rooms unfit to feast
Or Circumscribe This Angel-guest;
The Radiant Gemme was brightly set
In as Divine a Carkanet;
For which the clearer was not knowne,
Her Minde, or her Complexion:
Such an everlasting Grace,
Such a beatifick Face
Incloysters here this narrow floore
That possest all hearts before.

Blest and bewayl'd in Death and Birth!
The smiles and teares of Heav'n and Earth!

Virgins at each step are afeard,
FILMER is shot by which they steer'd,
Their Star extinct, their beauty dead
That the yong world to honour led;
But see! the rapid Spheres stand still,
And tune themselves unto her will.

Thus, although this Marble must,
As all things crumble into dust,
And though you finde this faire-built Tombe
Ashes, as what lyes in it's Wombe;
Yet her Saint-like name shall shine
A living Glory to this Shrine,
And her eternall Fame be read,
When all, but very Vertue's dead.

To Lucasta. From Prison.

An Epode.

III

Ah Lucasta, why so Great!
That thy crammed coffers sweat;
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.

IV

Ah Lucasta, why so Good!
Blest with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soule and blood;
If it be not understood,
'Tis a Diamond in mud.

V

Lucasta! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not Bright, but to the eye,
Nor Chaste, but in the Mariage-tye,
Nor Great, but in this Treasurie,
Nor Good, but in that sanctitie.

VI

Harder then the Orient stone,
Like an Apparition,
Or as a pale shadow gone
Dumbe and deafe she hence is slowne.

VII

Then receive this equall dombe,
Virgins strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart ith' roome,
And tis both her Coarse and Tombe.

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Peter Lilly:

on that excellent Picture of his Majesty, and the Duke of Yorke, drawne by him at Hampton-Court.

See! what a clouded Majesty! and eyes
Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!
See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And griefe triumphant breaking through each line
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorne
Never did happy misery adorne!
So sacred a contempt! that others show
To this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below;
That mightiest Monarchs by this shaded booke
May coppy out their proudest, richest looke.

Whilst the true Eaglet this quick luster spies,
And by his Sun's enlightens his owne eyes;

He cares his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight
Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;
Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,
And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.

These my best Lilly with so bold a spirit
And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit
For that time all their greatnesse, and didst draw
With those brave eyes your Royall Sitters saw.

Not as of old, when a rough hand did speake
A strong Aspect, and a faire face, a weake;
When only a black beard cried Villaine, and
By Hieroglyphicks we could understand;
When Chrystall typified in a white spot,
And the bright Ruby was but one red blot;
Thou dost the things Orientally the same
Not only paintst its colour, but its Flame:
Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare,
And with the Man his very Hope or Feare;
So that th'amazed world shall henceforth finde
None but my Lilly ever drew a Minde.

Elinda's Glove

Sonnet.

I

Thou snowy Farme with thy five Tenements!
Tell thy white Mistris here was one
That call'd to pay his dayly Rents:
But she a gathering Flowr's and Hearts is gone,
And thou left voyd to rude Possession.

II

But grieve not pretty Ermin Cabinet,
Thy Alablaster Lady will come home;
If not, what Tenant can there fit
The slender turnings of thy narrow Roome,
But must ejected be by his owne dombe?

III

Then give me leave to leave my Rent with thee;
Five kisses, one unto a place:
For though the Lute's too high for me;
Yet Servants knowing Minikin nor Base,
Are still allow'd to fiddle with the Case.

To Fletcher reviv'd.

How have I bin Religious? what strange good
Ha's scap't me that I never understood?
Have I Hel-guarded Hæresie o'rthrowne?
Heald wounded States? made Kings & Kingdoms one?
That Fate should be so merciful to me,
To let me live t'have said I have read thee.

Faire Star ascend! the Joy! the Life! the Light
Of this tempestuous Age, this darke worlds sight!
Oh from thy Crowne of Glory dart one flame
May strike a sacred Reverence, whilest thy Name
(Like holy Flamens to their God of Day)
We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray.

Bright Spirit! whose Æternal motion
Of Wit, like Time, stil in it selfe did run,
Binding all others in it, and did give
Commission, how far this or that shal live;

Like Destiny of Poems, who, as she
Signes death to all, her selfe can never dye.

And now thy purple robed Tragady,
In her imbroider'd Buskins, cals mine eye,
Where the brave Ætius we see betray'd,
T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obey'd;
Whilst that the Mighty Foole his Scepter breakes,
And through his Gen'rals wounds his own doome speakes,
Weaving thus richly Valentinian
The costliest Monarch with the cheapest man.

Souldiers may here to their old glories adde,
The Lover love, and be with reason mad:
Not as of old, Alcides furious,
Who wilder then his Bull did teare the house,
(Hurling his Language with the Canvas stone)
Twas thought the Monster ror'd the sob'rer Tone.

But ah! when thou thy sorrow didst inspire
With Passions, Blacke as is her darke attire,

Virgins as Sufferers have wept to see
So white a Soule, so red a Crueltie;
That thou hast griev'd, and with unthought redresse,
Dri'd their wer eyes who now thy mercy blesse;
Yet loth to lose thy watry jewell, when
Joy wip't it off, Laughter straight sprung't agen.

Now ruddy cheeked Mirth with Rosie wings,
Fans ev'ry brow with gladnesse, whilst she sings
Delight to all, and the whole Theatre
A Festivall in Heaven doth appeare:
Nothing but Pleasure, Love, and (like the Morne)
Each face a gen'ral smiling doth adorne.

Heare ye foul Speakers that pronounce the Aire
Of Stewes and Shores, I will informe you where
And how to cloath aright your wanton wit,
Without her nasty Bawd attending it:
View here a loose thought sayd with such a grace,
Minerva might have spoke in Venus face;
So well disguis'd, that t'was conceiv'd by none
But Cupid had Diana's linnen on;

And all his naked parts so vail'd, th'expresse
The shape with clowding the uncomlinesse;
That if this Reformation which we
Receiv'd, had not been buried with thee,
The Stage (as this worke) might have liv'd and lov'd
Her Lines, the austere Skarlet had approv'd;
And th'Actors wisely been from that offence
As cleare, as they are now from Audience.

Thus with thy Genius did the Scæne expire,
Wanting thy Active and correcting fire,
That now (to spread a darknesse over all,)
Nothing remaines but Poesie to fall:
And though from these thy Embers we receive
Some warmth, so much as may be said, we live,
That we dare praise thee, blushlesse, in the head
Of the best piece Hermes to Love e're read,
That We rejoyce and glory in thy Wit,
And feast each other with remembring it,
That we dare speak thy thought, thy Acts recite;
Yet all men henceforth be afraid to write.

The Lady A. L.

My Asylum in a great extremity.

With that delight the Royal Captiv's brought
Before the Throne, to breath his farewell thought,
To tel his last tale, and so end with it;
Which gladly he esteemes a Benefit;
When the brave Victor at his great Soule dumbe
Findes something there, Fate cannot overcome,
Cals the chain'd Prince, and by his glory led,
First reaches him his Crowne, and then his Head;
Who ne're 'til now thinks himself slave and poor;
For though nought else, he had himselfe before;
He weepes at this faire chance, nor wil allow,
But that the Diadem doth brand his brow,
And under-rates himselfe below mankinde,
Who first had lost his Body, now his Minde.

With such a Joy came I to heare my Dombe,
And haste the preparation of my Tombe,
When like good Angels who have heav'nly charge
To steere and guide mans sudden giddy barge,
She snatcht me from the Rock I was upon,
And landed me at lifes Pavillion:
Where I thus wound out of th'immense Abysse,
Was straight set on a Pinacle of Blisse.

Let me leape in againe! and by that Fall
Bring me to my first woe, so cancel all:
Ah, this a quitting of the debt you owe,
To Crush her and her goodnesse at one blow?

Defend me from so foule Impiety,
Would make Friends grieve, & Furies weep to see.

Now ye Sage Spirits which infuse in Men
That are oblidg'd, twice to oblige agen;
Informe my tongue in Labour, what to say,
And in what Coyne or Language to repay;
But you are silent as the Ev'nings Ayre,
When windes unto their hollow Grots repaire:

Oh then accept the all that left me is,
Devout Oblations of a sacred Wish!

When she walks forth, ye perfum'd wings oth' East
Fan her, 'til with the Sun she hastes to th'West,
And when her heav'nly course calles up the day,
And breakes as bright, descend some glistering ray
To Circle her, and her as glistering Haire,
That all may say a living Saint shines there;
Slow Time with woollen feet make thy soft pace,
And leave no tracks ith' snow of her pure face:
But when this Vertue must needs fall, to rise,
The brightest constellation in the Skies
When we in Characters of Fire shall reade
How Cleere she was alive, how spotles Dead;
All you that are a kinne to Piety,
For onely you can her close mourners be,
Draw neer, and make of hallowed teares a Dearth
Goodnes and Justice both, are fled the Earth.

If this be to be thankful, I'v a Heart
Broaken with Vowes, eaten with grateful smart,
And beside this, the Vild World nothing hath
Worth anything, but her provoked Wrath:
So then who thinkes to satisfie in time,
Must give a satisfaction for that Crime:
Since she alone knowes the Gifts value, She
Can onely to her selfe requitall be,
And worthyly to th'Life paynt her owne Story
In it's true Colours and full native Glory;
Which when perhaps she shal be heard to tell,
Buffoones and Theeves ceasing to do ill,
Shal blush into a Virgin-Innocence,
And then woo others from the same offence;
The Robber and the Murderer in 'spite
Of his red spots shal startle into White:
All good (Rewards layd by) shal stil increase
For Love of her, and Villany decease;
Naught be ignote, not so much out of Feare
Of being punisht, as offending Her:

So that when as my future daring Bayes
Shall bow it selfe in Lawrels to her praise.
To Crown her Conqu'ring Goodnes & proclaime
The due renowne, and Glories of her Name;
My Wit shal be so wretched, and so poore,
That 'stead of praysing, I shal scandal her,
And leave when with my purest Art I'v done
Scarce the Designe of what she is begunne;
Yet men shal send me home, admir'd, exact,
Proud that I could from Her so wel detract.

Where then thou bold Instinct shal I begin
My endlesse taske? To thanke her were a sin
Great as not speake, and not to speake a blame
Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a Name;
So thou my All, poore Gratitude, ev'n thou
In this, wilt an unthankful Office do:
Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have?
My Life, my Love, my very Soule a Slave?

Tye my free Spirit onely unto her,
And yeeld up my Affection Prisoner?
Fond Thought in this thou teachest me to give
What first was hers, since by her breath I live;
And hast but show'd me how I may resigne
Possession of those things are none of mine.

A Prologue to the Scholars.

A Comædy presented at the White-Fryers.

A gentleman to give us somewhat new,
Hath brought up Oxford with him to show you;
Pray be not frighted—Tho the Scæne and Gown's
The Universities, the Wits, the Town's;
The Lines each honest Englishman may speake;
Yet not mistake his Mother-tongue for Greeke,
For stil 'twas part of his vow'd Liturgie,
From learned Comedies deliver me!
Wishing all those that lov'd 'em here asleepe,
Promising Scholars, but no Scholarship.

You'd smile to see, how he do's vex and shake,
Speakes naught, but if the Prologue do's but take,
Or the first Act were past the Pikes once, then—
Then hopes and Joys, then frowns and fears agen,

Then blushes like a Virgin now to be
Rob'd of his Comicall Virginity
In presence of you all; in short you'd say
More hopes of Mirth are in his looks then Play.

These feares are for the Noble and the Wise;
But if 'mongst you there are such fowle dead eyes
As can Damne unaraign'd, cal Law their Pow'rs;
Judging it sin enough that it is Ours,
And with the House shift their decreed Desires,
Faire still to th'Blacke, Blacke still to the White-Fryers;
He dos protest he wil sit down and weep
Castles and Pyramids —
— No, he wil on
Proud to be rais'd by such Destruction,
So far from quarr'lling with himselfe and Wit,
That he wil thank them for the Benefit,
Since finding nothing worthy of their Hate,
They reach him that themselves must Envy at:

The Epilogue.

The stubborne Author of the trifle, Crime,
That just now cheated you of 2 hour's time,
Presumptuous, it lik't him, began to grow
Carelesse, whether it pleased you or no.

But we who ground th'excellence of a Play
On what the women at the dores wil say,
Who judge it by the Benches, and afford
To take your money ere his Oath or word
His Schollars school'd, sayd if he had been wise
He should have wove in one, two Comedies;
The first for th'Gallery, in which the Throne
To their amazement should descend alone,
The rosin-lightning flash, and Monster spire
Squibs, and words hotter then his fire.

Th'other for the Gentlemen oth' Pit,
Like to themselves, all Spirit, Fancy, Wit,
In which plots should be subtile as a Flame,
Disguises would make Proteus stil the same:
Humours so rarely humour'd, and exprest,
That ev'n they should thinke 'em so, nor drest;
Vices acted and applauded too, Times
Tickled, and th'Actors acted, not their Crimes,
So he might equally applause have gain'd
Of th'hardned, sooty, and the snowy hand.

Where now one so so spatters, t'other, no;
Tis his first Play, twere Solecisme 'tshould goe;
The next, 't shew'd pritily, but searcht within
It appeares bare and bald, as is his Chin;
The Towne-wit Sentences; a Scholars Play!
Pish! I know not why-but-t'h'ave not the way.

We, whose gaine is all our pleasure, ev'n these
Are bound by Iustice and Religion to please;

Which he whose Pleasure's all his gaine, goes by
As slightly, as they doe his Comædy.

Cull's out the few the worthy, at whose feet
He sacrifices both himselfe, and it
His Fancies first fruits: Profit he knowes none
Unles that of your Approbation,
Which if your thoughts at going out will pay,
Hee'l not looke farther for a Second Day.

Clitophon and Lucippe translated.

To the Ladies.

Pray Ladies breath, awhile lay by
Cælestial Sydney's Arcady;
Heere's a Story that doth Claime
A little respite from his Flame:
Then with a quick dissolving looke
Unfold the smoothnes of this book,
To which no Art (except your sight)
Can reach a worthy Epithite;
'Tis an Abstract of all Volumes,
A Pillaster of all Columnes
Fancy e're rear'd to Wit, to be
The smallest Gods Epitome,
And so compactedly expresse
All Lovers pleasing Wretchednes.

Gallant Pamela's Majesty,
And her sweet Sisters Modesty
Are fixt in each of you; you are
Distinct, what these together were,
Divinest that are really
What Cariclea's feign'd to be;
That are ev'ry one the Nine,
And brighter here Astrea's shine,
View our Lucippe, and remaine
In her, these Beauties o're againe.

Amazement! Noble Clitophon,
Ev'n now lookt somewhat colder on
His cooler Mistresse, and she too
Smil'd not as she us'd to do;
See! the Individuall Payre
Are at sad Oddes, and parted are;
They quarrell, æmulate, and stand
At strife, who first shal kisse your hand.

A new Dispute there lately rose
Betwixt the Greekes and Latines, whose

Temple's should be bound with Glory
In best languaging this Story;
Yee Heyres of Love, that with one Smile
A ten-yeeres War can reconcile;
Peacefull Hellens! Vertuous! See!
The jarring Languages agree,
And here all Armes layd by, they doe
In English meet, to wayt on you.

To my truely valiant, learned Friend, who in his booke resolv'd the Art Gladiatory into the Mathematick's.

I

Hearke Reader! wilt be learn'd ith' warres?
A Gen'rall in a gowne?
Strike a league with Arts and Scarres,
And snatch from each a Crowne?

II

Wouldst be a wonder? Such a one,
As should win with a Looke?
A Bishop in a Garison,
And Conquer by the Booke?

III

Take then this Mathematick shield,
And henceforth by it's rules,
Be able to dispute ith' field,
And Combate in the Schooles.

IV

Whilst peaceful Learning once againe,
And the Souldier so concord,
As that he fights now with her Penne,
And she writes with his Sword.

Amyntor's Grove, His Chloris, Arico, and Gratiana,

An Elogie.

It was Amyntor's Grove, that Chloris
For ever Ecchoes and her Glories;
Chloris, the gentlest Sheapherdesse,
That ever Lawnes and Lambes did blesse;
Her Breath like to the whispering winde,
Was calme as thought, sweet as her Minde;
Her Lips like coral gates kept in
The perfume and the pearle within;
Her eyes a double-flaming torch
That alwayes shine, and never scorch:

Her selfe the Heav'n in which did meet
The All of bright, of faire and sweet.

Here was I brought with that delight
That seperated Soules take flight;
And when my Reason call'd my sence
Back somewhat from this excellence,
That I could see; I did begin
T'observe the curious ordering
Of every Roome, where 'ts hard to know
Which most excels in sent or show:
Arabian gummes do breath here forth,
And th'East's come over to the North;
The Windes have brought their hyre of sweet
To see Amyutor Chloris greet;
Balme and Nard, and each perfume
To blesse this payre chase and consume;
And th'Phænix, see! already fries!
Her Neast a fire in Chloris eyes!

Next the great and powerful hand
Beckens my thoughts unto a stand
Of Titian, Raphael, Georgone
Whose Art ev'n Nature hath out-done;
For if weake Nature only can
Intend, not perfect what is man,
These certainely we must prefer,
Who mended what She wrought, and Her;
And sure the shadowes of those rare
And kind incomparable fayre
Are livelier, nobler Company,
Then if they could or speake, or see:
For these I aske without a tush,
Can kisse or touch, without a blush,
And we are taught that Substance is,
If uninjoy'd, but th'shade of blisse.

Now every Saint Cleerly divine,
Is clos'd so in her severall shrine;
The Gems so rarely, richly set,
For them wee love the Cabinet;

So intricately plac't withall,
As if th'imbrodered the Wall,
So that the Pictures seem'd to be
But one continued Tapistrie.

After this travell of mine eyes
We sate, and pitied Dieties;
Wee bound our loose hayre with the Vine,
The Poppy, and the Eglantine;
One swell'd an Oriental bowle
Full, as a grateful, Loyal Soule
To Chloris! Chloris! heare, Oh heare!
T'is pledg'd above in ev'ry Sphere.

Now streight the Indians richest prize
Is kindled a glad Sacrifice;
Cloudes are sent up on wings of Thyme
Amber, Pomgranates, Jessemine,
And through our Earthen Conduicts sore
Higher then Altars fum'd before.

So drencht we our oppressing cares,
And choakt the wide Jawes of our feares,
Whilst ravisht thus we did devise,
If this were not a Paradice
In all, except these harmelesse sins;
Behold! flew in two Cherubins
Cleare as the skye from whence they came,
And brighter then the sacred Flame:
The Boy adorn'd with Modesty,
Yet armed so with Majesty;
That if the Thunderer againe
His Eagle sends, she stoopes in vaine;
Besides his Innocence he tooke
A Sword and Casket, and did looke
Like Love in Armes; he wrote but five,
Yet spake eighteene, each Grace did strive,
And twenty Cupids thronged forth,
Who first should shew his prettier worth.

But Oh the Nymph! did you ere know
Carnation mingled with Snow?

Or have you seene the Lightning shrowd,
And straight breake through th'opposing cloud?
So ran her blood such was it's hue;
So through her vayle her bright Haire flew,
And yet its Glory did appeare
But thinne, because her eyes were neere.

Blooming Boy, and blossoming Mayd,
May your faire Sprigges be neere betrayd
To eating worme, or fouler storme;
No Serpent lurke to do them harme;
No sharpe frost cut, no North-winde teare,
The Verdure of that fragrant hayre;
But may the Sun and gentle weather,
When you are both growne ripe together,
Load you with fruit, such as your Father
From you with all the joyes doth gather:
And may you when one branch is dead
Graft such another in it's stead,
Lasting thus ever in your prime
'Til th'Sithe is snatcht away from Time.

Against the Love of Great Ones.

Vnhappy youth betrayd by Fate
To such a Love hath Sainted Hate,
And damned those Cælestiall bonds
Are onely knit with equal hands;
The Love of Great Ones? 'Tis a Love
Gods are incapable to prove;
For where there is a Joy uneven,
There never, never can be Heav'n:
'Tis such a Love as is not sent
To Fiends as yet for punishment;
Ixion willingly doth feele
The Gyre of his eternal wheele,
Nor would he now exchange his paine
For Cloudes and Goddesses againe.

Wouldst thou with tempests lye? Then bow
To th'rougher furrows of her brow,

Or make a Thunder-bolt thy Choyce?
Then catch at her more fatal Voyce;
Or' gender with the Lightning, trye
The subtler Flashes of her eye:
Poore Semele wel knew the same,
Who both imbrac't her God and Flame;
And not alone in Soule did burne,
But in this Love did Ashes turne.

How il doth Majesty injoy
The Bow and Gaity oth' Boy,
As if the Purple-roabe should sit,
And sentence give ith' Chayr of Wit.

Say ever-dying wretch to whom
Each answer is a certaine dombe.
What is it that you would possesse,
The Countes, or the naked Besse?
Would you her Gowne, or Title do?
Her Box, or Gem, her Thing or show?

If you meane Her, the very Her
Abstracted from her caracter;
Unhappy Boy! you may as soone
With fawning wanton with the Moone
Or with an amorous Complaint
Get prostitute your very Saint;
Not that we are not mortal, or
Fly Venus Altars, or abhor
The selfesame Knack for which you pine;
But we (defend us!) are divine
Female, but Madam borne, and come
From a right-honourable Wombe:
Shal we then mingle with the base,
And bring a silver-tinsell race?
Whilst th'issue Noble wil not passe,
The Gold allayd almost halfe brasse)
And th'blood in each veine doth appeare:
Part thick Booreinn, part Lady Cleare:
Like to the sordid Insects sprung
From Father, Sun, and Mother Dung;

Yet lose we not the hold we have,
But faster graspe the trembling slave;
Play at Baloon with's heart, and winde
The strings like scaines, steale into his minde
Ten thousand Hells, and feigned Joyes
Far worse then they, whilst like whipt Boys,
After this scourge hee's hush with Toys.

This heard Sir, play stil in her eyes,
And be a dying, Lives, like Flyes
Caught by their Angle-legs, and whom
The Torch laughs peece-meale to consume.

Lucasta paying her Obsequies to the Chast memory of my dearest Cosin Mrs. Bowes Barne.

I

See! what an undisturbed teare
She weepes for her last sleepe;
But viewing her straight wak'd a Star,
She weepes that she did weepe.

II

Griefe ne're before did Tyranize
On th'Honour of that brow,
And at the wheeles of her brave Eyes
Was Captive led til now.

III

Thus for a Saints Apostacy
The unimagin'd Woes,
And sorrowes of the Hierarchy,
None but an Angel knowes.

IV

Thus for lost soules Recovery,
The Clapping of all Wings,
And Triumphs of this Victory,
None but an Angel sings.

V

So none but She know's to bemone
This equal Virgins Fate,
None but Lucasta can her Crowne
Of Glory celebrate.

VI

Then dart on me (Chast Light) one ray
By which I may disery
Thy Joy cleare through this cloudy Day
To dresse my sorrow by.

To Althea, From Prison.

Song.

[_]

Set by Dr. John Wilson.

I

VVhen Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my Gates;
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the Grates:
When I lye tangled in her haire,
And fetterd to her eye;
The Gods that wanton in the Aire,
Know no such Liberty.

II

When flowing Cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our carelesse heads with Roses bound,
Our hearts with Loyall Flames;
When thirsty griefe in Wine we steepe,
When Healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the Deepe,
Know no such Libertie.

III

When (like committed Linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetnes, Mercy, Majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voyce aloud, how Good
He is, how Great should be;
Inlarged Winds that curle the Flood,
Know no such Liberty.

IV

Stone Walls doe not a Prison make,
Nor I'ron bars a Cage;
Mindes innocent and quiet take
That for an Hermitage;
If I have freedome in my Love,
And in my soule am free;
Angels alone that sore above,
Injoy such Liberty.

Being treated To Ellinda.

For Cherries plenty, and for Coran's
Enough for fifty, were there more 'on's;
For Elles of Beere, Flutes of Canary
That well did wash downe pasties-mary;
For Peason, Chickens, sawces high,
Pig, and the Widdow-Venson-pye;
With certaine promise (to your Brother)
Of the Virginity of another,
Where it is thought I too may peepe in
With Knuckles far as any deepe in;
For glasses, heads, hands, bellies full
Of Wine, and Loyne right-worshipfull;
Whether all of, or more behind-a
Thankes freest, freshest, Faire Ellinda,
Thankes for my Visit not disdaining,
Or at the least thankes for your feigning;
For if your mercy doore were lockt-well,
I should be justly soundly knockt-well;

100

Cause that in dogrell I did mutter
Not one Rhime to you from dam-Rotter.

Next beg I to present my duty
To pregnant Sister in prime Beauty,
Whom well I deeme (e're few month's elder)
Will take out Hans from pretty Kelder,
And to the sweetly fayre Mabella,
A match that vies with Arabella;
In each respect but the misfortune,
Fortune, Fate, I thee importune.

Nor must I passe the lovely Alice,
Whose health i'd quaffe in golden Chalice;
But since that Fate hath made me neuter,
I only can in Beaker Pewter:
But who'd forget, or yet left un-sung
The doughty Acts of George the yong-Son?
Who yesterday to save his Sister
Had slaine the Snake, had he not mist her:

101

But I shall leave him 'till a Nag on
He gets to prosecute the Dragon;
And then with helpe of Sun and Taper,
Fill with his deeds twelve Reames of paper,
That Amadis, Sir Guy and Topaz
With his fleet Neigher shall keep no-pace.
But now to close all I must switch-hard,
Servant ever;

Lovelace Richard.

102

Sonnet. To Generall Goring, after the pacification at Berwicke.

A la Chabot.

I

Now the Peace is made at the Foes rate,
Whilst men of Armes 'to Kettles their old Helmes translate,
And drinke in Caskes of Honourable Plate;
In ev'ry hand a Cup be found,
That from all Hearts a health may sound
To Goring! to Goring! see't goe round.

II

He whose Glories shine so brave and high,
That Captive they in Triumph leade each eare and eye,
Claiming uncombated the Victorie,
And from the Earth to Heav'n rebound
Fixt there eternall as this Round
To Goring! to Goring! see him Crown'd.

103

III

To his lovely Bride in love with scars,
Whose eyes wound deepe in Peace, as doth his sword in wars;
They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars:
Her cheekes the Morning blushes give,
And the benighted World repreeve,
To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live.

IV

Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry Sun,
That to this payre I may drinke off an Ocean
Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone;
Or a full Bowle of heav'nly wine,
In which dissolved Stars should shine
To the Couple! to the Couple! th'are Divine.

104

Sir Thomas Wortley's, Sonnet Answered.

The Sonnet.

[No more]

I

No more
Thou little winged Archer, now no more
As heretofore,
Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
No more,
Since Cruell Death of dearest Lyndamore
Hath me depriv'd,
I bid adieu to Love, and all the world beside.

II

Go, go;
Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy Bow
Poore sillie Foe,
Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in Vain,
Since Death
My heart hath with a fatall Icie Deart
Already slain,
Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,
Or wound it o're againe.

105

Sir Thomas Wortley's, Sonnet Answered.

I

Againe,
Thou witty Cruell Wanton now againe,
Through ev'ry Veine,
Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry Dart,
Againe,
Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine,
I have no Heart,
Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with
So deare, so deare a smart.

II

Then fiye,
And kindle all your Torches at her Eye,
To make me Dye
Her Martyr, and put on my Roabe of Flame:
So I
Advanced on my blazing Wings on high,
In Death became
Inthroan'd a Starre, and Ornament unto
Her glorious glorious name.

106

A Guiltlesse Lady imprisoned; after penanced.

Song.

[_]

Set by Mr. William Lawes.

I

Heark Faire one how what e're here is
Doth laugh and sing at thy distresse;
Not out of hate to thy reliefe,
But Joy t'enjoy thee, though in griefe.

II

See! that which chaynes you, you chaine here;
The Prison is thy Prisoner;
How much thy Jaylors Keeper art,
He bindes your hands, but you his Heart.

107

III

The Gyves to Rase so smooth a skin,
Are so unto themselves within,
But blest to kisse so fayre an Arme
Haste to be happy with that harme.

IV

And play about thy wanton wrist
As if in them thou so wert drest;
But if too rough, too hard they presse,
Oh they but Closely, closely kisse.

V

And as thy bare feet blesse the Way
The people doe not mock, but pray,
And call thee as amas'd they run
Instead of prostitute, a Nun.

VI

The merry Torch burnes with desire
To kindle the eternall Fire,
And lightly daunces in thine eyes
To tunes of Epithalamies.

108

VII

The sheet's ty'd ever to thy Wast,
How thankfull to be so imbrac't!
And see! thy very very bonds
Are bound to thee, to binde such Hands.

109

Upon the Curtaine of Lucasta's Picture, it was thus wrought.

Oh stay that Covetous hand-first turn all Eye,
All Depth, and minde; then Mystically spye
Her Soul's, faire Picture, her faire Soul's, in all
So truely Copied from th'Originall;
That you will sweare her Body by this Law,
Is but it's shadow, as this it's,—now draw.

110

To his Deare Brother Colonel F. L. immoderately mourning my Brothers untimely Death at Carmarthen.

I

If Teares could wash the Ill away,
A Pearle for each wet bead I'd pay;
But as dew'd Corne the fuller growes,
So water'd eyes but swell our Woes.

II

One drop another cals, which still
(Griefe adding Fuell) doth distill;
Too fruitfull of her selfe is Anguish,
We need no cherishing to Languish.

III

Coward Fate degen'rate Man
Like little Children uses, when
He whips us first untill we weepe,
Then 'cause we still a weeping keepe.

111

IV

Then from thy firme selfe never swerve;
Teares fat the Griefe that they should sterve;
I'ron decrees of Destinie
Are ner'e wipe't out with a wet Eye.

V

But this way you may gaine the field,
Oppose but sorrow and 'twill yield;
One gallant thorough-made Resolve
Doth Starry Influence dissolve.

112

On the Death of Mrs. Cassandra Cotton, only Sister to Mr C. Cotton.

An Elegie.

Hither with hallowed steps as is the Ground
That must enshrine this Saint with lookes profound,
And sad aspects as the dark vails you weare
Virgins opprest draw gently, gently neare;
Enter the dismall chancell of this roome,
Where each pale guest stands fixt a living Tombe,
With trembling hands helpe to remove this Earth
To its last death, and first victorious birth:
Let Gums and incense fume who are at strife
To enter th'Hearse and breath in it new life;
Mingle your steppes with flowers as you goe,
Which as they haste to fade will speake your woe.

And when y' have plac't your Tapers on her Urn,
How poor a tribute 'tis to weep & mourn!

113

That flood the channell of your Eye-lids fils,
When you lose trifles, or what's lesse, your Wills.
If you'l be worthy of these Obsequies,
Be blind unto the World, and drop your Eyes;
Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire
That's fed no more so willingly expire;
Passe through the cold and obscure narrow way,
Then light your torches at the spring of Day,
There with her triumph in your Victory,
Such Joy alone and such Solemnity
Becomes this Funerall of Virginity.

Or, if you faint to be so blest: Oh heare!
If not to dye, dare but to live like her:
Dare to live Virgins till the honour'd Age
Of thrice fifteen cal's Matrons on the stage,
Whilst not a blemish or least staine is seene
On your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene;
But as it in your swathing-bands was given,
Bring't in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n.

114

Dare to do purely, without Compact good,
Or Herald, by no one understood
But him, who now in thanks bows either knee,
For th'early benefit and secresie.

Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow,
To which Delights of Pallaces are narrow,
And lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome
Where practise the probation of your tombe
With ever-bended knees & piercing Pray'r
Smooth the rough passe through craggy Earth to Ay'r;
Flame there as Lights that shipwrackt Mariners
May put in safely, and secure their feares,
Who adding to your Joyes, now owe you theirs.

Virgins, if thus you dare but Courage take
To follow her in Life, else through this Lake
Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars,
Y' are fixt with her upon a Throne of stars
Arched with a pure Heav'n Chrystaline,
Where round you Love and Joy for ever shine.

115

But you are dumbe, as what you do lament
More senseles then her very monument
Which at your weaknes weeps—Spare that vaine teare!
Enough to burst the rev'rend Sepulcher:
Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall
And celebrate your owne sad Funerall;
For howsoe're you move, may heare or see
You are more dead and buried then shee.

116

Lucasta's World.

Epode.

I

Cold as the breath of winds that blow
To silver shot descending snow
Lucasta sight; when she did close
The World in frosty chaines!
And then a frowne to Rubies frose
The blood boyl'd in our veines:
Yet cooled not the heat her Sphere
Of Beauties, first had kindled there.

117

II

Then mov'd, and with a suddaine Flame
Impatient to melt all againe,
Straight from het eyes she lightning hurl'd,
And Earth in ashes mournes;
The Sun his blaze denies the world,
And in her luster burnes:
Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice
Disdaine had first congeal'd to Ice.

III

And now her teares nor griev'd desire
Can quench this raging, pleasing sire;
Fate but one way allowes; behold
Her smiles Divinity!
They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold,
So fram'd up a new sky.
Thus Earth from flames and Ice reproev'd,
E're since hath in her Sun-shine liv'd.

118

To a Lady that desired me I would beare my part with her in a Song.

Madam A. L.

This is the Prittiest Motion:
Madam, th'Alarums of a Drumme
That cals your Lord, set to your Cries,
To mine are sacred Symphonies.

What, though 'tis said I have a Voice;
I know 'tis but that hollow noise
Which (as it through my pipe doth speed)
Bitterns do Carol through a Reed;
In the same Key with Monkeys Jiggs,
Or Dirges of Proscribed Piggs,
Or the soft Serenades above
In calme of Night, when Cats make Love.

Was ever such a Consort seen!
Fourscore and fourteen with forteen?

119

Yet sooner they'l agree, One Paire,
Then we in our Spring-Winter Aire;
They may Imbrace, Sigh, Kisse the rest:
Our Breath knows nought but East and West.
Thus have I heard to Childrens Cries,
The faire Nurse 'still such Lullabies
That well all sayd (for what there lay)
The Pleasure did the sorrow pay.

Sure ther's another way to save
Your Phansie Madam, that's to have
('Tis but petitioning kinde Fate)
The Organs sent to Bilingsgate;
Where they to that soft murm'ring Quire
Shall reach you All you can admire!
Or do but heare how Love-bang Kate
In Pantry darke for freage of Mate
With edge of steele the square wood shapes,
And Dido to it chaunts or scrapes.
The merry Phaeton oth' Carre,
You'l vow makes a melodious Jarre;

120

Sweeter and sweeter whisleth He
To un-anointed Axel-tree;
Such swift notes he and's wheels do run;
For me, I yeeld him Phæbus Son.

Say faire Comandres, can it be
You should Ordaine a Mutinie?
For where I howle, all Accents fall
As Kings Harangues to One and All.

Ulisses Art is now withstood,
You ravish both with Sweet and Good;
Saint Syren sing, for I dare heare,
But when I Ope', Oh stop your Eare.

Far lesse be't Æmulation
To passe me, or in trill or Tone
Like the thin throat of Philomel,
And the smart Lute who should excell,
As if her soft Chords should begin
And strive for sweetnes with the Pin.

Yet can I Musick too; but such,
As is beyond all Voice or Touch;

121

My minde can in faire Order Chime,
Whilst my true Heart still beats the Time:
My Soule so full of Harmonie,
That it with all parts can agree:
If you winde up to the highest Fret
It shall descend an Eight from it,
And when you shall vouchsafe to fall
Sixteene above you it shall call,
And yet so dis-assenting One,
They both shall meet an Unison.

Come then bright Cherubin begin!
My loudest Musick is within:
Take all notes with your skillfull Eyes,
Hearke if mine do not sympathise!
Sound all my thoughts, and see exprest
The Tablature of my large Brest,
Then you'l admit that I too can
Musick above dead sounds of Man;
Such as alone doth blesse the Spheres,
Not to be Reacht with humane Eares.

122

Valiant Love.

I

Now fie upon that everlasting Life, I Dye!
She hates! Ah me! It makes me mad;
As if Love fir'd his Torch at a moist Eye,
Or with his Joyes e're Crown'd the sad?
Oh let me live and shout when I fall on!
Let me ev'n Triumph in the first attempt!
Loves Duellist from Conquests not exempt
When his fair Murdresse shall not gain one groan,
And He expire ev'n in Ovation.

II

Let me make my approach when I lye downe
With counter-wrought and Travers-Eyes;
With Peals of Confidence Batter the Towne:
Had ever Beggar yet the Keyes?
No, I will vary stormes with Sun and Winde;
Be rough, and offer Calme Condition,
March in (and pray'd) or starve the Garrison.
Let her make sallies hourely, yet I'le find
(Though all beat of) shee's to be undermin'd.

123

III

Then may it please your Little Excellence
Of Hearts, t'ordaine by sound of Lips,
That henceforth none in Tears dare Love comence
(Her thoughts ith' full, his in th'Eclipse)
On paine of having's Launce broke on her Bed,
That he be branded all Free Beauties slave,
And his own hollow eyes be domb'd his grave:
Since in your Hoast that Coward nere was fed
Who to his Prostrate ere was Prostrated.

124

The Apostacy of one, and but one Lady.

I

That Frantick Errour I Adore,
And am confirm'd the Earth turns Rouud;
Now satisfied O're and o're,
As rowling Waves so flowes the Ground,
And as her Neighbour reels the shore:
Finde such a Woman says she loves,
She's that fixt Heav'n which never moves.

II

In Marble, Steele, or Porphyrie,
Who carves or stampes his Armes or Face,
Lookes it by Rust or Storme must dye:
This Womans Love no Time can raze,
Hardned like Ice in the Sun's Eye,
Or your Reflection in a Glasse,
Which keepes possession though you passe.

125

III

We not behold a Watches hand
To stir, nor Plants or Flowers to grow:
Must we infer that this doth stand,
And therefore that those do not blow?
This she acts Calmer, like Heav'ns Brand
The stedfast Lightning, slow Loves Dart,
She kils but ere we feele the smart.

IV

Oh she is Constant as the Winde
That Revels in an Ev'nings Aire!
Certaine, as Wayes unto the Blinde,
More reall then her Flatt'ries are;
Gentle, as Chaines that Honour binde,
More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew,
But as the Divel not halfe so true.

126

La Bella Bona Roba.

Ode.

To my Lady H.

I

Tell me, ye subtill Judges in Loves Treasury,
Inform me which hath most inricht mine eye,
This Diamonds greatnes, or its Clarity?

II

Ye cloudy spark-lights, whose vast multitude
Of Fires, are harder to be found then view'd;
Waite on this Star in her first Magnitude.

III

Calmely or Roughly! Ah she shines too much!
That now I lye, (her influence is such)
Crusht with too strong a hand, or soft a touch.

In all ill yeares, wa'ft ever knowne
On so much beauty such a dearth?
Which in that thrice-bequeathed gowne
Lookes like the Sun Eclipst with Earth,
Like Gold in Canvas, or with dirt
Unsoyled Ermins close begirt.

132

III

Yet happy he that can but tast
This whiter skin who thirsty is,
Fooles dote on sattin motions lac'd,
The Gods go naked in their blisse,
At th'Barrell's head there shines the Vine,
There only relishes the Wine.

IV

There quench my heat, and thou shalt sup
Worthy the lips that it must touch:
Nectar from out the starry Cup,
I beg thy breath not halfe so much;
So both our wants supplied shall be,
You'l give for Love, I Charity.

V

Cheape then are pearle imbroderies
That not adorne, but clouds thy wasts
Thou shalt be cloath'd above all prise,
If thou wilt promise me imbrac't;
Wee'l ransack neither Chest or Shelfe,
Ill cover thee with mine owne selfe.

133

VI

But Cruel, if thou dost deny
This necessary almes to me;
What soft-soul'd man but with his Eye
And hand will hence be shut to thee?
Since all must judge you more unkinde;
I starve your Body, you my minde.

134

To Ellinda. Vpon his late recovery.

A Paradox.

I

How I grieve that I am well
All my Health was in my sicknes,
Go then Destiny and tell
Very Death is in this quicknes.

II

Such a Fate rules over me
That I glory when I languish,
And do blesse the remedy
That doth feed, not quench my anguish.

III

'Twas a gentle warmth that ceas'd
In the Vizard of a feavor;
But I feare now I am eas'd,
All the flames since I must leave her.

135

IV

Joyes though witherd, circled me,
When unto her voice inured
Like those who by Harmony
Only can be throughly Cured.

V

Sweet sure was that Malady,
Whilst the pleasant Angel hover'd,
Which ceasing they are all as I,
Angry that they are recover'd.

VI

And as men in Hospitals
That are maim'd, are lodg'd and dined;
But when once their danger fals,
Ah, th'are healed to be pined!

VII

Fainting so I might before
Sometime have the leave to hand her,
But lusty, am beat out of dore,
And for Love compell'd to wander.

136

Amyntor from beyond the Sea to Alexis.

A Dialogue.

Amyntor.

[I]

Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be
Though so much wet and drie
Doth drowne our Eye,
Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?

Alexis.

[II]

Amyntor a profounder sea I feare
Hath swallow'd me, where now
My armes do row,
I floate it'h' Ocean of a Teare.

[III]

Lucasta weepes lest I look back and tread
Your watry Land againe.

Amynt.

[III]

I'd through the raine.
Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

137

IV

Conceive how Joy after this short divorce
Will circle her with beames,
When like your streames
You shall rowle back with kinder force

V

And call the helping winds to vent your thought.

Alex.

V

Amyntor! Chloris where,
Or in what Sphere
Say may that glorious faire be sought?

Amyntor.

VI

She's now the center of these armes e're blest
Whence may she never move
Till Time and Love
Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alexis.

VII

Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high
As yours, and burne as hot?
Am not I shot
With the selfe fame Artillery?

138

VIII

And can I breath without her ai'r?

Amyn.

VIII

why then
From thy tempestuous Earth
Where blood and dearth
Raigne 'stead of Kings, agen

IX

Waste thy selfe over, and lest stormes from far
Arise, bring in our sight
The Seas delight,
Lucasta that bright Northerne star.

Alexis.

X

But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare
The green God stops his fell
Chariot of shell
And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyntor.

XI

Oh no, the Prince of waters fires are done,
He as his Empire Old
And Rivers Cold,
His Queen now runs a bed to th'Sun;

139

XII

But all his treasure he shall ope' that day:
Tritons shall sound, his fleete
In silver meete,
And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alexis.

XIII

We flye Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent
By Water, Earth, or Aire:
Or if with her
By Fire, ev'n there
I move in mine owne Element.

140

A Lady with a Falcon on her fist.

To the Honourable my Cousin A. L.

I

This Queen of Prey (now Prey to you)
Fast to that Pirch of Ivory
In silver Chaines and silken Clue
Hath now made full thy Victory:

II

The swelling Admirall of the dread
Cold Deepe, burnt in thy Flames, Oh Faire!
Wast not enough, but thou must lead
Bound too the Princesse of the Aire?

III

Unarm'd of Wings and Scaly Oare,
Unhappy Crawler on the Land,
To what Heav'n fly'st? div'st to what Shoare
That her brave Eyes do not Command?

141

IV

Ascend the Chariot of the Sun
From her bright pow'r to shelter thee:
Her Captive (Foole) outgases him;
Ah what lost wretches then are we!

V

Now proud Usurpers on the Right
Of sacred Beauty heare your dombe;
Recant your Sex, your Mastry, Might;
Lower you cannot be or'ecome:

VI

Repent, ye er'e nam'd He or Head,
For y' are in Falcons Monarchy,
And in that just Dominion bred
In which the Nobler is the Shee.

142

Calling Lucasta from her Retirement.

Ode.

I

From the dire Monument of thy black roome
Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe
As in the inmost Cell of all Earths Wombe.

II

Sacred Lucasta like the pow'rfull ray
Of Heovenly Truth passe this Cimmerian way,
Whilst all the Standards of your beames display?

III

Arise and climbe our whitest highest Hill,
There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill,
And see Seas colme as Earth, Earth as your Will.

143

IV

Behold how lightning like a Taper flyes
And guilds your Chari't, but ashamed dyes
Seeing it selfe out-gloried by your Eyes.

V

Threatning and boystrous tempests gently bow,
And to your steps part in soft paths, when now
There no where hangs a Cloud, but on your brow.

VI

No showrs but 'twixt your lids, nor gelid snow,
But what your whiter chaster brest doth ow,
Whilst winds in Chains colder your sorrow blow.

VII

Shrill Trumpets doe only sound to Eate
Artillery hath loaden ev'ry dish with meate,
And Drums at ev'ry Health Alarmes beate.

144

VIII

All Things Lucasta, but Lucasta call,
Trees borrow Tongues, Waters in accents fall,
The Aire doth sing, and Fire's Musicall.

IX

Awake from the dead Vault in which you dwell,
All's Loyall here, except your thoughts rebell,
Which so let loose, often their Gen'rall quell.

X

See! She obeys! by all obeyed thus;
No storms, heats, Colds, no soules contentious,
Nor Civill War is found—I meane, to us.

XI

Lovers and Angels, though in Heav'n they show
And see the Woes and Discords here below
What they not feele, must not be said to know.

The end of LUCASTA: Odes, &c.

145

Aramantha.

A PASTORALL.

Vp with the jolly Bird of Light
Who sounds his third Retreat to Night;
Faire Aramantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises Red
As the Carnation mantled Morne,
Who now the blushing Robe doth spurne,
And puts on angry Gray, whilst she
The Envy of a Deity
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin'd in such a Weed;
Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit;
Not made for her, but she to it:
By Nature it sate close and free,
As the just bark unto the Tree:

146

Unlike Loves Martyrs of the Towne,
All day imprison'd in a Gown,
Who Rackt in Silke 'stead of a Dresse,
Are cloathed in a Frame or Presse,
And with that liberty and room,
The dead expatiate in a Tombe.

No Cabinets with curious Washes,
Bladders, and perfumed Plashes;
No venome-temper'd water's here,
Mercury is banished this Sphere:
Her Payle's all this in which wet Glasse,
She both doth cleanse and view her Face.

Far hence all Iberian smells,
Hot Amulets, Pomander spells,
Fragrant Gales, cool Ay'r, the fresh,
And naturall Odour of her Flesh,
Proclaim her sweet from th'Wombe as Morne.
Those colour'd things were made not borne,
Which fixt within their narrow straits,
Do loook like their own counterfeyts.

147

So like the Provance Rose she walkt,
Flowerd with Blush, with Verdure stalkt;
Th'Officious Wind her loose Hayre Curles,
The Dewe her happy linnen purles,
But wets a Tresse, which instantly
Sol with a Crisping Beame doth dry.

Into the Garden is she come,
Love and Delights Elisium;
If ever Earth show'd all her store,
View her discolourd budding Floore;
Here her glad Eye she largely feedes,
And stands 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds,
The flowers in their best aray,
As to their Queen their Tribute pay,
And freely to her Lap proscribe
A Daughter out of ev'ry Tribe:
Thus as she moves, they all bequeath
At once the Incense of their Breath.

The noble Heliotropian
Now turnes to her, and knowes no Sun.

148

And her glorious face doth vary,
So opens loayall golden Mary;
Who if but glanced from her sight.
Straight shuts again as it were Night.

The Violet (else lost ith' heap)
Doth spread fresh purple for each step;
With whose Humility possest,
Sh' inthrones the poore Girle in her breast:
The July-flow'r that hereto thriv'd,
Knowing her self no longer liv'd,
But for one look of her, upheaves,
Then 'stead of teares straight sheds her leaves.

Now the rich robed Tulip, who
Clad all in Tissue close doth woe,
Her (sweet to th'eye but smelling sower)
She gathers to adorn her Bower.

But the proud Hony-suckle spreads
Like a Pavilion her Heads,
Contemnes the wanting Commonalty,
That but to two ends usefull be,

149

And to her lips thus aptly plac't,
With smell and Hue presents her Tast,

So all their due Obedience pay,
Each thronging to be in her Way:
Faire Aramantha with her Eye
Thanks those that live, which else would dye:
The rest in silken fetters bound,
By Crowning her are Crown and Crown'd.

And now the Sun doth higher rise,
Our Flora to the meadow hies:
The poore distressed Heifers low,
And as sh' approacheth gently bow,
Begging her charitable leasure
To stop them of their milkie Treasure.

Out of the Yeomanry oth' Heard,
With grave aspect, and feet prepar'd,
A rev'rend Lady Cow drawes neare,
Bids Aramantha welcome here;
And from her privy purse lets fall
A Pearle or two, which seeme to call

150

This adorn'd adored Fayry
To the banquet of her Dayry.

Soft Aramantha weeps to see
'Mongst men such inhumanitie,
That those who do receive in Hay,
And pay in silver twice a Day,
Should by their cruell barb'rous theft,
Be both of that, and life bereft.

But 'tis decreed when ere this dies,
That she shall fall a Sacrifice
Unto the Gods, since those that trace
Her stemme, show 'tis a God-like race;
Descending in an even line
From Heifers, and from Steeres divine,
Making the honour'd extract full
In Iö and Europa's Bull.
She was the largest goodliest Beast,
That ever Mead or Altar blest;
Round as her Udder, and more white
Then is the milkie way in Night:

151

Her full broad Eye did sparkle fire,
Her breath was sweet as kind desire,
And in her beauteous crescent shone,
Bright as the Argent-horned Moone.

But see! this whitenesse is obscure,
Cynthia spotted, she impure;
Her body writheld, and her eyes
Departing lights at obsequies:
Her lowing hot, to the fresh Gale,
Her breath perfumes the field withall;
To those two Suns that ever shine,
To those plump parts she doth inshrine,
To th'hovering Snow of either hand,
That Love and Cruelty command.

After the breakfast on her Teat,
She takes her leave oth' mournfull Neat,
Who by her toucht now prize their life,
Worthy alone the hollowed knife.

Into the neighbring Wood she's gone,
Whose roofe defies the tell-tale Sunne,

152

And locks out ev'ry prying beame;
Close by the Lips of a cleare streame
She sits and entertaines her Eye
With the moist Chrystall, and the frye
With burnisht-silver mal'd, whose Oares
Amazed still make to the shoares;
What need she other bait or charm
But look or Angle, but her arm?
The happy Captive gladly ta'n,
Sues ever to be slave in vaine,
Who instantly (confirm'd in's feares)
Hasts to his Element of teares.

From hence her various windings roave
To a well orderd stately grove;
This is the Pallace of the Wood,
And Court oth' Royall Oake, where stood
The whole Nobility, the Pine,
Strait Ash, tall Firre, and wanton Vine;
The proper Cedar, and the rest;
Here she her deeper senses blest.

153

Admires great Nature in this Pile
Floor'd with greene-velvet Camomile,
Garnisht with Gems of unset fruit,
Supply'd still with a self recruit;
Her bosom wrought with pretty Eyes
Of never-planted Strawberries;
Where th'winged Musick of the ayre
Do richly feast and for their fare
Each Evening in a silent shade,
Bestow a gratefull Serenade.

Thus ev'n tyerd with delight,
Sated in Soul and Appetite;
Full of the purple plumme and Peare,
The golden Apple with the faire
Grape, that mirth fain would have taught her,
And nuts which cracking squirrells brought her;
The softly layes her weary limbs,
Whilst gentle slumber now beginnes
To draw the Curtaines of her Eye;
When straight awakend with a Crie

154

And bitter groan, again reposes,
Again a deep sigh interposes.
And now she heares a trembling Voyce;
Ah can there ought on earth rejoyce!
Why weares she this gay Livery
Not black as her dark entrails be?
Can trees be green, and to the Ay'r
Thus prostitute their flowing Hayr?
Why do they sprout, not witherd dy?
Must each thing live save wretched I?
Can dayes triumph in blew and red,
When both their light, and life is fled?
Fly Joy on wings of Popinjayes
To Courts of fools, there as your playes
Dye, laught at and forgot; whilst all
That's good, mourns at this Funerall.
Weep all ye Graces, and you sweet
Quire, that at the Hill inspir'd meet:
Love put thy tapers out that we
And th'World may seem as blind as thee:

155

And be, since she is lost (ah wound!)
Not Heav'n it self by any found.

Now as a Prisoner new cast,
Who sleeps in chaines that night his last,
Next morn is wak't with a repreeve,
And from his trance not dream bid Live;
Wonders (his sence not having scope)
Who speaks, his friend, or his false Hope.

So Aramantha heard, but feare
Dares not yet trust her tempting Eare:
And as againe her armes oth' ground
Spread pillows for her Head, a sound
More dismall makes a swift divorce,
And starts her thus—Rage, Rapine, Force!
Ye blew-flam'd daughters oth' Abysse,
Bring all your Snakes, here let them hisse;
Let not a leaf its freshnesse keep;
Blast all their roots, and as you creepe
And leave behind your deadly slime,
Poyson the budding branch in's prime:

156

Wast the proud Bowers of this Grove,
That Fiends may dwell in it, and move
As in their proper Hell, whilst she
Above, laments this Tragedy;
Yet pities not our Fate; Oh faire
Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th'Ay'r;
Why by those Lawes did we not die,
As live but one, Lucasta! why—
As he Lucasta, nam'd a groan
Strangles the fainting passing tone;
But as she heard Lucasta, smiles
Posses her round, she's slipt mean whiles
Behind the blind of a thick Bush,
When each word tempting with a blush,
She gently thus bespake: Sad swaine,
If mates in woe do ease our pain,
Here's one full of that antick grief,
Which stifled would for ever live,
But told expires; pray then reveale
(To show our wound is half to heale)

157

What Mortall Nymph or Deity
Bewail you thus? Who ere you be
The Shepheard sight, my woes I crave
Smotherd in me, I in my Grave;
Yet be in show or truth a Saint,
Or fiend breath Anthemes, heare my plaint
For her and my breaths symphony,
Which now makes full the Harmony
Above, and to whose voice the Spheres
Listen, and call her Musick theirs;
This was I blest on earth with, so
As Druids amorous did grow
Jealous of bth, for as one day
This Star as yet but set in clay
By an imbracing River lay,
They steept her in the hollowed brooke
Which from her humane nature tooke,
And straight to heaven with winged feare,
Thus ravisht with her, ravish her.

158

The Nymph reply'd, this holy rape
Became the Gods, whose obscure shape
They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve
Your better life should ever live,
And weep that she to whom you wish
What Heav'n could give, ha's all its blisse;
Calling her Angell here, yet be
Sad at this true Divinity:
She's for the Altar not the skies,
Whom first you crowne, then sacrifice.

Fond man thus to a precipice
Aspires, till at the top his eyes
Have lost the safety of the plain,
Then begs of Fate the vales againe.

The now confounded Shepheard cries
Ye all confounding Destinies!
How did you make that voice so sweet
Without that glorious form to it?
Thou sacred spirit of my Deare
Where e're thou hoverst o're us hear!

159

Imbark thee in the Lawrell tree,
And a new Phebus follows thee,
Who 'stead of all his burning rayes
Will strive to catch thee with his layes;
Or if within the Orient Vine,
Thou art both Deity and Wine;
But if thou takest the mirtle grove
That Paphos is, thou Queene of Love
And I thy swaine who (else) must die
By no Beasts, but thy cruelty:
But you are rougher then the Winde;
Are Souls on Earth then Heav'n more kind?
Imprisoned in Mortality,
Lucasta would have answered me.
Lucasta, Aramantha said!
Is she that Virgin-star a Maid
Except her prouder Livery,
In beauty poore, and cheap as I?
Whose glory like a Meteor shone,
Or aëry Apparition
Admir'd a while but slighted known.

160

Fierce, as the chafed Lyon hies,
He rowses him, and to her flies,
Thinking to answer with his Speare—

Now as in warre intestine, where
Ith' mist of a black Battell, each
Layes at his next, then makes a breach
Through th'entrayles of another whom
He sees nor knows when he did come
Guided alone by th'Rage and th'Drumme
But stripping and impatient wild,
He sends too soon his onely child.

So our exposing desp'rate Lover
Far'd, when amaz'd he did discover
Lucasta in this Nymph, his sinne
Darts the accursed Javelin
'Gainst his own breast, which she puts by
With a soft Lip and gentle Eye,
Then closes with him on the ground
And now her smiles have heal'd his wound
Alexis too again is found:

161

But not untill those heavy Crimes
She hath kis'd off a thousand times,
Who not contented with this pain
Doth threaten to offend again.

And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep,
Whilst each cheek doth the others steep,
Whilst tongues as exorcis'd are calm;
Onely the Rhet'rick of the Palm
Prevailing pleads, untill at last
They chain'd in one another fast:
Lucasta to him doth relate
Her various chance and diffring Fate:
How chac'd by Hydraphil, and tract
The num'rous foe to Philanact,
Who whilst they for the same things fight,
As Bards Decrees, and Druids rite,
For safeguard of their proper joyes,
And Shepheards freedome, each destroyes
The glory of this Sicilie;
Since seeking thus the remedie,

162

They fancy (building on false ground)
The means must them and it confound,
Yet are resolv'd to stand or fall,
And win a little or lose all.

From this sad storm of fire and blood
She fled to this yet living Wood;
Where she 'mongst savage beasts doth find
Her self more safe then humane kind.

Then She relates how Cælia
The Lady here strippes her array,
And girdles her in home spunne bayes,
Then makes her conversant in Layes
Of birds, and swaines more innocent
That kenne not guile or courtshipment.

Now walks she to her bow'r to dine
Under a shade of Eglantine,
Upon a dish of Natures cheere
Which both grew drest, and serv'd up there:
That done, she feasts her smell with Po'ses
Pluckt from the Damask cloath of Roses.

163

Which there continually doth stay,
And onely frost can take away;
Then wagers which hath most content
Her eye, eare, hand, her gust or sent.

Intranc't Alexis sees and heares,
As walking above all the spheres:
Knows and adores this, and is wilde
Untill with her he live thus milde.
So that which to his thoughts he meant
For losse of her a punishment,
His armes hung up and his Sword broke,
His Ensignes folded, he betook
Himself unto the humble Crook:
And for a full reward of all,
She now doth him her shepheard call,
And in a See of flow'rs install:
Then gives her faith immediately,
Which he returnes religiously;
Both vowing in her peacefull Cave
To make their Bridall-bed and grave.

164

But the true joy this pair conceiv'd
Each from the other first bereav'd;
And then found after such alarmes
Fast pinion'd in each others armes:
Ye panting Virgins that do meet
Your Loves within their winding-sheet,
Breathing and constant still ev'n there;
Or souls their bodies in yon' sphere,
Or Angels men return'd from Hell,
And separated mindes can tell.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

THE DEDICATION. To the Right Honourable, my Lady ANNE LOVELACE.

To my best Brother on his Poems, called Lucasta.

On the POEMS.

To my much loved friend, Richard Lovelace Esq.

Carmen Eroticum.

To my Noble and most ingenious Friend, Col. Richard Lovelace, upon his LUCASTA.

Another, upon the POEMS.

To his much honoured Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, on his Poems.

[The world shall now no longer mourne, nor vex]

To his Noble Friend Mr. Richard Lovelace, upon his POEMS.

To Colonel RICHARD LOVELACE, on the publishing of his ingenious Poems.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

To the Honorable, Valiant, and Ingenious Colonel Richard Lovelace, on his Exquisite POEMS.

To his Honoured and Ingenious Friend Col. Richard Lovelace, on his LUCASTA.

To my Deare Brother, Colonel Richard Lovelace.

Song. To Lucasta,

Going beyond the Seas.

I

II

III

IV

Song. To Lucasta,

Going to the Warres.

I

II

III

A Paradox.

I

II

III

IV

Song. To Amarantha,

That she would dishevell her haire.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

To Chloe,

Courting her for his Friend.

I

II

III

Sonnet.

[Depose your finger of that Ring]

I

II

Ode. To Lucasta.

The Rose.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Gratiana dauncing and singing.

I

II

III

IV

The Scrutinie.

Song.

I

II

III

IV

Princesse Loysa drawing.

Princesse Katherine borne, christened, buried in one day.

An Elegie.

Love Conquer'd.

A Song.

I

II

III

IV

A loose Saraband.

I

II

To Colonel RICHARD LOVELACE, on the publishing of his ingenious Poems.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.