Ayres and dialogues :: :: University of Virginia Library

The following poems are scored for music in the source text. Where poems are not stanzaic, no attempt has been made to reconstruct the metrical lines. Variations for different voices have been ignored. Repetition marks have been ignored.

To the Right Honorable, The two most Excellent Sisters, ALICE Countesse of CARBERY, And MARY Lady HERBERT of Cherbury and Castle-Island, Daughters to the Right Honorable, John Earle of Bridgewater, Lord President of WALES, &c.

To Mr. HENRY LAWES, who had then newly set a Song of mine in the Year, 1635.

Verse makes Heroick Vertue live,
But you can life to Verses give:
As when in open aire we blow
The breath (though strain'd) sounds flat and low,
But if a Trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it last:
So in your Ayres our Numbers drest
Make a shrill sally from the Brest
Of Nymphs, who singing what we pen'd,
Our Passions to themselves commend,
While Love Victorious with thy Art
Governs at once their Voyce and Heart.
You by the help of Tune and Time
Can make that Song which was but Rime.
NOY pleading, no man doubts the Cause,
Or questions Verses set by LAWES.
For as a window thick with paint
Lets in a light but dim and faint,
So others with Division hide
The Light of Sense, the Poets Pride,
But you alone may truly boast
That not a syllable is lost;
The Writer's and the Setter's skill
At once the ravish't Eare do fill.
Let those which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a Song,
Content themselves with Ut, re, mi,
Let words and sense be set by Thee.

ED. WALLER, Esquire.

To his Honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Ayres and Dialogues.

Those happy few who apprehend thy flight,
Ever above the Cloud, yet still in sight,
Cannot by all their Numbers and Addresse
Swell or advance thy praises, but confesse.
For thou art fix'd beyond the Power of Fate,
Since nothing that is Mortal can Create.
And is it possible that thou should'st dye
Who can'st bestow such Immortality?

I have not sought the Rules by which yee try
When a Chord's broke, or holds in Harmony;
But I am sure Thou hast a Soul within
As if created for a Cherubin;
Brim full of Candour and wise Innocence,
And is not Musick a Resultance thence?
For sure the blunt-bill'd Swan's first fame to sing
Sprung from the motion of her spotless Wing.

But sole Integrity winns not the Cause,
For then each honest man would be a LAWES:
Thou hast deep Iudgement, Phansie, and high Sence,
Old and new VVit, steady Experience;
A Soul unbrib'd by any thing but Fame,
Grasping to get nought but a good great Name.
Hence all thy Ayres flow pure and unconfin'd,
Blown by no Mercenary Lapland Wind,
No stoln or plunder'd Phansies, but born free,
And so transmitted to Posteritie,
VVhich never shall their well-grown Honor blast,
Since they have Thy, that's the best, Iudgement past.

Yet Some, who forc'd t'admire Thee, must repine
That all Theirs are out-done by thy Each Line;
The Sence so humour'd, and those Humours hit,
VVill call them acts of Fortune, not of Wit;
Hoping their want of Skill may be thy Brand
'Cause they have not the Luck to Understand;
Cry up the Words to cry Thee down, and sweare
Thou sett'st more Sence then they can meet elsewhere,
Concluding could themselves such Verses show
They could produce such Compositions too.

But is't thy fault if the great Witts whole Quire
Before all O hers still prefer Thy Lyre?
They tasted All, and Thine among the rest,
But then return'd to Thee, 'cause Best was Best.
Bid such attach Thy Old Anacreon's Greek,
Where the least Accent will cost Them a Week,
Six Months a Verse, and that Verse tun'd and scann'd
(Though short) twelve Years, an Age to Understand:
But thy Lute, like th'last Trump, hath rais'd His Head,
Who, er'e the Græcian Empire born, was dead.

Then let all Poetts bring all Verse, which They
May on thy Desk as on an Altar lay,
Where kindled by that Touch thy Hand hath given,
'Twill climb (whence Musick first came down) to Heaven.

FRANCIS FINCH, Esquire.

To the much honour'd Mr. HENRY LAVVES, on his Book of Ayres.

That Princes dye not, they to Poetts owe;
Poetts themselves do owe their Lives to You;
Whose Phansies soon would stifle, and declare
They could not breath unlesse you lent them Ayre.
'Tis that inspires their Feet, which else but crawle
As Judges walk th'old Measures round the Hall,
Untill the feather'd heels of Youth advance
And raise their dull pace up into a Dance:
Your Art such Motion to our Verses brings
We can but give them Feet, You give them Wings.

WILL. BARKER.

To his much honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Book of Ayres.

Father of Numbers, who hast still thought fit
To tune thy selfe, and then Set others Wit;
Forgive my Zeale, who with my Sprig of Bayes
Do crowd into the Chorus of thy Praise.
For Silence were, when LAWES is nam'd, a wrong,
The Subject and the Master of all Song:
Who ne'r dost dive for Pebbles, undermine
Mountains to make old rusty Iron shine:
But hast made Great things Greater, do'st dispense
Lustre to Wit, by adding Sence to Sence.
For Passions are not Passions, 'till they be
Rais'd to that height, which they expect from Thee;
And all this is thy selfe; Thy Name's not grown
Broader by putting on a Cap or Gown;
Who like those Jockies that do often sell
An old worn Jade, because he's saddled well:
No; Thou can'st humour all that Wit can teach,
Which those that are but Note-men cannot reach:
Thou'rt all so fit, that some have pass'd their Votes,
Thy Notes beget the Words, not Words thy Notes.

T. NORTON

To my ever honour'd Friend & Father, Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Book of Ayres and Dialogues.

Father of Musick and Musitians too,
And Father of the Muses, All's thy due:
For not a drop that flows from Helicon
But Ayr'd by thee grows streight into a Song.
So as when Light about the World was spread,
All kind of Colours, Black, White, Green, and Red,
Soon mixt with Substances, and grew to be
Plants, Grasse, and Flowrs, which All's but Harmony.

Thou mak'st the Grave and Light together chime,
Both joyntly dance, yet keep their own true time;
The winning Dorick, that best loves the Harp;
The Phrygian, thats as sweet, though far more sharp;
The brisk Ionick, sober Lydian Mood,
Which every eare sucks in, and cryes, 'tis good:
Thou hitt'st them all; their Spirit, Tone, and Pause,
Have all conspir'd to meet and honour LAWES.

No pointing Comma, Colon, halfe so well
Renders the Breath of Sense; they cannot tell
The just Proportion how each word should go,
To rise and fall, run swiftly or march slow;
Thou shew'st 'tis Musick only must do this,
Which as thou handlest it can never miss;
All may be Sung or Read, which thou hast drest,
Both are the same, save that the Singing's best.

Thy Muse can make this sad, raise that to Life,
Inflaming one, smoothing down th'others Strife,
Meer Words, when measur'd best, are Words alone,
Till quickned by their nearest Friend a Tone:
And then, when Sense and perfect Concords meet,
Though th'Story bitter be, Tunes make it sweet:
Thy Ariadne's Grief's so fitly shown
As bring's us Pleasure from her saddest Groan.

And all this is thine own, thy true-born Heir;
Nor stoln at home, nor Forrain far-fetcht Ware
Made good by Mountebanks, who loud must cry
Till some believe, and do as dearly buy;
Which when they've try'd, not better nor yet more
They find, than what does grow at their own door.
For when such Mountains swell with mighty Birth,
Wee find some poor small petty thing creep forth.

But I'm too short to speak thee, I've no Praise
To give, but what I gather from thy Bayes:
My narrow Hive's supply'd from thy full Flow'r,
Nor does thy Ocean Praise know Bank or Shoar:
Yet this I dare attest, that who shall look
And understand as well as read thy Book
Must say that here both Wit and Musick meet;
Like the great Giant's Riddle Strong and Sweet.

JOHN COBB.

TO his Honour'd Friend, Mr. Henry Lawes, upon his Book of Ayres.

Musick thou Soul of Verse, gently inspire
My untun'd Phansie with some sprightly Ayre,
'Tis fittest now that I thy ayd require
While I to sing thee and thy Lawes prepare:
For the high Raptures of a lofty strain
Charm equall with the Bowr's Aonian.

'Twere in me rudeness, not to blazon forth
(Father in Musick) thy deserved praise,
Who oft have been, to witness thy rare worth,
A ravish't hearer of thy skilfull Lay's.
Thy Lay's that wont to lend a soaring wing,
And to my tardy Muse fresh ardour bring.

While brightest Dames, the splendour of the Court,
Themselves a silent Musick to the Eye,
Would oft to hear thy solemn Ayres resort,
Making thereby a double Harmony:
'Tis hard to judge which adds the most delight,
To th'Eare thy Charms, or theirs unto the Sight.

But this is sure, had Strada's Nightingale
Heard the soft murmurs of thy Ayry Lute,
She doubting lest her own sweet voyce should fail
To hear thy sweeter Ayres, had quite been mute.
Such Vertue dwels in Harmony divine
(Admired LAWES) and above all in thine.

The Dorick Sage, and the mild Lydian,
The sad Laconick unto Wars exciting,
Th'Aeolian Grave, the Phrygian mournfull strain:
The smooth Jonick carelesly delighting,
There calmly meet, and chearfully agree,
Various themselves, to make one Symphony.

If we long since could boast thy purest vain,
More then old Greece the Rhodopsian Lyre,
Or Latian Bowres of late Marenzo's strain,
How much must our applause advance thee higher?
When thy yet more harmonious birth shall bring
To us new Joyes, new Pleasures to the Spring.

The Woods wild Songsters, wonder will surprize
Hearing the sweet Art of thy well tun'd Notes,
What new unwonted chime? 'tis that outvies
The Native sweetness of their liquid throats,
Which while in vain they strive to æmulate
Anothers Musick's Duell they'l create.

Whether pure Anthem's fill the sacred Quire,
Or Lady's Chambers' the Lute's trembling voice,
Or Rurall Song's the Country Swains admire,
Thy large Invention still affords us choice;
'Tis to thy Skill, that we indebted are,
What ever Musick hath of neat and rare.

To thee the choycest Witts of England owe
The Life of their fam'd Verse, that ne'r shall dye,
For thou hast made their rich conceits to flow
In streams more rich to lasting memory,
Such Musick needs must steal our souls away,
Where Voice and Verse do meet, where Love and Phansie play.

EDWARD PHILLIPS.

To my Honour'd Friend, Mr. Henry Lawes, upon his Book of Ayres.

To calm the rugged Ocean, and asswage
The horrid tempests in their highest rage,
To tame the wildest Beasts, to still the Winds,
And quell the fury of distemper'd minds,
Making the Pensive merry, th'overjolly
Composing to a sober Melancholy:
These are th'effects of sacred harmonie;
Which being an Art so well attain'd by thee,
(Most Honour'd Laws) what can we less then number
Thy Works with theirs who were the Ancients wonder?
And give thee equall praise; but I forget;
For we do owe thee a far greater debt,
The charming sweetness of whose shorter Lay's,
Not only we do hear with great amaze,
But they have low descended to the deep,
And wak'ned Theseus Queen from Stygian sleep;
Who slighting Orpheus, comes to beg of thee
To ayd her with thy pow'rfull harmonie,
Knowing thy strains more truly can expresse
Her sense of Theseus strange forgetfulnesse;
Which makes us here to double thy Renown;
Hereafter thou shalt wear fair Ariadne's Crown.

JOHN PHILLIPS.

To my Dear and Honour'd Friend, Mr. HENRY LAWES, upon his Incomparable Book of Songs.

I am no Poet, yet I wiil rehearse
My Virgin Muse, though in unpolisht Verse.
Perhaps the immature and lib'rall sence,
(Yet better than those Ignorants commence,
Who boldly dare their scandalous censures throw,
And judge of things (I'le swear) they do not know)
Will be to some unpleasing; but what then?
Must they not know their wild pretensions, when
Unnat'rally they'l raise a Forrain Name,
And blast the Honour of their Native Fame?
But stay; Will this reclaim them? No, th'are mad;
Their Reason is infatuate, and clad
In such a stupified ignorance:
Nothing will please that is not come from France
Or Italy; but let them have their will,
Whilst we unto thy Noble Art and Skill
Do sacrifice our admirations:
The tribute's just, and other Nations
Cannot but pay it too, when they shall see
Their best of Labours thus outdone by Thee:
Or else amaz'd to see thy English Ayre
Past imitation; they will dispaire,
And wonder we can surfeit with such meat,
So rare, so rich, so pleasant, so compleat.
Be happy then; Thou art above all hate;
Thy great abil'ties have out-grown thy Fate.
Thy Fortune soars aloft; thou art renown'd:
Thy Fame's with Judgements approbation crown'd.
And in this Verse, (as I disclaim all Wit)
So 'twas thy worth, oblig'd my fancy t'it.

JO. CARWARDEN

[Theseus, O Theseus, hark! but yet in vain]

The Story of Theseus and Ariadne, as much as concerns the ensuing Relation, is this.

Theseus going over into Creet to fight with the Minotaure, made his Father Ægeus this promise, that if he came off with Life and Victory, he would set up white sailes at his comming back, the Ship as he went out having black sailes in token of griefe: being come into Creet, Ariadne the Kings Daughter there fell in love with him, and gave him a Clew of thread, by which after he had slain the Minotaure he extricated himselfe out of that perplexed Labyrinth: having thus obtained the Victory, he carryed her along with him into the Island Naxos, where he tooke occasion to leave her as she was asleep, and so hasting homeward, forgot to hoist the white sails; his Father Ægeus; therefore, who stood upon a Rock, expecting his return, as soon as he perceived the black sailes, cast himselfe headlong into the Sea, from whom it was called the Ægean Sea. In this while, Ariadne complaining of Theseus his Infidelity, resolving to destroy her selfe, having made her own Epitaph, was comforted by Bacchus, who comming thither was enamoured of her Beauty, and took her to his protection.

Ariadne sitting upon a Rock in the Island Naxos, deserted by Theseus, thus complains.
Theseus , O Theseus, hark! but yet in vain

Theseus , O Theseus, hark! but yet in vain; Alas deserted I complain; it was some neighb'ring Rock, more soft then he, whose hollow bowels pitty'd me, and beating back that false & cruell name, did comfort and revenge my flame, then faithless whither wilt thou flye?

stones dare not harbour cruelty. Tell me ye Gods, who e're ye are, why, O why, made ye him so faire? & tell me wretch why thou mad'st not thy selfe more true? Beauty from him might copies take, & more majestick Heroes make, and falshood learn a wile from him too, to beguile: restore my Clue, 'tis here most due, for 'tis a Labrinth of more subtle Art, to have so faire a face, so fowle a heart: The rav'nous Vulter tear his breast, the rowling stone disturbe his rest; let him next feele Ixions wheel, & add one fable more to, cursing Poets store, & then yet rather let him live & twine his woof of

days with some thread stoln from mine; but if you'l torture him, how e're torture my heart, you'l find him there: Till mine eyes drank up his, and his drank mine, I ne'r thought souls might kiss, & spirits joyne: Pictures till then, took me as much as men, Nature and Art moveing alike my heart; but his faire visage made me find pleasures and fears, hopes, sighs and tears, as severall seasons of the mind. Should thine Eye Venus on his dwell, thou wouldst invite him to thy shell, & caught by that live jet, venture the second net, and after all thy dangers faithlesse he; shouldst thou but slumber, would forsake ev'n thee.

The streams so court the yielding bankes, and gliding thence ne're pay their thankes, the winds so woo the flowers, whisp'ring among fresh bowers, and having rob'd them of their smels, flye thence perfum'd to other Cels; this is familiar hate, to smile, & kill, though nothing pleas thee, yet my ruine will: Death hover, hover, o're me then, waves let your christall womb, be both my fate and tomb, I'le sooner trust the sea then men. Yet for revenge to heav'n I'le call, and breath one curse before I fall; proud of two Conquests, Minotaure and me, that by my faith, this by thy perjurie.

May'st thou forget to wing thy ships with white, that the black sails may to the longing sight of thy gray Father tell thy fate, and he bequeath that sea his name, falling like me. Nature & Love thus brand thee, whilst I dye, 'cause thou forsak'st Ægeus, 'cause thou draw'st nigh. And ye O Nimphs below, who sit, in whose swift floods his vows he writ, snatch a sharp Diamond from your richer Mines, & in some Mirror grave these sadder lines; which let some God convey to him, that so he may in that both read at once, and see, those lookes that caus'd my destiny.

Her Epitaph.

In Thetis Armes, I Ariadne sleep,

drown'd: First in mine own tears, then in the deep: Twice banish'd, first by love, and then by hate, the life that I preserv'd became my fate, who leaving all was by him left alone, that from a Monster fre'd, himselfe prov'd one: Thus then I F--- but looke, O mine eyes, be now true spies, yonder, yonder comes my dear, now my wonder, once my fear; see Satyrs dance along in a confused throng, whilst horns and pipes rude noice, do mad their lusty joyes; Roses his forehead crown, & that recrowns the flowers; where he walks up and down, he makes the Desarts Bowers; the Ivy and the

Grape hide not, adorne his shape, and green leaves cloath his waving Rod, 'tis he; 'tis either Theseus, or some God.

To his Inconstant Mistris.

When thou, poore Excommunicate

When thou, poore Excommunicate from all the joyes of Love shalt see the full reward and glorious fate, which my strong faith hath purchas'd me, then curse thine Owne Inconstancy: for thou shalt weepe, intreat, complaine to Love, as I did once to thee, when all thy teares, shall be as vaine as mine were then, for thou shalt bee damn'd for thy false Apostacy.

In the Person of a Lady to her inconstant servant.

When on the Altar of my hand
(bedew'd with many' a kisse and teare,)
thy now revolted heart did stand
an humble Martyr, thou didst swear,
thus, and the God of Love did hear;
By those bright glances of thine eye,
unlesse thou pitty me I dye.

When first those perjur'd lips of thine,
Bepal'd with blasting sighs, did seale
Their violated faith on mine,
From the bosome, that did heale
Thee, thou my melting heart didst steale:
My soule enflam'd with thy false breath,
Poyson'd with kisses, suck't in death.

Yet I nor hand nor lip will move,
Revenge or Mercy to procure
From the offended God of Love,
My curse is fatall, and my pure
Love shall beyond thy scorn endure,
If I implore the Godds, they'l find
Thee too ingratefull, me too kind.

To the same Lady, singing the former Song.

Cloris your selfe you so excell

Cloris your selfe you so excell, when you vouchsafe to breath my thought that like a spirit with this spell of mine own teaching I am caught. That Eagle's Fate and mine is one, that on the shaft that made him dye, espy'd a Feather of his own, wherewith he wont to soare so high. Had Eccho with so swete a grace, Narcissus lowd complaints return'd, not for reflection of his face, but of his voyce the boy had mourn'd.

To Amarantha, To dishevell her haire.

Amarantha sweet & fair,
forbear to brade that shining hair,
as my curious hand or eye,
hov'ring round thee let it flye;
let it flye as unconfin'd,
as it's calm ravisher the wind,
who ha's left his Darling the East,
to wanton o're this spicy Nest.

Ev'ry Tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at best,
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled;
Do not then wind up that light
In Ribbands, and o're-cloud in Night,
Like the Sun in's early Ray,
But shake your head and scattter Day.

The Reform'd Lover.

Till now I never did believe
a man could love for vertues sake;
nor thought the absence of one Love could grieve
the man that freely might another take.
But since mine eyes betroth'd my heart to you,
I find both true,
thine Innocence hath so my Love refin'd.
I mourn thy body's absence for thy mind.

Tell now I never made an Oath
But with a purpose to forswear,
For to be fix'd upon one face were sloath,
When every Ladyes eye is Cupids sphear;
But if she merits faith from every brest
Who is the best
Of woman-kind? how then can I be free
To love another, having once lov'd thee?

Such is the rare and happy pow'r
Of Goodness, that it can dilate
It selfe to make one vertuous in an houre,
Who liv'd before, perhaps a reprobate;
Then since on me this wonder thou hast done,
Prithee work on
Upon thy selfe, thy Sex doth want that grace
My truth to love more then a better face.

The Cælestiall Mistress.

Cælia , thy bright Angels face

Cælia , thy bright Angels face may be cal'd a heav'nly place: the whiteness of the starry way nature did on thy forehead lay: but thine eyes have brightness woon, not from Stars, but from the Sun: the blushing of the Morn in thy Rosie cheek is worn, the Musick of the heav'nly Sphears in thy soul's winning voyce appears: happy were I, had I (like Atlas) grace, so faire a heav'n within mine Arms t'imbrace.

Love above Beauty.

Lovely Chloris though thine eyes
far out shine the jewels of the skies;
that grace which all admire in thee,
no nor the beauties of thy brest,
which far out-blaze the rest,
might e're compared be
to my fidelity.

Those alluring smiles that place
An eternall April on thy face;
Such as no Sun did ever see,
No, nor the Treasures of thy brest,
Which far out-blaze the rest,
Might e're compared be
To my Fidelitie.

The Bud.

Lately on yonder swelling Bush,
big with many a comming Rose,
this early Bud began to blush,
and did but halfe it selfe disclose:
I pluckt it though no better Grow'n,
yet now you see how full 'tis blow'n.

Still as I did the Leaves Inspire
With such a purple Light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so would flame anon,
All that was meant by Ayre, or Sun,
To this yong Flow'r, my breath ha's done.

If our loose Breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of Love?
Of purest Love and Musick too,
When Flavia it aspires to move:
When that which liveless Buds perswades
To wax more soft, her youth invades.

Cœlia singing.

Till I beheld fair Cælia's face,
where perfect Beauty keeps her Court,
a Lovers passion found no place
in me, who counted Love a sport:
I thought the whole world could not move
a well resolved heart to love.

Wounded by her I now adore
Those pow'rs of Love I have defi'd,
I court the flames I scorn'd before,
And am repayd with Scorn and Pride:
In such unpitty'd Flames to dwell,
Is not a Martyrdome, but Hell.

Cupid can't help me, nor wound her,
He'l rather prove my Rivall hence,
Though blind he'l turn Idolater,
For she hath Charms for ev'ry sence;
Should be her voyce's musick heare,
Soft Love would enter Love's own Eare.

Anacreon's Ode, call'd, The Lute, Englished and to be sung by a Basse alone.

I long to sing the seidge of Troy

I long to sing the seidge of Troy; or Thebe's which Cadmus rear'd so high; but though with hand & voice I strove, my Lute will sound nothing but Love. I chang'd the strings, but 'twould not do't; at last I took an other Lute; & then I tri'd to sing the praise of All-performing Hercules. But when I sung Alcide's name, my Lute resounds Love, Love again. Then farewell all ye Græcian Peers, and all true Trojan Cavalleers: Nor Godds nor men my Lute can move; 'Tis dumb to all but Love, Love, Love.

Desperato's Banquet.

Come heavy Souls, oppressed with the weight of crimes, and pangs

Come heavy Souls, oppressed with the weight of crimes, and pangs, or want of your delight; come drown in Lethes sleepy Lake, what ever makes you ake; drink healths from poys'ned bowls, breath out your cares together with your Souls; cool death's a salve that all may have, ther's no distinction in the Grave. Lay down your loads before death's Iron door; sigh, and sigh out, groan once, and groan no more.

To Cælia, inviting her to Marriage.

Tis true (Fair Celia) that by thee I live,
that every kisse, and every fond embrace
form's a new Soul within me, and doth give
a balsome to the wound made by thy face:
Yet still me thinks I misse
that blisse
which Lovers dare not name,
and only then described is,
when flame doth meet with flame.

Those favours which do blesse me every day,
Are yet but Empty, and Platonicall.
Think not to please your servants with halfe pay,
Good Gamesters never stick to throw at all.
Who can endure to misse
That blisse
Which Lovers dare not name,
And only then described is,
When flame doth meet with flame?

If all those sweets within you must remaine
Unknown, and ne'r enjoy'd, like hidden treasure,
Nature, as well as I, will lose her name;
And you, as well as I, your youthfull pleasure.
We wrong our selves to misse
That blisse
Which Lovers dare not name,
And only then described is,
When flame doth meet with flame.

Our Souls, which long have peep'd at one another
Out of the narrow Casements of our Eyes,
Shall now, by Love conducted, meet together
In secret Cavern's, where all pleasure lyes.
There, there we shall not misse
That blisse
Which Lovers dare not name,
And only then described is,
When flame doth meet with flame.

Youth and Beauty.

Thou art so fair, and yong withall,
thou kindl'st yong desires in me,
restoreing life to leaves that fall,
and sight to Eyes that hardly see,
halfe those fresh Beauties bloom in thee.

Those under sev'rall Hearbs and Flowr's
Disguis'd, were all Medea gave,
When she re[illeg.]al'd Times flying howrs,
And aged Ælon from his grave,
For Beauty can both kill and save.

Youth it enflames, but age it cheers,
I wou'd go back, but not return,
To twenty but to twice those yeers;
Not blaze, but ever constant burn,
For fear my Cradle prove my Urn.

Love and Musick.

Come my Sweet, whilst ev'ry strain
cals our souls into the Eare,
where the greedy listning fain
would turn into the sound they heare;
lest in desire
to fill the quire
themselves they tye
to harmony,
let's kiss & call them back again.

Now let's orderly convey
Our Souls into each other's Brest,
Where enterchanged let them stay
Slumb'ring in a melting rest:
Then with new fire
Let them retire,
And still present
Sweet fresh content
Youthfull as the early day.

Then let us a Tumult make,
Shuffling so our souls, that we
Careless who did give or take,
May not know in whom they be,
Then let each smother
And stifle the other,
Till we expire
In gentle fire.
Scorning the forgetfull Lake.

An Anniversary on the Nuptials of John Earle of Bridgewater, July 22. 1652.

[1]

The Day's return'd, and so are we, to pay
our Offering on this great Thanksgiving-day.
'Tis His, 'tis Her's, 'tis Both, 'tis All;
Though now it rise, it ne'r did fall;
Whose Honour shall as lasting prove,
as our Devotion or Their Love:
Then let's rejoyce, and by our Joy appear,
In this one Day we offer all the Year.

2

See the bright Pair, how amiably kind,
As if their Souls were but this Morning joyn'd:
As the same Heart in Pulses cleft,
This for the Right Arme, that the Left;
So His and Her's in sever'd parts
Are but two Pulses, not two Hearts:
Then Let's, &c.

3

Let no bold Forraign noise their Peace remove,
Since nothing's strong enough to shake their Love,
Blesse Him in Her's, Her in His Arms,
From suddain (true or fals) Alarms;
Let ev'ry Year fill up a score,
Born to be One, but to Make more:
Then let's, &c.

4

This Day Ten years to Him and Her did grant
What Angels joy, and Joyes which Angels want:
Our Lady-Day, and our Lord's too,
Twere sin to rob it of its due,
Tis of both Genders, Her's and His,
We stay'd twelve Months to welcome this.
Then let's rejoyce, and by our Joy appear
In this one Day we offer all the Year.

Staying in London after the Act for Banishment, and going to meet a Friend who fail'd the hour appoynted.

Two hundred minutes are run down,
since I and all my Grief sate here;
(Whom yet you will nor save nor drown)
In a long Gasp 'twixt Hope and Fear:
Thus Lucian's tortur'd Fool did cry,
He could not live, and durst not dye.

How full of Mischief is this Coast!
Villains and Fooles peep every way;
If once these Seekers find, I'm lost;
I dare not go, I dare not stay:
Here I am Rooted 'till the Sky
Be hung as full of Clouds as I.

All Islanders are prisoners Born,
We, Slaves to Slaves, in Five-mile Chaines;
I Theirs, and Yours, but most forlorn
Where Purgatory Hell out-pain's:
I'm in a new third Dungeon here,
Shackles on Shackles who can wear?

Sad and unseen I view the Rowt
Which through this Street do ebb and flow;
Some few have Business, most without;
Their Pace this trundling Rithm does go:
O tear me hence, for I am grow'n
As empty-base as all this Town!

No Constancy in Man.

Be gone, be gone thou perjur'd man,
and never more return,
For know that thy inconstancy
hath chang'd my Love to Scorn:
Thou hast awak'd me, and I can
see cleerly ther's no Truth in Man.

My Love to thee was chast and pure,
As is the Morning dew,
And 'twas alone like to endure,
Hadst thou not prov'd untrue;
But I'm awak'd, and now I can
See cleerly ther's no Truth in Man.

Thou mayst perhaps prevaile upon
Some other to believe thee,
And since thou canst love more then one,
Ne'r think that it shall grieve me;
For th'hast awak'd me, and I can
See cleerly ther's no Truth in Man.

By thy Apostasie I find
That Love is plac'd amiss,
And can't continue in the mind
Where Vertue wanting is:
I'm now resolv'd, and know there can
No constant Thought remain in Man.

Beauties Eclyps'd.

Ladies who gild the glitt'ring Noon,
and by reflection mend it's Ray,
whose lustre makes the sprightfull Sun
to dance as on an Easter Day:
What are ye? what are ye now the Queen's away?

Couragious Eagles which have whet
Your Eyes upon Majestick light,
And thence deriv'd such martiall heat
As still your Looks maintain'd the fight,
What are ye since the King's good night.

As an obstructed Fountain's head
Cut's the Intaile off from the streams,
All Brooks are Disinherited,
Honour and Beauty are but Dreams,
Since Charles & Mary lost their Beams.

PASTORALL DIALOGUES.

A Dialogue betwixt Cordanus and Amoret, on a Lost Heart.

Distressed Pilgrim whose dark clouded eyes speaks thee a Martyr to Love's cruelties
Cord.

Distressed Pilgrim whose dark clouded eyes speaks thee a Martyr to Love's cruelties; whither away?

Am.

What pittying voyce I hear cals back my flying steps?

Cord.

Prithee draw near.

Am.

I shall but say kind Swain what doth become of a lost heart, e're to Elizium it wounded walks?

Cord.

First, it does freely fly into the pleasures of a Loveers eye, but once condemn'd to scorn, it fetter'd lies an ever bowing slave to tyranies.

Am.

I pitty its sad Fate, since its offence was but for Love, can't tears recall it thence?

Cord.

O no, such tears as do for pitty call,

she proudly scorns, & glories at their fall.

Am.

Since neither sighs nor tears, kind Shepheard tell, will not a kisse prevaile?

Cord.

Thou may'st as well court Eccho with a kisse.

Am.

Can no Art move a sacred violence to make her love?

Cord.

O no, 'tis only Destiny and Fate fashions our Wils. Either to love or hate.

Am.

Then captive heart, since that no humane spell hath pow'r to graspe thee his farewell.

Cord.

farewell.

Am.

Farewell, farewell, farewell.

Cho.

Lost hearts like Lambs drove from their Folds by fears,

may back returne by chance, may back returne, may back returne by chance but ne'r by tears.

A Dialogue betwixt Time and a Pilgrime.

Aged man that moves these fields
Pilgr.

Aged man that moves these fields.

Time.

Pilgrime speak, what is thy will?

Pilgr.

Whose soile is this that such sweet Pasture yields? or who art thou whose Foot stands never still? or where am I?

Time.

In love.

Pilgr.

His Lordship lies above.

Time.

Yes and below, and round about where

in all sorts of flow'rs are growing which as the early Spring puts out, Time fals as fast a mowing.

Pilgr.

If thou art Time, these Flow'rs have Lives, and then I fear, under some Lilly she I love may now be growing there.

Time.

And in some Thistle or some spyre of grasse, my syth thy stalk before hers come may passe.

Pilgr.

Wilt thou provide it may?

Time.

No.

Pilgr.

Alleage the cause.

Time.

Because Time cannot alter but obey Fates Laws.

Cho.

Then happy those whom Fate that is the stronger, together twist their threds, & yet draws hers the longer.

A Pastorall Dialogue betwixt Cleon and Cælia.

As Cælia rested in the shade with Cleon by her side
Cho.

As Cælia rested in the shade with Cleon by her side, the Swain thus courted the yong Mayd, and thus the Nimph reply'd.

Cleon.

Sweet let thy captive fetters wear made by thine arms & hands, 'till such as thraldome scorn, or fear, envy those happy bands.

Cælia.

Then thus my willing arms I wind about thee, and am so thy pris'ner, for my selfe I bind untill I let thee go.

Cle.

Happy that slave whom the fair foe ties in so soft a chain.

Cæl.

Far happier I, but that I know thou

wilt break loose again.

Cle.

By thy immortall Beauties never.

Cæl.

Fraile as thy Love's thine Oath.

Cle.

Though beauty faile my faith lasts ever.

Cæl.

Time will destroy them both.

Cle.

I doat not on that snow-white skin.

Cæl.

What then?

Cle.

Thy purer mind.

Cæl.

It lov'd too soon.

Cle.

Thou hadst not been so fair, if not so kind.

Cæl.

O strange vain fancy!

Cle.

But yet true.

Cæl.

Prove it.

Cle.

Then make a Brade of those loose flames which circle you, my Sun's & yet your shade.

Cæl.

'Tis done.

Cle.

Now give it me.

Cæl.

Thus thou shalt thine own errour find; if these were Beauties, I am now lesse fair, because

more kind.

Cle.

You shall confesse you erre, that hair, shall it not change the hew, or leave the golden Mountain bare?

Cæl.

Aye me, it is too true.

Cle.

But this small wreath shall ever stay in the first native prime, and smiling when the rest decay, the Triumph sing of Time.

Cæl.

Then let me cut from thy fair Grove one branch, and let that be an Emblem of Eternall Love, for such is mine to thee.

Both together.

Thus are vve both redeem'd from Time.

Cle.

I, by thy grace.

Cæl.

And I, shall live in thy immortall Rimes untill the Muses dy.

Cle.

By Heav'n.

Cæl.

Swear not, if I must weep, Jove shall not laugh at

me, this kisse, my heart, and thy faith keep.

Cle.

This breath's my soule to thee.

Cho.

Then forth the thicket Thirsis rusht, where he saw all the play, the Swain stood still, and smil'd, and blush'd, the Nimph fled fast away.

A Bacchanall.

Bacchus , I-acchus, fill our Brains
as well as Bowls with sprightly strains:

Let Souldiers fight for pay or praise,
and mony be the Misers wish,
poor Schollers study all their dayes,
and Gluttons glory in their dish:
'Tis wine, pure wine revives sad souls,
Therefore give us the cheer in Bowls.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

Let Minions Marshall ev'ry hair,
Or in a Lovers lock delight,
And Artificiall colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White:
'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

Take Phesant Poults, and calved Sammon,
Or how to please your pallats think,
Give us a salt West-phalia Gammon,
Not meat to eat, but meat to drink:
'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

Some have the Ptisick, some the Rhume,
Some have Palsie, some the Gout,
Some swell with fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out:
'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

The backward spirit it makes brave,
That forward which before was dull;
Those grow good fellows that were grave,
And kindness flows from cups brim full:
'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Bacchus, I-acchus, &c.

Some men want Youth, and some want health
Some want a Wife, and some a Punke,
Some men want wit, and some want wealth,
But they want nothing that are drunke:
'Tis Wine, pure Wine, &c.

Upon a Crown'd Heart sent to a Cruell Mistress.

Go thou Emblem of my heart

Go thou Emblem of my heart, tell my Mistress whose thou art; if with Love she do receive thee, happy then, happy then, happy then thou art to leave me: But if she do chance to Frown, let her only spoyl that Crown, and all wounded home return thee, where no other flame shall burn thee; for empaled in my brest, though thou break my peacefull rest; yet I vow in thy defence, Love no more shall fire thee hence, yet I vow in thy defence, Love no more, no more shall fire thee hence.

The fickle state of Lovers.

O the fickle state of Lovers

O the fickle state of Lovers, a heart perplext with hopes and fears; to day a world of Joy discover's, and to morrow's drown'd in tears: a Lovers state's like April's, like April's weather, Rain and Sunshine, Rain and Sunshine, Rain and Sunshine both together: If his Mistress do but smile, a Heav'n of Joy is in his heart, if her Brow but frown a while, Hell can send no greater smart; in a Lovers brest doth dwell very Heav'n, very Heav'n, or very Hell.

Heere beginneth short Ayres for one, two or three Voyces.

A Smile, or Frown.

Though my torment far exceeds
his whose heart the Vulture feeds,
and my endless pains excell
his that rowls the stone in Hell;
If my Julia do but smile,
I can laugh and sing the while.

Though my Fortunes greater were
Then the Macedonians Heire:
Could I boast of greater glory
Then the Scithians Shepheards story?
If my Julia do but frown,
All my Pompe were overthrown.

The Captive Lover.

If my Mistress fix her eye
on these ruder lines of mine,
let them tell her how I ly
fetter'd by her looks divine:
Tell her it is only she
can release and set me free.

Tell her yet 'tis my desire
To remain her Captive still;
Neither can I ayme at higher
Hope or Fortune then her Will:
So she will my thraldome pay
But with one good looke a day.

To a Lady putting off her veile.

Keep on your veile & hide your eye,
for with beholding you I dye,
your fatall Beauty Gorgon like,
dead with astonishment will strike,
your piercing eyes, if them I see,
are worse then Basilisks to me.

Hide from my sight those Hils of Snow,
Their melting Vally do not show;
Those Azure paths lead to dispair,
O vex me not, forbear, forbear;
For while I thus in torments dwell
The sight of Heav'n is worse then Hell.

Your dainty voice and warbling breath
Sounds like a sentence past for death,
Your dangling tresses are become
Like Instruments of finall doome;
O if an Angell torture so!
When life is done, where shall I go?

In praise of his Mistress.

Thou Shepheard whose intentive eye,
on ev'ry Lamb is such a spy,
no wily Fox can make them lesse,
where may I find my Shepheardess?

A little pausing then sayd hee,
How can that Jewell stray from thee
In Summers heat, in Winters cold,
I thought thy brest had been her fold?

That is indeed the constant place
Wherein my thoughts still see her face,
And print her Image in my heart,
But yet my fond eyes crave a part.

With that he smiling sayd, I might
Of Chloris partly have a sight,
And some of her perfections meet
In ev'ry flow'r was fresh and sweet.

The growing Lilly bears her skin,
The Violet her blew veins within,
The blushing Rose new blown, and spread
Her sweeter cheek, her lips, the red.

The Winds that wanton with the Spring,
Such Odours as her breathing bring,
But the resemblance of her eyes
Was never found beneath the skies.

Her charming voyce who strives to hit,
His Object must be higher yet;
For Heav'n and Earth, and all we see
Dispierc'd, collected, is but shee.

Amaz'd at this discourse, me thought
Love both Ambition in me wrought,
And made me covet to engrosse
A Wealth would prove a Publick losse.

With that I sigh'd asham'd to see
Such worth in her, such want in mee;
And closing both mine eyes, forbid
The World my sight since she was hid.

To a Lady weeping.

O now the certain cause I know,
whence the Rose and Lilly grow
in your fair cheeks, the often showr's,
which you thus weep do breed those Flow'rs.

If that the flouds could Venus bring,
Or warlike Mars from Flowers spring;
Why may not hence two Gods arise?
This from your Cheeks, that from your Eyes.

[Grieve not, dear Love, although we often part]

Grieve not, grieve not, dear Love, although we often part

Grieve not, grieve not, dear Love, although we often part, but know that nature gently doth us sever, thereby to train us up, thereby to train us up with tender Art, with tender Art to brook the day when we, when we must part for ever: For nature doubting we should be surpriz'd by that sad day, whose dread, whose dread, doth chiefly fear us, doth keep us dayly school'd and exercised, lest that the fright, lest that the fright, the fright thereof should over, over bear us.

A caution to faire Ladies.

Ladies, you whose smooth and dainty Skin

Ladies, you whose smooth and dainty Skin, rosie Lips, rosie Lips, or Cheeks or Chin, all that gaze upon you win, yet insult not, sparks within slowly burn, sparks within slowly burn ere flames, ere flames begin, and presumption still hath been held a most notorious sin.

FINIS.