The Poetry of George Wither :: :: University of Virginia Library

This Elegiacal Epistle, being a fragment of some greater poem, discovers the modest affections of a discreet and constant woman, shadowed under the name of Fidelia; wherein you may perceive the height of their passions, so far as they seem to agree with reason, and keep within such decent bounds as beseemeth their sex; but further it meddles not. The occasion seems to proceed from some mutability in her friend, whose objections she here presupposing confuteth, and in the person of him justly upbraideth all that are subject to the like change or fickleness in mind. Among the rest, some more weighty arguments than are, perhaps, expected in such a subject, are briefly, and yet somewhat seriously handled.

Oft I heard tell, and now for truth I find,
Once out of sight, and quickly out of mind.
And that it hath been rightly said of old,
Love that's soon'st hot, is ever soonest cold.

Or else my tears at this time had not stain'd
The spotless paper, nor my lines complain'd.
I had not now been forced to have sent
These for the nuncios of my discontent,
Or thus exchanged so unhappily
My songs of mirth, to write an elegy.
But now I must; and since I must do so,
Let me but crave thou wilt not flout my woe,
Nor entertain my sorrows with a scoff,
But at least read them, ere thou cast them off.
And, though thy heart's too hard to have compassion,
If thou'lt not pity, do not blame my passion;
For well thou know'st (alas, that e'er 'twas known)
There was a time, although that time be gone,
I, that for this scarce dare a beggar be,
Presumed for more to have commanded thee.
Yea, the day was (but see how things may change)
When thou and I have not been half so strange,
But oft embraced with a gentle greeting,
And no worse words than ‘turtle-dove’ or ‘sweeting.’
Yea, had thy meaning and those vows of thine
Proved but as faithful and as true as mine,
It still had been so; for (I do not feign)

I should rejoice it might be so again.
But, sith thy love grows cold, and thou unkind,
Be not displeas'd I somewhat breathe my mind;
I am in hope my words may prove a mirror,
Whereon thou looking may'st behold thine error.
And yet the heaven and my sad heart doth know
How griev'd I am, and with what feeling woe
My mind is tortured, to think that I
Should be the brand of thy disloyalty,
Or live to be the author of a line
That shall be tainted with a fault of thine;
Since if that thou but slightly touched be,
Deep wounds of grief and shame it strikes in me;
And yet I must; ill hap compels me to
What I ne'er thought to have had cause to do.
And therefore, seeing that some angry Fate
Imposes on me what I so much hate,
Or since it is so, that the powers divine
Me miserable to such cares assign,
Oh that Love's patron, or some sacred Muse,
Amongst my passions would such art infuse,
My well-framed words and airy sighs might prove
The happy blasts to re-inflame thy love.
Or at least touch thee with thy fault so near,
That thou might'st see thou wrong'st who held thee dear,
Seeing, confess the same, and so abhor it,
Abhorring, pity, and repent thee for it.

But, dear,—I hope that I may call thee so,

For thou art dear to me, although a foe—
Tell me, is 't true that I do hear of thee,
And by thy absence now so seems to be?
Can such abuse be in thy court of Love,
False and inconstant now, thou he should'st prove,
He, that so woeful and so pensive sate
Vowing his service at my feet of late?
Art thou that quondam lover, whose sad eye
I never saw yet in my presence dry,
And from whose gentle-seeming tongue I know
So many pity-moving words could flow?
Was 't thou so soughtst my love, so seeking that
As if it had been all th' hadst aimed at,
Making me think thy passion without stain,
And gently quite thee with my love again?
With this persuasion I so fairly placed it,
Nor Time nor Envy should have e'er defaced it.
Is 't so? have I done thus much? and art thou
So overcloyed with my favours now?
Art wearied since with loving, and estranged
So far? Is thy affection so much changed,
That I of all my hopes must be deceived,
And all good thoughts of thee be quite bereaved?

Then I find true, which long before this day
I fear'd myself, and heard some wiser say,
That there is nought on earth so sweet that can
Long relish with the curious taste of man.

Happy was I; yea, well it was with me,
Before I came to be bewitch'd by thee.
I joy'd the sweet'st content that ever maid
Possessed yet; and truly well-a-paid,
Made to myself alone as pleasant mirth
As ever any virgin did on earth.
The melody I used was free, and such
As that bird makes whom never hand did touch;
But, unallured with fowlers' whistling, flies
Above the reach of human treacheries.

And, well I do remember, often then
Could I read o'er the policies of men,
Discover what uncertainties they were,
How they would sigh, look sad, protest, and swear;
Nay, feign to die, when they did never prove
The slend'rest touch of a right worthy love,
But had chilled hearts, whose dulness understood
No more of passion than they did of good.
All which I noted well, and in my mind,
A general humour amongst womenkind,
This vow I made, thinking to keep it than,
That never the fair tongue of any man,
Nor his complaint, though never so much grieved,
Should move my heart to liking whilst I lived.

But, who can say, what she shall live to do?
I have believed, and let in liking too,
And that so far, I cannot yet see how
I may so much as hope to help it now;
Which makes me think, whate'er we women say,
Another mind will come another day;

And that men may to things unhoped for climb,
Who watch but opportunity and time.

For 'tis well known we were not made of clay,
Or such coarse and ill-temper'd stuff as they.
For He that framed us of their flesh, did deign
When 'twas at best, to new refine 't again.
Which makes us ever since the kinder creatures,
Of far more flexible and yielding natures.
And as we oft excel in outward parts,
So we have nobler and more gentle hearts;
Which you well knowing, daily do devise
How to imprint on them your cruelties.

But do I find my cause thus bad indeed?
Or else on things imaginary feed?
Am I the lass that late so truly jolly
Made myself merry oft, at others' folly?
Am I the nymph that Cupid's fancies blamed,
That was so cold, so hard to be inflamed?
Am I myself? or is myself that she
Who from this thraldom or such falsehoods free,
Late own'd mine own heart, and full merry then,
Did forewarn others to beware of men?
And could not, having taught them what to do,
Now learn myself to take heed of you too?
Fool that I am, I fear my guerdon's just,
In that I knew this, and presumed to trust.
And yet, alas, for ought that I could tell,
One spark of goodness in the world might dwell:
And then I thought, if such a thing might be,
Why might not that one spark remain in thee?
For thy fair outside, and thy fairer tongue,

Promised much, although thy years were young.
And Virtue, wheresoever she be now,
Seem'd then to sit enthroned upon thy brow.
Yea, sure it was: but, whether 'twere or no,
Certain I am, I was persuaded so:
Which made me loth to think that words of fashion,
Could be so framed, so overlaid with passion,
Or sighs so feeling feign'd from any breast.
Nay, say thou hadst been false in all the rest,
Yet from thy eye, my heart such notice took,
Methought, guile could not feign so sad a look.
But now I've tried, my bought experience knows,
They are oft worse that make the fairest shows.
And howsoe'er men feign an outward grieving,
'Tis neither worth respecting, nor believing:
For, she that doth one to her mercy take,
Warms in her bosom but a frozen snake,
Which, heated with her favours, gathers sense,
And stings her to the heart in recompense.

But tell me why, and for what secret spite
You in poor women's miseries delight?
For so it seems; else why d'ye labour for
That which, when 'tis obtain'd, you do abhor?
Or to what end do you endure such pain
To win our love, and cast it off again?
Oh! that we either your hard hearts could borrow,
Or else your strengths, to help us bear our sorrow.

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But we are cause of all this grief and shame,
And we have none but our own selves to blame:
For still we see your falsehoods for our learning,
Yet never can have power to take 't for warning;
But, as if born to be deluded by you,
We know you trustless, and yet still we try you.

Alas, what wrong was in my power to do thee?
Or what despite have I e'er done unto thee
That thou shouldst choose me, above all the rest,
To be thy scorn, and thus be made a jest?
Must men's ill natures such true villains prove them,
To make them only wrong those most that love them?
Couldst thou find none in country, town, or court,
But only me, to make thy fool, thy sport?
Thou know'st I have no wanton courses run,
Nor seemed easy unto lewdness won;
And, though I cannot boast me of much wit,
Thou saw'st no sign of fondness in me yet;
Nor did ill nature ever so o'ersway me,
To flout at any that did woo or pray me.
But grant I had been guilty of abusage,
Of thee I'm sure I ne'er deserved such usage.
But thou wert grieved to behold my smilings,
When I was free from love and thy beguilings,
Or to what purpose else didst thou bestow
Thy time and study to delude me so?
Hast thou good parts? and dost thou bend them all
To bring those that ne'er hated thee in thrall?

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Prithee take heed, although thou yet enjoy'st them,
They'll be took from thee, if thou so employ'st them.
For though I wish not the least harm to thee,
I fear, the just heavens will revenged be.

Oh! what of me by this time had become,
If my desires with thine had happed to roam,
Or I unwisely had consented to
What, shameless, once thou didst attempt to do?
I might have fall'n by those immodest tricks,
Had not some power been stronger than my sex;
And if I should have so been drawn to folly,
I saw thee apt enough to be unholy;
Or if my weakness had been prone to sin,
I poorly by thy strength had succour'd bin.
You men make us believe you do but try;
And that's your part, you say; ours to deny.
Yet I much fear, if we through frailty stray,
There's few of you within your bounds will stay,
But, maugre all your seeming virtue, be
As ready to forget yourselves as we.

I might have fear'd thy part of love not strong,
When thou didst offer me so base a wrong;
And that I after loath'd thee not, did prove
In me some extra-ordinary love.
For sure had any other but in thought
Presum'd unworthily what thou hast sought,
Might it appear, I should do thus much for him,
With a scarce reconciled hate abhor him.

My young experience never yet did know
Whether desire might range so far, or no,

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To make true lovers carelessly request,
What rash enjoying makes them most unblest,
Or blindly thorough frailty give consenting
To that, which done brings nothing but repenting.
But in my judgment it doth rather prove
That thou art fired with lust, than warm'd with love.
And if it be for proof men so proceed,
It shows a doubt; else what do trials need?
And where is that man living ever knew
That false distrust could be with love that's true?
Since the mere cause of that unblamed effect,
Such an opinion is, that hates suspect.
And yet, I will thee and thy love excuse,
If thou wilt neither me nor mine abuse.
For I'll suppose thy passion made thee proffer
That unto me thou to none else wouldst offer.
And so, think thou, if I have thee denied,
Whom I more loved than all men else beside,
What hope have they such favours to obtain
That never half so much respect could gain?

Such was my love, that I did value thee
Above all things below eternity.
Nothing on earth unto my heart was nearer,
No joy so prized, nor no jewel dearer.
Nay, I do fear I did idolatrize;
For which heaven's wrath inflicts these miseries,

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And makes the things which it for blessings sent,
To be renewers of my discontent.
Where was there any of the Naiades,
The Dryads, or the Hamadryades?
Which of the British shires can yield again
A mistress of the springs, or wood, or plain?
Whose eye enjoyed more sweet contents than mine,
Till I received my overthrow by thine?
Where's she did more delight in springs and rills?
Where's she that walk'd more groves, or downs, or hills?
Or could by such fair artless prospects, more
Add by conceit to her contentment's store
Than I, whilst thou wert true, and with thy graces
Didst give a pleasing presence to those places?
But now what is, what was hath overthrown,
My rose-deck'd alleys now with rue are strown;
And from those flowers that honeyed use to be,
I suck nought now but juice to poison me.

For ev'n as she, whose gentle spirit can rise
To apprehend Love's noble mysteries,
Spying a precious jewel richly set
Shine in some corner of her cabinet,
Taketh delight at first to gaze upon
The pretty lustre of the sparkling stone,
And pleased in mind, by that doth seem to see
How virtue shines through base obscurity,
But prying nearer, seeing it doth prove
Some relic of her dear deceased love,

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Which to her sad remembrance doth lay ope
What she most sought and sees most far from hope,
Fainting almost beneath her passion's weight,
And quite forgetful of her first conceit,
Looking upon 't again, from thence she borrows
Sad melancholy thoughts to feed her sorrows:

So I, beholding Nature's curious bowers,
Ciel'd, strow'd, and trimm'd up with leaves, herbs, and flowers,
Walk pleased on a while, and do devise
How on each object I may moralize.
But ere I pace on many steps, I see
There stands a hawthorn that was trimm'd by thee:
Here thou didst once slip off the virgin sprays
To crown me with a wreath of living bays.
On such a bank I see how thou didst lie,
When, viewing of a shady mulberry,
The hard mishap thou didst to me discuss
Of loving Thisbe and young Pyramus:
And oh, think I, how pleasing was it then,
Or would be yet, might he return again.
But if some neighbouring row do draw me to
Those arbours, where the shadows seem to woo
The weary lovesick passenger to sit
And view the beauties Nature strows on it;
How fair, think I, would this sweet place appear
If he I love were sporting with me here!
Nay, every several object that I see
Doth severally, methinks, remember thee.

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But the delight I used from it to gather,
I now exchange for cares, and seek them rather.

But those whose dull and gross affections can
Extend but only to desire a man,
Cannot the depth of these rare passions know,
For their imaginations flag too low.
And 'cause their base conceits do apprehend
Nothing but that whereto the flesh doth tend;
In Love's embraces they ne'er reach unto
More of content than the brute creatures do.
Neither can any judge of this, but such
Whose braver minds for braver thoughts do touch
And having spirits of a nobler frame,
Feel the true heat of Love's unquenched flame;
They may conceive aright what smarting sting
To their remembrances the place will bring,
Where they did once enjoy, and then do miss,
What to their souls most dear and precious is.
With me 'tis so; for those walks that once seem'd
Pleasing, when I of thee was more esteem'd,
To me appear most desolate and lonely,
And are the places now of torment only.
Where I the highest of contents did borrow,
There am I paid it home with treble sorrow.

Unto one place, I do remember well,
We walk'd the evenings to hear Philomel;
And that seems now to want the light it had;
The shadow of the grove's more dull and sad,

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As if it were a place but fit for fowls
That screech ill-luck; as melancholy owls,
Or fatal ravens that, seld boding good,
Croak their black auguries from some dark wood.

Then if from thence I half-despairing go,
Another place begins another woe:
For thus unto my thought it seems to say,
“Hither thou saw'st him riding once that way
Thither to meet him thou didst nimbly haste thee,
Yond he alighted, and ev'n there embraced thee:”
Which whilst I sighing wish to do again,
Another object brings another pain.
For passing by that green, which, could it speak,
Would tell it saw us run at barley-break,
There I beheld what on a thin-rind tree
Thou hadst engraven for the love of me,
When we two all alone in heat of day
With chaste embraces drave swift hours away.
Then I remember too, unto my smart,
How loth we were when time compell'd to part;
How cunningly thy passions thou couldst feign
In taking leave, and coming back again
So oft, until, as seeming to forget
We were departing, down again we set,
And freshly in that sweet discourse went on,
Which now I almost faint to think upon.

Viewing again those other walks and groves

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That have been witnesses of our chaste loves,
When I beheld those trees whose tender skin
Hath that cut out which still cuts me within,
Or come, by chance, unto that pretty rill
Where thou wouldst sit, and teach the neighbouring hill
To answer, in an echo, unto those
Rare problems which thou often didst propose;
When I come there, think I, if these could take
That use of words and speech which we partake,
They might unfold a thousand pleasures then
Which I shall never live to taste again.
And thereupon, remembrance doth so rack
My thoughts, with representing what I lack,
That in my mind those clerks do argue well,
Which hold privation the great'st plague of hell.
For there's no torment gripes me half so bad,
As the remembrance of those joys I had.

Oh, hast thou quite forgot, when sitting by
The banks of Thame, beholding how the fry
Play'd on the silver-waves—there where I first
Granted to make my fortune thus accurst;
There where thy too-too earnest suit compelled
My over-soon believing heart to yield
One favour first, which then another drew
To get another, till, alas, I rue
That day and hour, thinking I ne'er should need,
As now, to grieve for doing such a deed:
So freely I my courtesies bestow'd,
That whose I was unwarily I show'd,
And to my heart such passage made for thee

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Thou canst not to this day removed be;
And what breast could resist it, having seen
How true thy love had in appearance been?
For, I shall ne'er forget, when thou hadst there
Laid open every discontent and care
Wherewith thou deeply seem'dst to me opprest
When thou, as much as any could protest,
Hadst vow'd and sworn, and yet perceived'st no sign
Of pity moving in this breast of mine,
“Well, love,” said'st thou, “since neither sigh nor vow,
Nor any service may prevail me now:
Since neither the recital of my smart,
Nor those strong passions that assail my heart,
Nor anything may move thee to belief
Of these my sufferings, or to grant relief;
Since there's no comfort, nor desert, that may
Get me so much as hope of what I pray;
Sweet love, farewell; farewell, fair beauty's light,
And every pleasing object of the sight;
My poor despairing heart here biddeth you
And all content for evermore adieu.”

Then ev'n as thou seem'dst ready to depart,
Reaching that hand, which after gave my heart,
And thinking this sad “Farewell” did proceed
From a sound breast, but truly moved indeed,
I stayed thy departing from me so,
Whilst I stood mute with sorrow, thou for show.
And the meanwhile, as I beheld thy look,

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My eye the impression of such pity took,
That, with the strength of passion overcome,
A deep-fetch'd sigh my heart came breathing from:
Whereat thou, ever wisely using this
To take advantage when it offered is,
Renew'dst thy suit to me, who did afford
Consent, in silence first, and then in word.

So for that yielding thou may'st thank thy wit;
And yet whenever I remember it,
Trust me, I muse, and often, wond'ring, think
Thorough what cranny or what secret chink
That love, unwares, so like a sly close elf,
Did to my heart insinuate itself.

Gallants I had, before thou cam'st to woo,
Could as much love, and as well court me too;
And, though they had not learned so the fashion
Of acting such well-counterfeited passion,
In wit and person they did equal thee,
And worthier seem'd, unless thou'lt faithful be.
Yet still unmov'd, unconquer'd I remained;
No, not one thought of love was entertained;
Nor could they brag of the least favour to them,
Save what mere courtesy enjoin'd to do them.
Hard was my heart, but would 't had harder bin,
And then, perhaps, I had not let thee in;
Thou, tyrant, that art so imperious there,
And only tak'st delight to domineer.
But held I out such strong, such oft assailing,

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And ever kept the honour of prevailing?
Was this poor breast from love's allurings free?
Cruel to all and gentle unto thee?
Did I unlock that strong affection's door,
That never could be broken ope before,
Only to thee? and, at thy intercession,
So freely give up all my heart's possession,
That to myself I left not one poor vein,
Nor power, nor will, to put thee from 't again?
Did I do this? and all on thy bare vow?
And wilt thou thus requite my kindness now?
Oh, that thou either hadst not learn'd to feign,
Or I had power to cast thee off again!
How is it that thou art become so rude
And over-blinded by ingratitude?
Swar'st thou so deeply that thou wouldst persever,
That I might thus be cast away for ever?
Well, then 'tis true, that lovers' perjuries
Among some men are thought no injuries,
And that she only hath least cause of grief
Who of your words hath small'st, or no belief.

Had I the wooer been, or fondly woon,
This had been more though than thou couldst have done;
But, neither being so, what reason is
On thy side that should make thee offer this?

I know, had I been false, or my faith fail'd,
Thou wouldst at women's fickleness have rail'd;
And if in me it had an error bin,
In thee shall the same fault be thought no sin?
Rather I hold that which is bad in me

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Will be a greater blemish unto thee,
Because by Nature thou art made more strong,
And therefore abler to endure a wrong.
But 'tis our fortune, you'll have all the power,
Only the care and burden must be our.
Nor can you be content a wrong to do,
Unless you lay the blame upon us too.
Oh, that there were some gentle-minded poet
That knew my heart, as well as now I know it,
And would endear me to his love so much,
To give the world though but a slender touch
Of that sad passion which now clogs my heart,
And show my truth and thee how false thou art,
That all might know, what is believed by no man,
There's fickleness in men and faith in woman.

Thou saw'st I first let pity in, then liking,
And lastly, that which was thy only seeking:
And, when I might have scorn'd that love of thine,
As now ungently thou despisest mine,
Among the inmost angles of my breast,
To lodge it by my heart I thought it best:
Which thou hast stol'n too, like a thankless mate,
And left me nothing but a black self-hate.
What canst thou say for this, to stand contending?
What colour hast thou left for thy offending?
That wit, perhaps, hath some excuse in store,
Or an evasion to escape a sore.
But well I know, if thou excuse this treason,

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It must be by some greater thing than reason.

Are any of those virtues yet defaced,
On which thy first affection seemed placed?
Hath any secret foe my true faith wronged,
To rob the bliss that to my heart belonged?
What then? shall I condemned be unheard
Before thou knowest how I may be clear'd?
Thou art acquainted with the times' condition,
Know'st it is full of envy and suspicion,
So that the wariest in thought, word, and action,
Shall be most injured by foul-mouth'd detraction:
And therefore thou, methinks, shouldst wisely pause
Before thou credit rumours without cause.
But I have gotten such a confidence
In thy opinion of my innocence,
It is not that, I know, withholds thee now;
Sweet, tell me then, is it some sacred vow?
Hast thou resolved not to join thy hand
With any one in Hymen's holy band?
Thou shouldst have done it then, when thou wert free,
Before thou hadst bequeath'd thyself to me.
What vow dost deem more pleasing unto heaven
Than what is by unfeigned lovers given?
If any be, yet sure it frowneth at
Those that are made for contradicting that.
But, if thou wouldst live chastely all thy life,
That thou may'st do, though we be man and wife;
Or, if thou long'st a virgin death to die,

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Why, if it be thy pleasure, so do I.
Make me but thine, and I'll contented be
A virgin still, yet live and lie with thee.
Then let not thy inventing brain essay
To mock, and still delude me every way,
But call to mind how thou hast deeply sworn
Not to neglect nor leave me thus forlorn.
And if thou wilt not be to me as when
We first did love, do but come see me then;
Vouchsafe that I may sometime with thee walk,
Or sit and look on thee or hear thee talk;
And I that most content once aimed at
Will think there is a world of bliss in that.

Dost thou suppose that my desire denies
With thy affections well to sympathize?
Or such perverseness hast thou found in me,
May make our natures disagreeing be?
Thou know'st when thou didst wake I could not sleep,
And if thou wert but sad, that I should weep.
Yet, even when the tears my cheek did stain,
If thou didst smile, why I could smile again.
I never did contrary thee in ought;
Nay, thou canst tell, I oft have spake thy thought.
Waking, the self-same course with thee I run,
And sleeping, oftentimes our dreams were one.

The dial-needle, though it sense doth want,
Still bends to the beloved adamant;
Lift the one up, the other upward tends;
If this fall down, that presently descends:
Turn but about the stone, the steel turns too;

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Then straight returns, if but the other do;
And, if it stay, with trembling keeps one place,
As if it, panting, long'd for an embrace.
So was 't with me: for, if thou merry wert,
That mirth of thine moved joy within my heart:
I sighed too, when thou didst sigh or frown;
When thou wert sick, thou hast perceived me swoun;
And being sad have oft, with forced delight,
Striv'd to give thee content beyond my might.
When thou wouldst talk, then have I talk'd with thee,
And silent been when thou wouldst silent be.
If thou abroad didst go, with joy I went;
If home thou lov'dst, at home was my content:
Yea, what did to my nature disagree
I could make pleasing, 'cause it pleased thee.

But, if 't be either my weak sex, or youth,
Makes thee misdoubt my undistained truth,
Know this; as none, till that unhappy hour
When I was first made thine, had ever power
To move my heart by vows, or tears' expense,
No more, I swear, could any creature since.
No looks but thine, though aim'd with passion's art,
Could pierce so deep to penetrate my heart.
No name but thine was welcome to my ear;
No word did I so soon so gladly hear:
Nor ever could my eyes behold or see,
What I was since delighted in, but thee.

And sure thou wouldst believe it to be so
If I could tell, or words might make thee know,

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How many a weary night my tumbled bed
Hath known me sleepless, what salt tears I've shed;
What scalding sighs, the marks of souls opprest,
Have hourly breathed from my careful breast.
Nor wouldst thou deem those waking sorrows feign'd,
If thou might'st see how sleeping I am pain'd.
For if sometimes I chance to take a slumber,
Unwelcome dreams my broken rest doth cumber;
Which dreaming makes me start, starting with fears
Wakes; and so waking I renew my cares,
Until my eyes o'er-tired with watch and weeping,
Drown'd in their own floods fall again to sleeping.
Oh! that thou couldst but think, when last we parted,
How much I, grieving for thy absence, smarted:
My very soul fell sick, my heart to aching,
As if they had their last farewells been taking,
Or feared by some secret divination
This thy revolt and causeless alteration.
Didst thou not feel how loth that hand of mine
Was to let go the hold it had of thine?
And with what heavy, what unwilling look
I leave of thee, and then of comfort took?
I know thou didst; and though now thus thou do,
I am deceived but then it grieved thee too.

Then if I so with love's fell passion vext
For thy departure only was perplext,
When I had left to strengthen me some trust,
And hope that thou wouldst ne'er have proved unjust,

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What was my torture then and hard endurance
When of thy falsehood I received assurance?

Alas, my tongue awhile with grief was dumb,
And a cold shuddering did my joints benumb,
Amazement seized my thought, and so prevailed,
I found me ill, but knew not what I ailed.
Nor can I yet tell, since my suffering then
Was more than could be shown by poet's pen,
Or well conceived by any other heart
Than that which in such care hath borne a part.

Oh me, how loth was I to have believed
That to be true, for which so much I grieved?
How gladly would I have persuaded bin
There had been no such matter, no such sin.
I would have had my heart think that I knew
To be the very truth, not to be true.
Why may not this, thought I, some vision be,
Some sleeping dream or waking phantasy
Begotten by my over-blinded folly,
Or else engendered through my melancholy?
But finding it so real, thought I then,
Must I be cast from all my hopes again?
What are become of all those fading blisses,
Which late my hope had, and now so much misses?
Where is that future fickle happiness
Which I so long expected to possess?
And, thought I too, where are his dying passions,
His honeyed words, his bitter lamentations?
To what end were his sonnets, epigrams,
His pretty posies, witty anagrams?
I could not think all that might have been feign'd,

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Nor any faith I thought so firm been stain'd.
Nay, I do sure and confidently know
It is not possible it should be so,
If that rare art and passion was thine own
Which in my presence thou hast often shown.
But, since thy change, my much-presaging heart
Is half afraid thou some impostor wert;
Or that thou didst but, player-like addrest,
Act that which flow'd from some more gentle breast.
Thy puffed invention, with worse matter swollen,
Those thy conceits from better wits hath stolen:
Or else I know it could not be that thou
Shouldst be so over-cold as thou art now;
Since those, who have that feelingly their own,
Ever possess more worth conceal'd than known.
And if Love ever any mortals touch,
To make a brave impression, 'tis in such,
Who, sworn love's chaplains, will not violate
That whereunto themselves they consecrate.

But oh, you noble brood, on whom the world
The slighted burthen of neglect hath hurl'd,
Because your thoughts, for higher objects born,
Their grovelling humours and affection scorn,
You, whom the gods, to hear your strains, will follow,
Whilst you do court the sisters of Apollo,
You, whom there's none that's worthy can neglect,
Or any that unworthy is affect;
Do not let those that seek to do you shame
Bewitch us with those songs they cannot frame:

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The noblest of our sex, and fairest too,
Do ever love and honour such as you.
Then wrong us not so much to give your passion
To those that have it but in imitation,
And in their dull breasts never feel the power
Of such deep thoughts as sweetly move in your.
As well as you, they us thereby abuse,
For, many times, when we our lovers choose,
Where we think Nature that rich jewel sets
Which shines in you, we light on counterfeits.

But see, see whither discontentment bears me,
And to what uncouth strains my passion rears me:
Yet, pardon me, I here again repent
If I have erred through that discontent.
Be what thou wilt, be counterfeit or right,
Be constant, serious, or be vain, or light,
My love remains inviolate the same:
Thou canst be nothing that can quench this flame,
But it will burn as long as thou hast breath
To keep it kindled, if not after death.
Ne'er was there one more true than I to thee,
And though my faith must now despised be,
Unpriz'd, unvalued at the lowest rate,
Yet this I'll tell thee; 'tis not all thy state,
Nor all that better-seeming worth of thine,
Can buy thee such another love as mine:
Liking it may, but oh, there's as much odds,
'Twixt love and that, as between men and gods,
And 'tis a purchase not procured with treasure,
As some fools think, nor to be gain'd at pleasure;

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For were it so, and any could assure it,
What would not some men part with to procure it?
But though thou weigh 't not as thou ought'st to do,
Thou know'st I love, and once didst love me too.
Then where's the cause of this dislike in thee?
Survey thyself, I hope there's none in me.
Yet look on her from whom thou art estranged;
See, is my person or my beauty changed?
Once thou didst praise it, prithee view 't again,
And mark if 't be not still the same 'twas then.
No false vermilion dye my cheek distains,
'Tis the poor blood dispersed through pores and veins,
Which thou hast oft seen through my forehead flushing,
To show no dauby colour hid my blushing,
Nor never shall; Virtue, I hope, will save me,
Contented with that beauty Nature gave me.
Or, if 't seem less, for that grief's veil hath hid it,
Thou threw'st it on me, 'twas not I that did it,
And canst again restore what may repair
All that's decay'd, and make me far more fair.
Which if thou do, I'll be more wary than,
To keep 't for thee unblemish'd, what I can;
And 'cause at best 'twill want much of perfection,
The rest shall be supplied with true affection.

But I do fear it is some other's riches,
Whose more abundance that thy mind bewitches;
So that base object, that too general aim,
Makes thee my lesser fortune to disclaim.

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Fie, canst thou so degenerate in spirit,
As to prefer the means before the merit?
Although I cannot say it is in me,
Such worth sometimes with poverty may be
To equalize the match she takes upon her,
Tho' th' other vaunt of birth, wealth, beauty, honour:
And many a one that did for greatness wed,
Would gladly change it for a meaner bed.
Yet are my fortunes known indifferent,
Not basely mean, but such as may content;
And though I yield the better to be thine,
I may be bold to say thus much for mine;
That if thou couldst of them and me esteem,
Neither thy state nor birth would misbeseem;
Or if it did, how can I help 't, alas,
Thou, not alone, before knew'st what it was.
But I, although not fearing so to speed,
Did also disenable 't more than need,
And yet thou woo'dst, and wooing didst persever
As if thou hadst intended love for ever:
Yea, thy account of wealth thou mad'st so small,
Thou hadst not any question of 't at all;
But hating much that peasant-like condition,
Didst seem displeas'd I held it in suspicion.
Whereby I think, if nothing else do thwart us,
It cannot be the want of that will part us.

Yea, I do rather doubt indeed, that this
The needless fear of friends' displeasure is.
That is the bar which stops out my delight,

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And all my hope and joy confoundeth quite.
But bears there any in thy heart such sway
To shut me thence, and wipe thy love away?
Can there be any friend that hath the power
To disunite hearts so conjoin'd as our?
Ere I would have so done by thee, I'd rather
Have parted with one dearer than my father.
For though the will of our Creator binds
Each child to learn and know his parents' minds,
Yet sure I am so just a Deity
Commandeth nothing against piety;
Nor doth that band of duty give them leave
To violate their faith or to deceive.
And though that parents have authority
To rule their children in minority,
Yet they are never granted such power on them
That will allow to tyrannize upon them,
Or use them under their command so ill,
To force them, without reason, to their will.

For who hath read in all the Sacred Writ
Of any one compell'd to marriage yet?
What father so unkind, thereto required,
Denied his child the match that he desired,
So that he found the laws did not forbid it?
I think those gentler ages no men did it.
In those days therefore for them to have bin
Contracted without licence had been sin,
Since there was more good-nature among men,
And every one more truly loving then.
But now, although we stand obliged still
To labour for their liking and good-will,

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There is no duty whereby they may tie us
From ought which without reason they deny us:
For I do think it is not only meant
Children should ask, but parents should consent;
And that they err, their duty as much breaking
For not consenting as we not for speaking:
“It is no marvel many matches be
Concluded now without their privity;
Since they, through greedy avarice misled,
Their interest in that have forfeited.”
For some, respectless of all care, do marry
Hot youthful May to cold old January.
Some, for a greedy end, do basely tie
The sweetest fair to foul deformity,
Forcing a love from where 'twas placed late,
To re-ingraff it where it turns to hate.
It seems no cause of hindrance in their eyes
Though manners nor affections sympathize;
And two religions by their rules of state
They may in one made body tolerate,
As if they did desire that double stem
Should fruitful bear but neuters like to them.
Alas, how many numbers of both kinds,
By that, have ever discontented minds,
And live, though seeming unto others well,
In the next torments unto those of hell?
How many, desperate grown by this their sin,
Have both undone themselves and all their kin?
Many a one, we see, it makes to fall
With the too-late repenting prodigal.

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Thousands, though else by Nature gentler given,
To act the horrid'st murthers oft are driven;
And, which is worse, there's many a careless elf,
Unless heaven pity, kills and damns himself.
Oh, what hard heart, or what unpitying eyes,
Could hold from tears to see those tragedies,
Parents, by their neglect in this, have hurl'd
Upon the stage of this respectless world?
'Tis not one man, one family, one kin,
No, nor one country that hath ruin'd bin
By such their folly, which the cause hath proved
That foreign, oft, and civil wars were moved.
By such beginnings many a city lies
Now in the dust, whose turrets braved the skies:
And divers monarchs by such fortunes crost,
Have seen their kingdoms fired, and spoil'd, and lost.

Yet all this while, thou seest, I mention not
The ruin shame and chastity hath got;
For 'tis a task too infinite to tell
How many thousands that would have done well,
Do, by the means of this, suffer desires
To kindle in their hearts unlawful fires:
Nay, some, in whose cold breast ne'er flame had bin,
Have only for mere vengeance fall'n to sin.
Myself have seen, and my heart bled to see 't,
A witless clown enjoy a match unmeet.
She was a lass that had a look to move
The heart of cold Diogenes to love:
Her eye was such, whose every glance did know
To kindle flames upon the hills of snow;
And by her powerful piercings could imprint

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Or sparkle fire into a heart of flint:
And yet, unless I much deceived be,
In very thought did hate immodesty.
And, had sh' enjoy'd the man she could have loved,
Might to this day have lived unreproved:
But being forced, perforce, by seeming friends,
With her consent she her contentment ends,
In that, compell'd, herself to him she gave,
Whose bed she rather could have wish'd her grave;
And since I hear, what I much fear is true,
That she hath bidden shame and fame adieu.

Such are the causes now that parents quite
Are put beside much of their ancient right;
The fear of this makes children to withhold
From giving them those dues which else they would;
And these thou seest are the too-fruitful ills
Which daily spring from their unbridled wills.
Yet they, forsooth, will have it understood,
That all their study is their children's good.
A seeming love shall cover all they do,
When, if the matter were well look'd into,
Their careful reach is chiefly to fulfil
Their own foul, greedy, and insatiate will:
Who, quite forgetting they were ever young,
Would have their children dote, with them, on dung.

Grant, betwixt two there be true love, content,
Birth not mis-seeming, wealth sufficient,
Equality in years, an honest fame,

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In every side the person without blame,
And they obedient too, what can you gather
Of Love, or of affection, in that father
That, but a little to augment his treasure,
Perhaps no more but only for his pleasure,
Shall force his child to one he doth abhor,
From her he loves and justly seeketh for;
Compelling him, for such misfortune grieved,
To die with care, that might with joy have lived?
This you may say is Love, and swear as well
There's pains in Heaven and delights in Hell;
Or, that the devil's fury and austerity
Proceeds out of his care of our prosperity.
Would parents, in this age, have us begin
To take by their eyes our affections in?
Or do they think we bear them in our fist,
That we may still remove them as they list?
It is impossible it should be thus,
For we are ruled by love, not love by us:
And so our power so much ne'er reacheth to,
To know where we shall love, until we do.
And when it comes, hide it awhile we may,
But it is not in our strengths to drive 't away.

Either mine own eye should my chooser be,
Or I would ne'er wear Hymen's livery.
For who is he so near my heart doth rest,
To know what 'tis that mine approveth best?

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I have myself beheld those men, whose frame
And outward personages had nought of blame;
They had, what might their good proportion grace,
The much more moving part, a comely face,
With many of those complements, which we
In common men of the best breeding see;
They had discourse, and wit enough to carry
Themselves in fashion at an ordinary;
Gallants they were, loved company and sport,
Wore favours, and had mistresses in court;
And every way were such that they might seem
Worthy of note, respect, and such esteem;
Yet hath my eye more cause of liking seen
Where nought perhaps by some hath noted been:
And I have there found more content by far
Where some of these perfections wanting are;
Yea, so much that their beauties were a blot
To them, methought, because he had them not.

There some peculiar thing innated is,
That bears an uncontrolled sway in this;
And nothing but itself knows how to fit
The mind with that which best shall suit with it.

Then why should parents thrust themselves into
What they want warrant for, and power to do?
How is it they are so forgetful grown
Of those conditions that were once their own?
Do they so dote amidst their wits' perfection,

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To think that age and youth hath like affection,
When they do see 'mong those of equal years,
One hateth what another most endears?
Or do they think their wisdoms can invent
A thing to give that's greater than content?
No, neither shall they wrap us in such blindness,
To make us think the spite they do a kindness.
For as I would advise no child to stray
From the least duty that he ought to pay,
So would I also have him wisely know
How much that duty is which he doth owe;
That, knowing what doth unto both belong,
He may do them their right, himself no wrong.
For if my parents him I loathe should choose,
'Tis lawful, yea, my duty, to refuse;
Else how shall I lead so upright a life
As is enjoined to the man and wife?
Since that we see sometime there are repentings,
Ev'n where there are the most and best contentings.
What, though that by our parents first we live,
Is not life misery enough to give?
Which at their births the children doth undo,
Unless they add some other mischief too.
'Cause they gave being to this flesh of our,
Must we be therefore slaves unto their power?
We ne'er desired it, for how could we tell,
Not being, but that not-to-be was well?
Nor know they whom they profit by it, seeing
Happy were some, if they had had no being.

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Indeed, had they produced us without sin,
Had all our duty to have pleased them bin?
Of the next life could they assure the state,
And both beget us and regenerate,
There were no reason then we should withstand
To undergo their tyrannous't command,
In hope that either for our hard endurance,
We should, at last, have comfort in assurance;
Or, if in our endeavours we mis-sped,
At least feel nothing when we should be dead.

But what's the reason for 't that we shall be
Enthrall'd so much unto mortality,
Our souls on will of any men to tie
Unto an everlasting misery?
So far, perhaps too, from the good of either,
We ruin them, ourselves, and all together.

Children owe much, I must confess 'tis true,
And a great debt is to the parents due:
Yet if they have not so much power to crave
But in their own defence the lives they gave,
How much less then should they become so cruel
As to take from them the high-prized jewel
Of liberty in choice, whereon depends
The main contentment that the heaven here lends?
Worth life or wealth, nay, far more worth than either,
Or twenty thousand lives put all together.

Then howsoever some, severer bent,
May deem of my opinion or intent,
With that which follows thus conclude I do,

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And I have reason for 't, and conscience too:
No parent may his child's just suit deny
On his bare will, without a reason why;
Nor he so used be disobedient thought,
If unapproved he take the match he sought.

So then if that thy faith uncrazed be,
Thy friends' dislike shall be no stop to me;
For, if their will be not of force to do it,
They shall have no cause else to drive them to it.
Let them bring all forth that they can allege;
We are both young and of the fittest age,
If thou dissembledst not, both love, and both
To admit hindrance in our loves were loth.
'Tis prejudicial unto none that lives;
And God's and human law our warrant gives;
Nor are we much unequal in degree;
Perhaps our fortunes somewhat different be,
But say that little means, which is, were not,
The want of wealth may not dissolve this knot.
For though some such preposterous courses wend,
Prescribing to themselves no other end,
Marriage was not ordained t'enrich men by,
Unless it were in their posterity;
And he that doth for other causes wed
Ne'er knows the true sweets of a marriage bed:
Nor shall he, by my will, for 'tis unfit
He should have bliss that never aim'd at it.

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Though that bewitching gold the rabble blinds,
And is the object of the vulgar minds;
Yet those, methinks, that graced seem to be
With so much good as doth appear in thee,
Should scorn their better taught desires to tie
To that which fools do get their honour by.
I can like of the wealth, I must confess,
Yet more I prize the man, though moneyless.
I am not of their humour yet that can
For title or estate affect a man;
Or of myself one body deign to make
With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake.
Nor wish I ever to have that mind bred
In me, that is in those who, when they wed,
Think it enough they do attain the grace
Of some new honour, to fare well, take place,
Wear costly clothes, in others' sights agree,
Or happy in opinion seem to be.

I weigh not this: for were I sure before
Of Spencer's wealth, or our rich Sutton's store;
Had I therewith a man whom Nature lent
Person enough to give the eye content;
If I no outward due nor right did want,
Which the best husbands in appearance grant;
Nay, though alone we had no private jars,
But merry lived from all domestic cares;
Unless I thought his nature so incline
That it might also sympathize with mine,
And yield such correspondence with my mind,

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Our souls might mutually contentment find,
By adding unto these which went before
Some certain unexpressed pleasures more,
Such as exceed the straight and curb'd dimensions
Of common minds and vulgar apprehensions,
I would not care for such a match, but tarry
In this estate I am, and never marry.

Such were the sweets I hoped to have possest,
When fortune should with thee have made me blest.
My heart could hardly think of that content
To apprehend it without ravishment.
Each word of thine, methought, was to my ears
More pleasing than that music which the spheres,
They say, do make the gods, when in their chime
Their motions diapason with the time.
In my conceit the opening of thine eye
Seem'd to give light to every object by,
And shed a kind of life unto my shew,
On everything that was within it view.
More joy I've felt to have thee but in place
Than many do in the most close embrace
Of their beloved'st friend, which well doth prove
Not to thy body only tends my love;
But, mounting a true height, grows so divine,
It makes my soul to fall in love with thine.

And sure now, whatsoe'er thy body do,
Thy soul loves mine, and oft they visit too.
For late I dreamed they went I know not whither,
Unless to heaven, and there play'd together;
And to this day I ne'er could know or see

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'Twixt them or us the least antipathy.
Then what should make thee keep thy person hence,
Or leave to love, or hold it in suspense?
If to offend thee I unwares was driven,
Is 't such a fault as may not be forgiven?
Or if by frowns of fate I have been checked,
So that I seem not worth thy first respect,
Shall I be therefore blamed and upbraided
With what could not be holpen or avoided?
'Tis not my fault, yet 'cause my fortunes do
Wilt thou be so unkind to wrong me too?
Not unto thine, but thee, I set my heart,
So nought can wipe my love out while thou art:
Though thou wert poorer both of house and meat
Than he that knows not where to sleep or eat;
Though thou wert sunk into obscurity,
Become an abject in the world's proud eye;
Though by perverseness of thy fortune crost
Thou wert deformed, or some limb hadst lost,
That love which admiration first begot,
Pity would strengthen, that it failed not;
Yea, I should love thee still, and without blame,
As long as thou couldst keep thy mind the same,
Which is of virtues so compact, I take it,
No mortal change shall have the power to shake it.
This may, and will, I know, seem strange to those
That cannot the abyss of love disclose,
Nor must they think, whom but the outside moves,
Ever to apprehend such noble loves,

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Or more conjecture their unfounded measure
Than can we mortals of immortal pleasure.

Then let not those dull unconceiving brains,
Who shall hereafter come to read these strains,
Suppose that no love's fire can be so great
Because it gives not their cold clime such heat,
Or think m' invention could have reached here
Unto such thoughts, unless such love there were;
For then they shall but show their knowledge weak,
And injure me that feel of what I speak.

But now my lines grow tedious, like my wrong,
And as I thought that, thou think'st this too long.
Or some may deem I thrust myself into
More than beseemeth modesty to do.
But of the difference I am not unwitting,
Betwixt a peevish coyness and things unfitting;
Nothing respect I who pries o'er my doing,
For here's no vain allurements nor fond wooing,
To train some wanton stranger to my lure,
But with a thought that's honest, chaste, and pure,
I make my cause unto thy conscience known,
Suing for that which is by right my own.
In which complaint, if thou do hap to find
Any such word as seems to be unkind,
Mistake me not, it but from passion sprung,
And not from an intent to do thee wrong.
Or if among these doubts my sad thoughts breed,
Some, peradventure, may be more than need,

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They are to let thee know, might we dispute,
There's no objections but I could refute;
And spite of envy such defences make,
Thou shouldst embrace that love thou dost forsake.

Then do not, oh, forgetful man, now deem
That 'tis ought less than I have made it seem;
Or that I am unto this passion moved,
Because I cannot elsewhere be beloved;
Or that it is thy state whose greatness known
Makes me become a suitor for my own.
Suppose not so; for know this day there be
Some that woo hard for what I offer thee;
And I have ever yet contented bin
With that estate I first was placed in.
Banish those thoughts and turn thee to my heart;
Come once again and be what once thou wert.
Revive me by those wonted joys repairing,
That am nigh dead with sorrows and despairing:
So shall the memory of this annoy,
But add more sweetness to my future joy;
Yea, make me think thou meant'st not to deny me,
But only wert estranged thus, to try me.
And lastly, for that love's sake thou once bar'st me,
By that right hand thou gav'st, that oath thou swar'st me,
By all the passions, and, if any be,
For her dear sake that makes thee injure me,
I here conjure thee—no, entreat and sue,
That if these lines do overreach thy view,
Thou wouldst afford me so much favour for them

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As to accept, or at least not abhor them.

So though thou wholly cloak not thy disdain,
I shall have somewhat the less cause to plain:
Or if thou needs must scoff at this, or me,
Do 't by thyself, that none may witness be.
Not that I fear 'twill bring me any blame,
Only I'm loth the world should know thy shame.
For all that shall this plaint with reason view
Will judge me faithful, and thee most untrue.
But if oblivion, that thy love bereft,
Hath not so much good-nature in thee left
But that thou must, as most of you men do
When you have conquer'd, tyrannize it too,
Know this before, that it is praise to no man
To wrong so frail a creature as a woman,
And to insult o'er one so much made thine,
Will more be thy disparagement than mine.

But oh—I pray that it portend no harms—
A cheering heat my chilled senses warms:
Just now I flashing feel into my breast
A sudden comfort, not to be exprest,
Which, to my thinking, doth again begin
To warm my heart, to let some hope come in;
It tells me 'tis impossible that thou
Shouldst live not to be mine; it whispers how
My former fears and doubts have been in vain,
And that thou mean'st yet to return again.
It says thy absence from some cause did grow,

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Which or I should not or I could not know.
It tells me now that all those proofs, whereby
I seem'd assured of thy disloyalty,
May be but treacherous plots of some base foes
That in thy absence sought our overthrows.

Which if it prove, as yet methinks it may,
Oh, what a burden shall I cast away!
What cares shall I lay by, and to what height
Tower in my new ascension to delight!
Sure, ere the full of it I come to try,
I shall ev'n surfeit in my joy and die.
But such a loss might well be call'd a thriving,
Since more is got by dying so than living.

Come kill me then, my dear, if thou think fit,
With that which never killed woman yet:
Or write to me before, so shalt thou give
Content more moderate that I may live;
And when I see my staff of trust unbroken
I will unspeak again what is mis-spoken.
What I have written in dispraise of men
I will recant, and praise as much again;
In recompense I'll add unto their stories
Encomiastic lines to imp their glories.
And for those wrongs my love to thee hath done,
Both I and it unto thy pity run:
In whom, if the least guilt thou find to be,
For ever let thy arms imprison me.

Meanwhile I'll try if misery will spare
Me so much respite to take truce with care,

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And patiently await the doubtful doom
Which I expect from thee should shortly come;
Much longing that I one way may be sped,
And not still linger 'twixt alive and dead.
For I can neither live yet as I should,
Because I least enjoy of that I would;
Nor quiet die, because, indeed, I first
Would see some better days, or know the worst.

Then hasten, dear; if to my end it be,
It shall be welcome, 'cause it comes from thee;
If to renew my comfort ought be sent,
Let me not lose a minute of content.
The precious time is short and will away,
Let us enjoy each other while we may.
Cares thrive, age creepeth on, men are but shades,
Joys lessen, youth decays, and beauty fades;
New turns come on, the old returneth never,
If we let our go past, 'tis past for ever.