University of Virginia Library

The Spring.

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grasse, or castes an ycie creame
Vpon the silver Lake, or Chrystall streame:
But the warme Sunne thawes the benummed Earth,
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead Swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowzie Cuckow, and the Humble-Bee,
Now doe a quire of chirping Minstrels bring
In tryumph to the world, the youthfull Spring.
The Vallies, hills, and woods, in rich araye,
Welcome the comming of the long'd for May.
Now all things smile; onely my Love doth lowre:
Nor hath the scalding Noon-day-Sunne the power,
To melt that marble yee, which still doth hold
Her heart congeald, and makes her pittie cold
The Oxe which lately did for shelter flie
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fire side; but in the cooler shade,
Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleepe
Vnder a Sycamoure, and all things keepe
Time with the season, only shee doth carry
Iune in her eyes, in her heart Ianuary.

To A. L.

Perswasions to love.

Thinke not cause men flatt'ring say,
Y'are fresh as Aprill sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning starre,
That you are so, or though you are
Be not therefore proud, and deeme
All men unworthy your esteeme.
For being so, you loose the pleasure
Of being faire, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty, and sweet feature
Was bestow'd on you by nature
To be enjoy'd, and 'twere a sinne,
There to be scarce, where shee hath bin
So prodigall of her best graces;
Thus common beauties, and meane faces
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you loose by being coy.
Did the thing for which I sue
Onely concerne my selfe not you,
Were men so fram'd as they alone
Reap'd all the pleasure, women none,
Then had you reason to be scant;
But 'twere a madnesse not to grant
That which affords (if you consent)
To you the giver, more content
Then me the beggar; Oh then bee
Kinde to your selfe if not to mee;
Starue not your selfe, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beautie make
You your wiser thoughts forsake:
For that lovely face will faile,
Beautie's sweet, but beautie's fraile;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done
Then Summers raine, or winters Sun:
Most fleeting when it is most deare,
'Tis gone while wee but say 'tis here.
These curious locks so aptly twind,
Whose every haire a soule doth bind,
Will change their abroun hue, and grow
White, and cold as winters snow.
That eye which now is Cupids nest
Will proue his grave, and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheeke, chin, nose
Nor lilly shall be found nor rose.
And what will then become of all
Those, whom now you servants call?
Like swallowes when your summers done,
They'le flye and seeke some warmer Sun.
Then wisely chuse one to your friend,
Whose love may, when your beauties end,
Remaine still firme: be provident
And thinke before the summers spent
Of following winter; like the Ant
In plenty hoord for time of scant.
Cull out amongst the multitude
Of lovers, that seeke to intrude
Into your favour, one that may
Love for an age, not for a day.
One that will quench your youthfull fires,
And feed in age your hot desires.
For when the stormes of time have mou'd,
Waves on that cheeke which was belou'd,
When a faire Ladies face is pin'd
And yellow spred, where red once shin'd,
When beauty youth, and all sweets leave her,
Love may returne, but lover never.
And old folkes say there are no paynes
Like itch of love in aged vaines.
Oh love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not loose this present minute:
For time and age will worke that wrack
Which time or age shall ne're call backe.
The snake each yeare fresh skin resumes,
And Eagles change their aged plumes;
The saded Rose each spring, receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.
Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season
Affords you dayes for sport doe reason;
Spend not in vaine your lives short houre,
But crop in time your beauties flower:
Which will away, and doth together
Both bud, and fade, both blow and wither.

Lips and Eyes.

In Celia's face a question did arise
Which were more beautifull, her lips or eyes:
We (said the eyes,) send forth those poynted darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts
From us (replyd the lips,) proceed those blisses
Which louers reape by kind words and sweet kisses.
Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did powre
Of liquid orientall pearle a shower.
Whereat the lips mou'd with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweete smile vnlockt their pearlie treasure.
And bad love judge, whether did adde more grace:
Weeping or smiling pearles to Celia's face.

A divine Mistris.

In natures peeces still I see
Some errour, that might mended bee;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or adde; but my faire love
Was fram'd by hands farre more divine;
For she hath every beauteous line:
Yet I had beene farre happier,
Had Nature that made me, made her;
Then likenes, might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates:
Yet I confesse I cannot spare,
From her iust shape the smallest haire;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven, for her one beautie more:
Shee hath too much divinity for mee,
You Gods reach her some more humanitie.

SONG.

A beautifull Mistris.

If when the Sun at noone displayes
His brighter rayes,
Thou but appeare,
He then all pale with shame and feare,
Quencheth his light,
Hides his darke brow, flyes from thy sight,
And growes more dimme
Compar'd to thee, then starres to him.
If thou but show thy face againe,
When darkenesse doth at midnight raigne,
The darkenesse flyes, and light is hurl'd,
Round about the silent world:
So as alike thou driu'st away,
Both light and darkenesse, night and day.

A cruell Mistris

Wee read of Kings and Gods that kindly tooke,
A pitcher fil'd with water from the brooke;
But I have dayly tendred without thankes
Rivers of teares that overflow their bankes.
A slaughter'd bull will appease angry Iove
A horse the Sun, a Lambe the God of love,
But shee disdaines the spotlesse sacrifice
Of a pure heart that at her altar lyes.
Vesta is not displeas'd if her chast vrne
Doe with repayred fuell ever burne;
But my Saint frownes though to her honour'd name.
I consecrate a never dying flame.
Th'Assyrian King did none i'th' furnace throw,
But those that to his Image did not bow;
With bended knees I daily worship her,
Yet she consumes her owne Idolater.
Of such a Goddesse no times leave record,
That burnt the temple where she was ador'd.

SONG.

Murdring beautie.

Ile gaze no more on her bewitching face,
Since ruine harbours there in every place:
For my enchanted soule alike shee drownes
With calmes and tempests of her smiles and frownes,
I'le love no more those cruell eyes of hers,
Which pleas'd or anger'd still are murderers:
For if she dart (like lightning) through the ayre
Her beames of wrath; she kils me with despaire.
If shee behold me with a pleasing eye,
I surfet with excesse of joy, and dye.

My mistris commanding me to returne her letters.

So grieves th'adventrous Merchant, when he throwes
All the long toyld for treasure his ship stowes,
Into the angry maine, to save from wrack
Himselfe and men, as I grieve to give backe
These letters, yet so powerfull is your sway,
As if you bid me die I must obey.
Goe then blest papers, you shall kisse those hands
That gave you freedome, but hold me in bands,
Which with a touch did give you life, but I
Because I may not touch those hands, must die.
Me thinkes, as if they knew they should be sent
Home to their native soile from banishment,
I see them smile, like dying Saints, that know
They are to leave the earth, and tow'rd heaven goe.
When you returne, pray tell your Soveraigne
And mine, I gave you courteous entertaine;
Each line receiv'd a teare, and then a kisse,
First bath'd in that, it scap'd vnscorcht from this:
I kist it because your hand had been there
But 'cause it was not now, I shed a teare.
Tell her no length of time nor change of ayre,
No crueltie, disdaine, absence, dispaire;
No nor her stedfast constancie can deterre,
My vastall heart from ever hon'ring her.
Though these he powerfull arguments to prove
I love in vaine; yet I must ever love;
Say, if she frowne when you that word rehearse,
Service in prose, is oft call'd love in verse:
Then pray her, since I send back on my part
Her papers, she will send me back my heart.
If she refuse, warne her to come before
The God of Love, whom thus I will implore.
Trav'ling thy Countries road (great God) I spide
By chance this Lady, and walkt by her side
From place, to place, fearing no violence,
For I was well arm'd, and had made defence
In former fights, 'gainst fiercer foes, then shee
Did at our first incounter seeme to bee.
But going farther, every step reveal'd
Some hidden weapon, till that time conceal'd,
Seeing those outward armes, I did begin
To feare, some greater strength was lodg'd within,
Looking into her mind, I might survay
An hoast of beauties that in ambush lay;
And won the day before they fought the field;
For I unable to resist, did yeild.
But the insulting tyrant so destroyes
My conquer'd mind, my ease, my peace, my joyes,
Breaks my sweete sleepes, invades my harmelesse rest,
Robs me of all the treasure of my brest,
Spares not my heart, nor yet a greater wrong;
For having stolne my heart, she binds my tongue.
But at the last her melting eyes vnseal'd,
My lips, enlarg'd, my tongue, then I reveal'd
To her owne eares the story of my harmes
Wrought by her vertues, and her beauties charmes;
Now heare (Iust judge) an act of savagenesse,
When I complaine in hope to find redresse,
Shee bends her angry brow, and from her eye,
Shootes thousand darts, I then well hop'd to die,
But in such soveraigne balme, love dips his shot
That though they wound a heart, they kill it not;
Shee saw the bloud gush forth from many a wound,
Yet fled, and left me bleeding on the ground,
Nor sought my cure, nor saw me since: 'tis true
Absence, and time, (two cunning Leaches) drew
The flesh together, yet sure though the skin
Be clos'd without, the wound festers within.
Thus hath this cruell Lady, vs'd a true
Servant, and subject to her selfe, and you,
Nor know I (great Love,) if my life be lent
To shew thy mercy or my punishment;
Since by the onely Magick of thy Art
A lover still may live that wants his heart.
If this enditement fright her, so as shee
Seeme willing to returne my heart to mee,
But cannot find it, (for perhaps it may;
Mong'st other trifeling hearts be out oth' way.)
If she repent and would make me amends
Bid her but send me hers, and we are friends.

Secresie protested.

Feare not (deare Love) that I'le reveale
Those houres of pleasure we two steale;
No eye shall see, nor yet the Sun
Descry, what thou and I have done;
No eare shall heare our love, but wee
Silent as the night will bee.
The God of love himselfe (whose dart
Did first wound mine, and then thy heart)
Shall never know, that we can tell
What sweets in stolne embraces dwell.
This only meanes may find it out,
If when I dye, Physicians doubt
What caus'd my death, and there to view
Of all their judgements which was true,
Rip up my heart, Oh then I feare
The world will see thy picture there.

A prayer to the Wind.

Goe thou gentle whispering wind,
Beare this sigh; and if thou find
Where my cruell faire doth rest,
Cast it in her snowie brest,
So, enflamed by my desire,
It may set her heart a-fire.
Those sweet kisses thou shalt gaine,
Will reward thee for thy paine:
Boldly light upon her lip,
There such odours, and thence skip
To her bosome; lastly fall
Downe, and wander over all:
Range about those Ivorie hills,
From whose every part distills
Amber deaw; there spices grow,
There pure streames of Nectar flow;
There perfume thy felfe, and bring
All those sweets upon thy wing:
As thou return'st, change by thy power,
Every weed into a flower;
Turne each Thistle to a Vine,
Make the Bramble Eglantine.
For so rich a bootie made,
Doe but this, and I am payd.
Thou canst with thy powerfull blast,
Heat apace, and coole as fast:
Thou canst kindle hidden flame,
And ag'en destroy the same;
Then for pittie, either stir
Vp the fire of love in her,
That alike both flames may shine,
Or else quite extinguish mine.

Mediocritie in love rejected.

SONG.

Good counsel to a young Maid.

SONG.

To my Mistris sitting by a Rivers side.

AN EDDY.

SONG.

Conquest by flight.

SONG.

To my inconstant Mistris.

SONG.

Perswasions to enjoy.

A deposition from Love.

Ingratefull beauty threatned.

Disdaine returned.

A Looking-Glasse.

An Elegie on the La: Pen: sent to my Mistresse out of France.

Let him, who from his tyrant Mistresse, did
This day receive his cruell doome, forbid
His eyes to weepe that losse, and let him here
Open those floud-gates, to bedeaw this beere;
So shall those drops, which else would be but brine,
Be turn'd to Manna, falling on her shrine.
Let him, who banisht farre from her deere sight
Whom his soule loves, doth in that absence write.
Or lines of passion, or some powerfull charmes,
To vent his owne griefe, or unlock her armes;
Take off his pen, and in sad verse bemone
This generall sorrow, and forget his owne;
So may those Verses live, which else must dye;
For though the Muses give eternitie
When they embalme with verse, yet she could give
Life unto that Muse, by which others live.
Oh pardon me (faire soule) that boldly have
Dropt, though but one teare, on thy silent grave.
And writ on that earth, which such honour had,
To cloath that flesh, wherein thy selfe was clad.
And pardon me (sweet Saint) whom I adore,
That I this tribute pay, out of the store
Of lines, and teares, that's only due to thee;
Oh, doe not thinke it new Idolatrie;
Though you are only soveraigne of this Land,
Yet universall losses may command
A subsidie from every private eye,
And presse each pen to write; so to supply,
And feed the common griefe; if this excuse
Prevaile not, take these teares to your owne use,
As shed for you; for when I saw her dye,
I then did thinke on your mortalitie;
For since nor vertue, will, nor beautie, could
Preserve from Death's hand, this their heavenly mould.
Where they were framed all, and where they dwelt,
I then knew you must dye too, and did melt
Into these teares: but thinking on that day,
And when the gods resolv'd to take away
A Saint from us; I that did know what dearth
There was of such good soules upon the earth,
Began to feare left Death, their Officer
Might have mistooke, and taken thee for her;
So had'st thou rob'd us of that happinesse
Which she in heaven, and I in thee possesse.
But what can heaven to her glory adde?
The prayses she hath dead, living she had,
To say she's now an Angell, is no more
Praise then she had, for she was one before;
Which of the Saints can shew more votaries
Then she had here? even those that did despise
The Angels, and may her now she is one,
Did whilst she liv'd with pure devotion
Adore, and worship her; her vertues had
All honour here, for this world was too bad
To hate, or envy her, these cannot rise
So high, as to repine at Deities:
But now she's 'mongst her fellow Saints, they may
Be good enough to envy her, this way
There's losse i'th' change 'twixt heav'n and earth, if she
Should leave her servants here below, to be
Hated of her competitors above;
But sure her matchlesse goodnesse needs must move
Those blest soules to admire her excellence;
By this meanes only can her journey hence
To heaven prove gaine, if as she was but here
Worshipt by men, she be by Angels there.
But I must weepe no more over this urne,
My teares to their owne chanell must returne;
And having ended these sad obsequies,
My Muse must back to her old exercise,
To tell the story of my martyrdome:
But, oh thou Idoll of my soule, become
Once pittifull, that she may change her stile,
Drie up her blubbred eyes, and learne to smile.
Rest then blest soule, for as ghosts flye away,
When the shrill Cock proclaimes the infant-day,
So must I hence, for loe I see from farre,
The minions of the Muses comming are,
Each of them bringing to thy sacred Herse,
In either eye a teare, each hand a Verse.

To my Mistresse in absence.

Though I must live here, and by force
Of your command suffer divorce;
Though I am parted, yet my mind,
(That's more my selfe) still stayes behind;
I breath in you, you keepe my heart;
'Twas but a carkasse that did part.
Then though our bodyes are dis-joynd,
As things that are to place confin'd;
Yet let our boundlesse spirits meet,
And in loves spheare each other greet;
There let us worke a mystique wreath,
Vnknowne unto the world beneath;
There let our claspt loves sweetly twin;
There let our secret thoughts unseen,
Like nets be weav'd, and inter-twin'd,
Wherewith wee'le catch each others mind:
There whilst our soules doe fit and kisse,
Tasting a sweet, and subtle blisse,
(Such as grosse lovers cannot know,
Whose hands, and lips, meet here below;)
Let us looke downe, and marke what paine
Our absent bodyes here sustaine,
And smile to see how farre away
The one, doth from the other stray;
Yet burne, and languish with desire
To joyne, and quench their mutuall fire.
There let us joy to see from farre,
Our emulous flames at loving warre,
Whilst both with equall luster shine,
Mine bright as yours, yours bright as mine.
There seated in those heavenly bowers,
Wee'le cheat the lag, and lingring houres,
Making our bitter absence sweet,
Till soules, and bodyes both, may meet.

To her in absence.

A SHIP.

Tost in a troubled sea of griefes, I sloate
Farre from the shore, in a storme-beaten boat,
Where my sad thoughts doe (like the compasse) show
The severall points from which crosse winds doe blow.
My heart doth like the needle toucht with love
Still fixt on you, point which way I would move.
You are the bright Pole-starre, which in the darke
Of this long absence, guides my wandring barke.
Love is the Pilot, but o're-come with feare
Of your displeasure, dares not homewards steare;
My fearefull hope hangs on my trembling sayle;
Nothing is wanting but a gentle gale,
Which pleasant breath must blow from your sweet lip,
Bid it but move, and quick as thought this Ship
Into your armes, which are my port, will flye
Where it for ever shall at Anchor lye.

SONG.

Eternitie of love protested.

Upon some alterations in my Mistresse, after my departure into France.

Good counsell to a young Maid.

Celia bleeding, to the Surgeon.

To T.H. a Lady resembling my Mistresse.

To Saxham.

Though frost, and snow, lockt from mine eyes,
That beautie which without dore lyes;
Thy gardens, orchards, walkes, that so
I might not all thy pleasures know;
Yet (Saxham) thou within thy gate,
Art of thy selfe so delicate;
So full of native sweets, that blesse
Thy roofe with inward happinesse;
As neither from, nor to thy store
Winter takes ought, or Spring addes more.
The cold and frozen ayre had sterv'd
Much poore, if not by thee preserv'd;
Whose prayers have made thy Table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Course cates unto thy neighbours board,
Yet thou hadst daintyes, as the skie
Had only been thy Volarie;
Or else the birds, fearing the snow
Might to another deluge grow:
The Pheasant, Partiridge, and the Larke,
Flew to thy house, as to the Arke.
The willing Oxe, of himselfe came
Home to the slaughter, with the Lambe,
And every beast did thither bring
Himselfe, to be an offering.
The scalie herd, more pleasure tooke,
Bath'd in thy dish, then in the brooke,
Water, Earth, Ayre, did all conspire,
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
Through every roome, where they deride
The night, and cold abroad; whilst they
Like funs within, keepe endlesse day.
Those chearfull beames send forth their light,
To all that wander in the night,
And seeme to becken from aloofe,
The weary Pilgrim to thy roofe;
Where if refresh't, he will away,
Hee's fairly welcome, or if stay
Farre more, which he shall hearty find,
Both from the Master, and the Hinde.
The strangers welcome, each man there
Stamp'd on his chearfull brow, doth weare;
Nor doth this welcome, or his cheere
Grow lesse, 'cause he staies longer here.
There's none observes (much lesse repines)
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no Porter at the doore
T'examine, or keep back the poore;
Nor locks, nor bolts; thy gates have bin
Made onely to let strangers in;
Vntaught to shut, they doe not feare
To stand wide open all the yeare;
Carelesse who enters, for they know,
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for theeves, thy bountie's such;
They cannot steale, thou giv'st so much.

Upon a Ribband.

This silken wreath, which circles in mine arme
Is but an Emblem of that mystique charme,
Where with the magique of your beauties binds
My captive soule, and round about it winds
Fetters of lasting love; This hath entwind
My flesh alone, That hath empalde my mind:
Time may weare out These soft weak bands; but Those
Strong chaines of brasse, Fate shall not discompose.
This holy relique may preserve my wrist,
But my whole frame doth by That power subsist:
To That my prayers and sacrifice, to This
I onely pay a superstitious kisse:
This but the Idoll, That's the Deitie,
Religion there is due; Here ceremonie.
That I receive by faith, This but in trust;
Here I may tender dutie, There I must.
This order as a Layman I may beare,
But I become Loves Priest when That I weare.
This moves like ayre; That as the Center stands:
That knot your vertue tide; This but your hands:
That Nature fram'd, but This was made by Art;
This makes my arme your prisoner, That my heart.

To the King at his entrance into Saxham, by Master Io, Crofts.

Sir,

Upon the sicknesse of (E.S.)

Mvst she then languish, and we sorrow thus,
And no kind god helpe her, nor pitty us?
Is justice fled from heaven? can that permit
A foule deformed ravisher to sit
Vpon her Virgin cheek, and pull from thence
The Rose-buds in their maiden excellence?
To spread cold palenesie on her lips, and chase
The frighted Rubies from their native place?
To lick up with his searching slames, a flood
Of dissolv'd Corall, flowing in her blood;
And with the dampes of his infectious breath,
Print on her brow moyst characters of death?
Must the cleare light, 'gainst course of nature cease
In her faire eyes, and yet the flames encrease?
Must feavers shake this goodly tree, and all
That ripened fruit from the faire branches fall,
Which Princes have desir'd to taste? must she
Who hath preserv'd her spotlesse chastitie
From all solicitation, now at last
By Agues, and diseases be embrast?
Forbid it holy Dian; else who shall
Pay vowes, or let one graine of Incense fall
On thy neglected Altars, if thou blesse
No better this thy zealous Votaresse?
Haste then, O maiden Goddesse, to her ayde,
Let on thy quiver her pale cheeke be layd;
And rock her fainting body in thine armes;
Then let the God of Musick, with still charmes,
Her restlesse eyes in peacefull slumbers close,
And with soft straines sweeten her calme repose.
Cupid descend; and whilst Apollo sings,
Fanning the coole ayre with thy panting wings,
Ever supply her with refreshing wind;
Let thy faire mother, with her tresses bind
Her labouring temples, with whose balmie sweat,
She shall perfume her hairie Coronet,
Whose precious drops, shall upon every fold
Hang, like rich Pearles about a wreath of gold:
Her looser locks, as they unbraded lye,
Shall spread themselves into a Canopie:
Vnder whose shadow let her rest secure
From chilling cold, or burning Calenture;
Vnlesse she freeze with yee of chast desires,
Or holy Hymen kindle nuptiall fires.
And when at last Death comes to pierce her heart.
Convey into his hand thy golden dart.

A New-yeares Sacrifice.

To Lucinda.

SONG.

To one who when I prais'd my Mistris beautie, said I was blind.

Wonder not though I am blind,
For you must bee
Darke in your eyes, or in your mind,
If when you see
Her face, you prove not blind like me.
If the powerfull beames that flye
From her eye,
And those amorous sweets that lye
Scatter'd, in each neighbouring part,
Find a passage to your heart;
Then you'le confesse your mortall sight
Too weake, for such a glorious light;
For if her graces you discover,
You grow like me a dazel'd lovers
But if those beauties you not spy,
Then are you blinder farre then I.

SONG.

To my Mistris, I burning in love.

I burne , and cruell you, in vaine
Hope to quench me with disdaine;
If from your eyes, those sparkles came,
That have kindled all this flame,
What bootes it me, though now you shrowde
Those fierce Comets in a cloude?
Since all the flames that I have felt,
Could your snow yet never melt,
Nor, can your snow (though you should take
Alpes into your bosome) slake
The heate of my enamour'd heart;
But with wonder learne Loves art:
No seaes of yce can coole desire,
Equall flames must quench Loves fire:
Then thinke not that my heat can dye,
Till you burne aswell as I.

SONG.

To her againe, she burning in a Feaver.

Now she burnes as well as I,
Yet my heat can never dye;
She burnes that never knew desire.
She that was yce, she that was fire.
Shee whose cold heart, chaste thoughts did arme
So, as Loves flames could never warme
The frozen bosome where it dwelt,
She burnes, and all her beauties melt;
She burnes, and cryes, Loves fires are milde;
Feavers are Gods, He's a childe.
Love; let her know the difference
Twixt the heat of soule, and sence.
Touch her with thy flames divine,
So shalt thou quench her fire, and mine.

Upon the Kings sicknesse.

Sicknesse, the minister of death, doth lay
So strong a seige against our brittle clay,
As whilst it doth our weake forts singly win,
It hopes at length to take all man-kind in:
First, it begins upon the wombe to waite,
And doth the unborne child there uncreate;
Then rocks the cradle where the infant lyes,
Where, e're it fully be alive, it dyes.
It never leaves fond youth, untill it have
Found, or an early, or a later grave.
By thousand subtle sleights from heedlesse man,
It cuts the short allowance of a span.
And where both sober life, and Art combine
To keepe it out, Age makes them both resigne.
Thus by degrees it onely gain'd of late,
The weake, the aged, or intemperate;
But now the Tyrant hath found out a way
By which the sober, strong, and young, decay:
Entring his royall limbes that is our head,
Through us his mystique limbs the paine is spread,
That man that doth not feele his part, hath none
In any part of his dominion;
If he hold land, that earth is forfeited,
And he unfit on any ground to tread.
This griefe is felt at Court, where it doth move
Through every joynt, like the true soule of love.
All those faire starres that doe attend on Him,
Whence they deriv'd their light, wax pale and dim.
That ruddie morning beame of Majestie,
Which should the Suns ecclipsed light supply,
Is overcast with mists, and in the liew
Of cherefull rayes, sends us downe drops of dew:
That curious forme made of an earth refin'd,
At whose blest birth, the gentle Planets shin'd
With faire aspects, and sent a glorious flame
To animate so beautifull a frame;
That Darling of the Gods and men, doth weare
A cloude on's brow, and in his eye a teare:
And all the rest (save when his dread command
Doth bid them move,) like livelesse statues stand;
So full a griefe, so generally worne
Shewes a good King is sick, and good men mourne.

SONG.

To a Lady not yet enjoy'd by her Husband.

SONG.

The willing Prisoner to his Mistris.

A flye that flew into my Mistris her eye.

When this Flye liv'd, she us'd to play
In the Sun-shine all the day;
Till comming neere my Celia's sight,
She found a new, and unknowne light
So full of glory, as it made
The noone-day Sun a gloomy shade;
Then this amorous Flye became
My rivall, and did court my flame.
She did from hand to bosome skip,
And from her breath, her cheeke, and lip,
Suckt all the incense, and the spice,
And grew a bird of Paradise:
At last into her eye she flew,
There scorcht in flames, and drown'd in dew:
Like Phaeton from the Suns spheare
She fell, and with her dropt a teare:
Of which a pearle was straight compos'd,
Wherein her ashes lye enclos'd.
Thus she receiv'd from Celia's eye,
Funerall flame, tombe Obsequie.

SONG. Celia singing.

SONG.

Celia singing.

You that thinke Love can convey,
No other way,
But through the eyes, into the heart,
His fatall Dart:
Close up those casements, and but heare
This Syren sings
And on the wing
Of her sweet voyce, it shall appeare
That Love can enter at the eare:
Then unvaile your eyes, behold
The curious mould
Where that voyce dwels, and as we know,
When the Cocks crow,
We freely may
Gaze on the day;
So may you, when the Musique's done
Awake and see the rising Sun.

SONG.

To one that desired to know my Mistris.

Seeke not to know my love, for shee
Hath vow'd her constant faith to me;
Her milde aspects are mine, and thou
Shalt only find a stormy brow:
For if her beautie stirre desire
In me, her kisses quench the fire.
Or, I can to Love's fountaine goe,
Or dwell upon her hills of snow.
But when thou burn'st, she shall not spare
One gentle breath to coole the ayre.
Thou shalt not climbe those Alpes, nor spye
Where the sweet springs of Venus lye;
Search hidden Nature, and there find
A treasure to inrich thy mind;
Discover Arts not yet reveal'd,
But let my Mistris live conceal'd;
Though men by knowledge wiser grow,
Yet bereft is wisdome not to know.

In the person of a Lady to her inconstant servant.

Truce in Love entreated.

To my Rivall.

Hence vaine intruder, hast away,
Wash not with thy unhallowed brine
The foot-steps of my Celia's shrine;
Nor on her purer Altars lay
Thy empty words, accents that may
Some looser Dame to love encline;
She must have offerings more divine;
Such pearlie drops, as youthfull May,
Scatters before the rising day;
Such smooth soft language, as each line
Might stroake an angry God, or stay
Joves thunder, make the hearers pine
With envie; doe this, thou shalt he
Servant to her, Rivall with me.

Boldnesse in love.

Marke how the bashfull morne, in vaine
Courts the amorous Marigold,
With sighing blasts, and weeping raine;
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the Planet of the day,
Approacheth with his powerfull ray,
Then she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beames into her virgin leaves,
So shalt thou thrive in love, fond Boy;
If thy teares, and sighes discover
Thy griefe, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover:
But when with moving accents, thou
Shalt constant faith, and service vow,
Thy Celia shall receive those charmes
With open eares, and with unfolded armes.

A Pastorall Dialogue.

Celia. Cleon.
As Celia rested in the shade
With Cleon by her side;
The swaine thus courted the young Maid,
And thus the Nymph replide.
CL.
Sweet! let thy captive, fetters weare
Made of thine armes, and hands;
Till such as thraldome scorne, or feare,
envie those happy bands

CE.
Then thus my willing armes I winde
About thee, and am so
Thy pris'ner; for my selfe I bind,
Vntill I let thee goe.

CL.
Happy that slave, whom the faire soe
Tyes in so soft a chaine.

CE.
Farre happier I, but that I know
Thou wilt breake loose againe.

CL.
By thy immortall beauties never.

CE.
Fraile as thy love's thine oath.

CL.
Though beautie fade, my faith lasts ever.

CE.
Time will destroy them both.

CL.
I dote not on thy snow-white skin.

CE.
What then?

CL.
Thy purer mind.

CE.
It lov'd too soone.

CL.
Thou hadst not bin
So faire, if not so kind.

CE.
Oh strange vaine fancie!

CL.
But yet true.

CE.
Prove it.

CL.
Then make a brade
Of those loose flames, that circle you,
My sunnes, and yet your shade.

CE.
'Tis done.

CL.
Now give it me.

CE
Thus thou
Shalt thine owne errour find,
If these were beauties, I am now
Lesse faire, because more kind.

CL.
You shall confesse you erre; that haire
shall it not change the hue,
Or leave the golden mountaine bare?

CE.
Aye me! it is too true.

CL.
But this small wreathe, shall ever stay
In its first native prime,
And smiling when the rest decay,
The triumphs sing of time.

CE.
Then let me cut from thy faire grove,
One branch, and let that be
An embleme of eternall love,
For such is mine to thee.

CL.
Thus are we both redeem'd from time,
I by thy grace.

CL.
And I
Shall live in thy immortall rime,
Vntill the Muses dye.

CL.
By heaven!

CE.
Sweare not; if I must weepe,
Jove shall not smile at me;
This kisse, my heart, and thy faith keepe.

CL.
This breathes my soule to thee.

Then forth the thicket Thirsis rusht,
Where he saw all their play:
The swaine stood still, and smil'd, and blusht,
The Nymph fled fast away.

Griefe ingrost.

Wherefore doe thy sad numbers flow
So full of woe?
Why dost thou melt in such soft straines,
Whilst she disdaines?
If she must still denie,
Weepe not, but dye:
And in thy Funerall fire,
Shall all her fame expire.
Thus both shall perish, and as thou on thy Hearse
Shall want her teares, so she shall want thy Verse;
Repine not then at thy blest state:
Thou art above thy fate;
But my faire Celia will nor give
Love enough to make me live;
Nor yet dart from her eye
Scorne enough to make me dye.
Then let me weepe alone, till her kind breath,
Or blow my teares away, or speake my death.

A Pastorall Dialogue.

Shepherd. Nymph. Chorus.
Shep.
This mossie bank they prest

Ny.
That aged Oak
Did canopie the happy payre
All night from the dampe ayre.

Cho.
Here let us sit and sing the words they spoke,
Till the day breaking, their embraces broke.

Shep.
See love, the blushes of the morne appeare,
And now she hangs her pearlie store
(Rob'd from the Easterne shore)
I'th' Couslips bell, and Roses rare:
Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

Nymph.
Those streakes of doubtfull light, usher not day,
But shew my sunne must set; no Morne
Shall shine till thou returne,
The yellow Planets, and the gray
Dawne, shall attend thee on thy way:

Shep.
If thine eyes guild my pathes, they may forbeare
Their uselesse shine.

Nymph.
My teares will quite
Extinguish their faint light.

She
Those drops will make their beames more cleare,
Loves flames will shine in every teare.

Cho.
They kist, and wept, and from their lips, and eyes,
In a mixt dew, of brinie sweet,
Their joyes, and sorrowes meet,
But she cryes out.

Nymp.
Shepherd arise,
The Sun betrayes us else to spies.

Shep.
The winged houres flye fast, whilst we embrace,
But when we want their help to meet,
They move with leaden feet.

Nym.
Then let us pinion Time, and chase
The day for ever from this place.

Shep.
Harke!

Ny.
Aye me stay!

She.
For ever.

Ny.
No, arise,
Wee must be gone.

Shep.
My nest of spice.

Nymph.
My soule.

Shep.
my Paradise.

Cho.
Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes
Griefe, interrupted speach with teares supplyes.

Red, and white Roses.

Reade in these Roses, the sad story
Of my hard fate, and your owne glory:
In the White you may discover
The palenesse of a fainting lover:
In the Red, the flames still feeding
On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding.
The White will tell you how I languish,
And the Red expresse my anguish.
The white my innocence displaying,
The Red my martyrdome betraying.
The frownes that on your brow resided.
Have those Roses thus divided.
Oh let your smiles but cleare the weather,
And then they both shall grow together.

To my Cousin (C.R.) marrying my Lady (A.)

Happy Youth, that shalt possesse
Such a spring-tyde of delight,
As the sated Appetite
Shall enjoying such excesse,
With the flood of pleasure lesle.
When the Hymene all Rite
Is perform'd, invoke the night,
That it may in shadowes dresse
Thy too reall happinesse;
Else (at Semele) the bright
Deitie in her full might,
May thy feeble soule oppresse.
Strong perfumes, and glaring light,
Oft destroy both smell, and sight.

A Lover upon an Accident necessitating his departure, consults with Reason.

LOVER.
Weepe not, nor backward turne your beames
Fond eyes, sad sighes locke in your breath,
Lest on this wind, or in those streames
My griev'd soule flye, or sayle to death.
Fortune destroys me if I stay,
Love kills me if I goe away:
Since Love, and Fortune, both are blind,
Come Reason, and resolve my doubtfull mind.

REASON.
Flye, and blind Fortune be thy guide,
And 'gainst the blinder God rebell,
Thy love-sick heart shall not reside
Where scorne, and selfe-will'd error dwell.
Where entrance, vnto Truth is bar'd;
Where Love and Faith find no reward;
For, my just hand may sometime move
The wheele of Fortune, not the spheare of Love.

Parting, Celia weepes.

Weepe not (my deare) for I shall goe
Loaden enough with mine owne woe;
Adde not thy heavinesse to mine,
Since Fate our pleasures must dis-joyne,
Why should our sorrowes meet? if I
Must goe, and lose thy company,
I wish not theirs; it shall relieve
My griefe, to thinke thou dost not grieve.
Yet grieve, and weepe, that I may beare
Every sigh, and every teare
Away with me, so shall thy brest
And eyes discharg'd, enjoy their rest.
And it will glad my heart to see,
Thou wer't thus loath to part with mee.

A Rapture.

Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villers.

The Lady Mary Villers lyes
Vnder this stone; with weeping eyes
The Parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad Friends, lay'd her in earth:
If any of them (Reader) were
Knowne unto thee, shed a teare,
Or if thy selfe possesse a gemme,
As deare to thee, as this to them;
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewayle in theirs, thine owne hard case;
For thou perhaps at thy returne
Mayest find thy Darling in an Vrne.

An other.

[The purest Soule that e're was sent]

The purest Soule that e're was sent
Into a clayie tenement
Inform'd this dust, but the weake mold
Could the great guest no longer hold,
The substance was too pure, the flame
Too glorious that thither came,
Ten thousand Cupids brought along
A Grace on each wing, that did throng
For place there, till they all opprest
The seat in which they sought to rest;
So the faire Modell broke, for want
Of roome to lodge th'Inhabitant.

An other.

[This little Vault, this narrow roome]

This little Vault, this narrow roome,
Of Love, and Beautie is the tombe,
The dawning beame that 'gan to cleare
Our clouded skie, lyes darkned here,
For ever set to us, by death
Sent to enflame the world beneath;
'Twas but a bud, yet did containe
More sweetnesse then shall spring againe,
A budding starre that might have growne
Into a Sun, when it had blowne.
This hopefull beautie, did create
New life in Loves declining state;
But now his Empire ends, and we
From fire, and wounding darts are free.
His brand, his bow, let no man feare,
The flames, the arrowes, all lye here.

Epitaph on the Lady S. Wife to Sir W.S.

The harmony of colours, features, grace,
Resulting Ayres (the magicke of a face)
Of musicall sweet tunes, all which combind,
To crown one Soveraigne beauty, lies confind
To this darke Vault. Shee was a Cabinet
Where all the choysest stones of price were set;
Whose native colours, and purest lustre lent
Her eye, cheek, lip, a dazling ornament:
Whose rare and hidden vertues, did expresse
Her inward beauties, and minds fairer dresse;
The constant Diamond, the wise Chrysolite,
The devout Saphyre, Emrauld apt to write
Records of Memory, cheerefull Agat, grave
And serious Onyx, Tophaze, that doth save
The braines calme temper, witty Amathist.
This precious Quartie, or what else the list
On Aarons Ephod planted had, shee wore:
One only Pearle was wanting to her store;
Which in her Saviours booke she found exprest,
To purchase that, she sold death all the rest.

Maria Wentworth. Thomæ Comitis Cleveland, filia præmortuæ prima Virginiam animam exhaluit. An. Dom. Æt.suæ.

On the Duke of Buckingham.

Beatissimis Manibus charissimi viri Illma Conjunx sic Parentavit.

Siste Hospes sive Indigena sive Advena vicissitudinis rerum memor pauca pellege.

Foure Songs by way of Chorus to a play, at an entertainment of the King and Queene, by my Lord Chamberlaine

The first of Ieælousie. Dialogue.

Question
From whence was first this furie hurld,
This Jealousie into the world?
Came she from Hell?

Ans.
No there doth raigne
Eternall hatred, with disdaine,
But she the Daughter is of Love,
Sister of Beauty.

Reply.
Then above
She must derive from the third Spheare
Her heavenly Off-spring.

Ans.
Neither there
From those immortall flames, could shee
Draw her cold frozen Pedigree.

Quest.
If nor from heaven nor hell, where then
Had she her birth?

An.
I'th'hearts of men,
Beauty, and Feare did her create,
Younger then Love, Elder then Hate,
Sister to both, by Beauties side
To love, by Feare to Hate ally'de:
Despoyre her issue is, whose race
Of fruitfull mischiefes drownes the space
Of the wide earth in a swolne flood
Of wrath, revenge, spight, rage, and blood.

Quest.
Oh how can such a spurious line
Proceed from Parents so divine?

Ans.
As streames, which from their Crystall spring
Doe sweet and cleare their waters bring,
Yet mingling with the brackish maine,
Nor taste, nor colour they retaine.

Qu.
Yet Rivers 'twixt their owne bankes flow
Still fresh, can jealousie doe so?

An.
Yes, whilst shee keepes the stedfast ground
Of Hope, and Feare, her equall bound;
Hope sprung from favour, worth, or chance,
Towar'ds the faire object doth advance;
Whil'st Feare, as watchfull Sentinell
Doth the invading Foe repell;
And Jealousie thus mixt, doth prove
The season, and the salt of love:
But when Feare takes a larger scope,
Stifling the child of Reason, Hope,
Then sitting on th'usurped throne,
She like a Tyrant rules alone,
As the wilde Ocean unconfin'de,
And raging as the Northern-winde.

2. Feminine Honour.

3. Separation of Lovers.

4. Incommunicabilitie of Love.

Qvest.
By what power was Love confinde
To one object? who can binde,
Or fixe a limit to the free-borne minde?

An.
Nature; for as bodyes may
Move at once but in one way,
So nor can mindes to more then one love stray.

Reply.
Yet I feele a double smart
Loves twinn'd-flame, his forked dart.

An.
Then hath wilde lust, not love possest thy heart.

Qu.
Whence springs love?

An.
From beauty.

Qu.
Why
Should th'effect not multiply
As fast i'th'heart, as doth the cause i'th'eye?

An.
When two Beauties equall are,
Sense preferring neither fayre,
Desire stands still, distracted 'twixt the paire.

Songs in the Play.

A Lover in the disguise of an Amazon, is dearly beloved of his Mistresse.

Another. A Lady rescued from death by a Knight, who in the instant leaves her, complaines thus.

To Ben. Iohnson.

Vpon occasion of his Ode of defiance annext to his Play of the new Inne.

Tis true (deare Ben:) thy just chastizing hand
Hath fixt upon the sotted Age a brand
To their swolne pride, and empty scribbling due,
It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
Thy commique Muse from the exalted line
Toucht by thy Alchymist, doth since decline
From that her Zenith, and foretells a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed,
Yet such, as shall out-shine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall guild the following night.
Nor thinke it much (since all thy Eaglets may
Endure the Sunnie tryall) if we say
This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
Trickt up in fairer plumes, since all are thine;
Who hath his flock of cackling Geese compar'd
With thy tun'd quire of Swans? or else who dar'd
To call thy births deformed? but if thou bind
By Citie-custome, or by Gavell-kind,
In equall shares thy love on all thy race,
We may distinguish of their sexe, and place;
Though one hand form them, & though one brain strike
Soules into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies then of this dull age
Draw from thy Pen such an immodest rage
As seemes to blast thy (else-immortall) Bayes,
When thine owne tongue proclaimes thy ytch of praise?
Such thirst will argue drouth. No, let be hurld
Vpon thy workes, by the detracting world,
What malice can suggest; let the Rowte say,
The running sands, that (cre thou make a play)
Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame
To swallow when th'hast done thy ship-wrackt name.
Let them the deare expence of oyle upbraid
Suckt by thy watchfull Lampe, that hath betray'd
To theft the blood of martyr'd Authors, spilt
Into thy inke, whilst thou growest pale with guile,
Repine not at the Tapers thriftie waste,
That sleekes thy terser Poems, nor is haste
Prayse, but excuse; and if thou overcome
A knottie writer, bring the bootie kome;
Nor thinke it theft, if the rich spoyles so torne
From conquered Authors, be as Trophies worne.
Let others glut on the extorted praise
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after dayes:
Thy labour'd workes shall live, when Time devoures
Th'abortive off-spring of their hastie houres.
Thou art not of their ranke, the quarrell lyes
Within thine owne Virge, then let this suffice,
The wiser world doth greater Thee confesse
Then all men else, then Thy selfe onely lesse.

An Hymeneall Dialogue. Bride and Groome.

Groome.
Tell me (my love) since Hymen ty'de
The holy knot, hast thou not felt
A new infused spirit slide
Into thy brest, whilst thine did melt?

Bride.
First tell me (sweet) whose words were those?
For though the voyce your ayre did breake,
Yet did my soule the sence compose,
And through your lips my heart did speake.

Groo,
Then I perceive, when from the flame
Of love, my scorch'd soule did retire;
Your frozen heart in her place came,
And sweetly melted in that fire,

Bride.
'Tis true, for when that mutuall change
Of soules, was made with equall gaine;
I straight might feele diffus'd a strange,
But gentle he at through every veige.

Chorus.
Oh blest dis-union, that doth so
Our bodyes from our soules divide,
As two doe one, and one foure grow,
Each by contraction multiply'de.

Bride.
Thy bosome then I'le make my nest,
Since there my willing soule doth pearch.

Groom.
And for my heart in thy chast brest,
I'le make an everlasting search.

Chorus.
Oh blest disunion, &c.

Obsequies to the Lady Anne Hay.

To the Countesse of Anglesie upon the immorderatly-by-her-lamented death of her Husband.

An Elegie upon the death of Doctor Donne, Deane of Pauls.

In answer of an Elegiacall Letter upon the death of the King of Sweden from Aurelian Townsend, inviting me to write on that subject.

Vpon Master W. Mountague his returne from travell.

Leade the black Bull to slaughter, with the Bore
And Lambe, then purple with their mingled gore
The Oceans curled brow, that so we may
The Sea-Gods for their carefull waftage pay:
Send gratefull Incense up in pious smoake
To those mild spirits, that cast a curbing yoake
Vpon the stubborne winds, that calmely blew
To the wisht shore, our long'd for Mountague.
Then whilst the Aromatique odours burne,
In honour of their Darling's safe returne;
The Muses Quire shall thus with voyce and hand,
Blesse the fayre Gale that drove his ship to land.
Sweetly breathing Vernall Ayre,
That with kind warmth doest repayre
Wintere raines, from whose brest
All the gums, and spice of th'East
Borrow their perfumes, whose eye
Guilds the morne, and cleares the skie,
Whose disheveld tresses shed
Pearles upon the Violet bed,
On whose brow with calme smiles drest
The Halcions fits and builds her nest.
Beautie, Youth, and endlesse spring,
Dwell upon thy rosie wing.
Thou, if stormie Boreas throwes
Downe whole Forrest when he blowes,
With a pregnant flowery birth
Ganst refresh the teeming Earth;
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's faire or good;
If he scatter our choyce flowers,
If she shake our hills or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroake great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtaine
To binde him in an Iron chaine.
Thus, whilst you deale your body 'mongst your friends,
And fill their circling armes, my glad soule sends
This her embrace: Thus we of Delphos greet
As Lay-men claspe their hands, we joyne our feet.

To Master W. Mountague.

Sir, I arest you at your Countreyes suit,
Who as a debt to her, requires the fruit
Of that rich stock; which she by Natures hand
Gave you in trust, to th'use of this whole Land.
Next, she endites you of a Felonie,
For stealing, what was her Proprietie.
Your selfe from hence, so seeking to convey
The publike treasure of the state away.
More, y'are accus'd of Ostracisme, the Fate
Impos'd of old by the Athenian state
On eminent vertue, but that curse which they
Cast on their men, You on your Countrey lay.
For, thus divided from your noble parts
This Kingdome lives in exile, and all hearts
That rellish worth, or honour, being rent
From your perfections, suffer banishment:
These are your publike injuries; but I
Have a just private quarrell to defie
And call you Coward, thus to run away
When you had pierc'd my heart, not daring stay
Till I redeem'd my honour; but I sweare
By Celia's eyes, by the same force to teare
Your heart from you, or not to end this strife
Till I or find revenge, or lose my life.
But as in single fights it oft hath beene
In that unequall equall tryall seene,
That he who had receiv'd the wrong at first,
Came from the Combat oft too with the worst;
So if you foyle me when we meet, I'le then
Give you fayre leave to wound me so agen.

On the Mariage of T.K. and C.C. the morning stormie.

Svch should this day be, so the Sun should hide
His bashfull face, and let the conquering Bride
Without a Rivall shine, whilst He forbeares
To mingle his unequall beames with hers;
Or if sometimes he glance his squinting eye
Betweene the parting cloudes, 'tis but to spye,
Not emulate her glories, so comes drest
In vayles, but as a Masquer to the feast.
Thus heaven should lower, such stormy gusts should blow
Not to denounce ungentle Fates, but show
The cheerefull Bridegroome to the clouds and wind
Hath all his teares, and all his sighes assign'd.
Let Tempests struggle in the Ayre, but rest
Eternall calmes within thy peacefull brest.
Thrice happy Youth; but ever sacrifice
To that fayre hand that dry'de thy blubbred eyes,
That cround thy head with Roses, and turn'd all
The plagues of love into a cordiall,
When first joyn'd her Virgin snow to thine,
Which when to day the Priest shall recombine,
From the misterious holy touch such charmes
Will flow, as shall unlock her wreathed armes,
And open a free passage to that fruit
Which thou hast toyl'd for with a long pursuit.
But ere thou feed, that thou may'st better taste
Thy present joyes, thinke on thy torments past.
Thinke on the mercy freed thee, thinke upon
Her vertues, graces, beauties, one by one,
So shalt thou relish all, enjoy the whole
Delights of her faire body, and pure foule.
Then boldly to the fight of Love proceed,
Tis mercy not to pitty though she bleed,
Wee'le strew no nuts, but change that ancient forme,
For till to morrow wee'le prorogue this storme.
Which shall confound with its loude whistling noyse
Her pleasing shreekes, and fan thy panting joyes.

For a Picture where a Queen Laments over the Tombe of a slaine Knight.

Brave Youth; to whom Fate in one hower
Grave death, and Conquest, by whose power
Those chaines about my heart are wound,
With which the Foe my Kingdome bound,
Freed, and captiv'd by thee, I bring
For either Act an offering;
For victory, this wreathe of Bay:
In signe of Thraldome, downe I lay
Scepter and Crowne: Take from my sight
Those Royall Robes; since fortunes spight
Forbids me live thy Vertues prize,
I'le dye thy Valours sacrifice.

To a Lady that desired I would love her.

Upon my Lord Chiefe Iustice his election of my Lady A.W. for his Mistresse.

To A.D. unreasonable distrustfull of her owne beauty.

Fayre Doris breake thy Glasse, it hath perplext
With a darke Comment, beauties clearest Text,
It hath not told thy faces story true,
But brought false Copies to thy jealous view.
No colour, feature, lovely ayre, or grace,
That ever yet adorn'd a beauteous face,
But thou maist reade in thine, or justly doubt
Thy Glasse hath beene suborn'd to leave it out,
But if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a staine, a blemish, or decay,
It not belongs to thee, the treacherous light
Or faithlesse stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magique of thy face, hath wrought
Vpon th'enchanted Crystall, and so brought
Fantasticke shadowes to delude thine eyes
With ayrie repercussive sorceries.
Or else th'enamoured Image pines away
For love of the fayre Object, and so may
Waxe pale and wan, and though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe;
Give then no faith to the false specular stone,
But let thy beauties by th'effects be knowne:
Looke (sweetest Doris) on my love-sick heart,
In that true mirrour see how fayre thou art.
There, by Loves never-erring Pensill drawne
Shalt thou behold thy face, like th'early dawne
Shoot through the shadie covert of thy hayre,
Enameling, and perfuming the calme Ayre
With Pearles, and Roses, till thy Suns display
Their lids, and let out the imprison'd day.
Whilst Delfique Priests, (enlightned by their Theame)
In amorous numbers count thy golden beame,
And from Loves Altars cloudes of sighes arise
In smoaking Incence to adore thine eyes.
If then Love flow from Beautie as th'effect
How canst thou the resistlesse cause suspect?
Who would not brand that Foole, that should contend
There were no fire, where smoke and flames ascend?
Distrust is worse then scorne, not to beleeve
My harmes, is greater wrong then not to grieve;
What cure can for my festring sore be found,
Whilst thou beleev'st thy beautie cannot wound?
Such humble thoughts more cruell Tyrants prove
Then all the pride that e're usurp'd in Love,
For Beauties Herald, here denounceth war,
There her false spies betray me to a snare.
If fire disguis'd in balls of snow were hurl'd
It unsuspected might consume the world;
Where our prevention ends, danger begins,
So Wolves in Sheepes, Lyons in Asses skins,
Might farre more mischiefe worke, because lesse fear'd
Those, the whole flock, these, might kill all the herd,
Appeare then as thou art, break through this cloude
Confesse thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud,
Be faire though scornfull, rather let me find
Thee cruell, then thus mild, and more unkind;
Thy crueltie doth only me defie,
But these dull thoughts thee to thy selfe denie.
Whether thou meane to bartar, or bestow
Thyselfe; 'tis fit thou thine owne valew know?
I will not cheate thee of thy selfe, nor pay
Lesse for thee then th'art worth, thou shalt not say
That is but brittle glasse, which I have found
By strict enquirie a firme Diamond.
I'le trade with no such Indian foole as sells
Gold, Pearles, and pretious stones, for Beads and Bells
Nor will I take a present from your hand,
Which you or prize not, or not understand;
It not endeares your bountie that I doe
Esteeme your gift, unlesse you doe so too;
You undervalew me, when you bestow
On me, what you nor care for, nor yet know.
No (Lovely Doris) change thy thoughts, and be
In love first with thy selfe, and then with me.
You are afflicted that you are not faire,
And I as much tormented that you are,
What I admire, you scorne; what I love, hate,
Through different faiths, both share an equall Fate,
Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick,
I dye a Martyr, you an Heretique.

To my friend G.N. from Wrest.

A New-yeares gift.

To the King.

Looke back old Janus, and survey
From Times birth, till this new-borne day,
All the successfull season bound
With Lawrell wreathes, and Trophies crown'd;
Turne o're the Annals past, and where
Happie auspitious dayes appeare,
Mark'd with the whiter stone, that cast
On the darke brow of th'Ages past
A dazeling luster, let them shine
In this succeeding circles twine,
Till it be round with glories spread,
Then with it crowne our Charles his head,
That we th'ensuing yeare may call
One great continued festivall.
Fresh joyes in varied formes apply,
To each distinct captivitie.
Season his cares by day with nights
Crown'd with all conjugall delights,
May the choyce beauties that enflame
His Royall brest be still the same,
And he still thinke them such, since more
Thou canst not give from Natures store.
Then as a Father let him be
With numerous issue blest, and see
The faire and God-like off-spring growne
From budding starres to Suns full blowne.
Circle with peacefull Olive bowes,
And conquering Bayes, his Regall browes.
Let his strong vertues overcome,
And bring him bloodlesse Trophies home:
Strew all the pavements, where he treads
With loyall hearts, or Rebels heads;
But Byfront, open thou no more,
In his blest raigne the Temple dore.

To the Queene.

Thou great Commandresse, that doest move
Thy Scepter o're the Crowne of Love,
And through his Empire with the Awe
Of Thy chaste beames, doest give the Law.
From his prophaner Altars, we
Turne to adore Thy Deitie:
He, only can wilde lust provoke,
Thou, those impurer flames canst choke;
And where he scatters looser fires,
Thou turn'st them into chast desires:
His Kingdome knowes no rule but this,
What ever pleaseth lawfull is;
Thy sacred Lore shewes us the path
Of Modestie, and constant faith,
Which makes the rude Male satisfied
With one faire Female by his side;
Doth either sex to each unite,
And forme loves pure Hermophradite.
To this Thy faith behold the wilde
Satyr already reconciled.
Who from the influence of Thine eye
Hath suckt the deepe Divinitie;
O free them then, that they may teach,
The Centaur, and the Horsman preach
To Beasts and Birds, sweetly to rest
Each in his proper Lare and nest:
They shall convey it to the floud,
Till there Thy law be understood.
So shalt thou with thy pregnant fire,
The water, earth, and ayre, inspire.

To the New-yeare for the Countesse of Carlile.

To my Honoured friend, Master Thomas May, upon his Comedie, The Heire.

To my worthy friend Master Geo. Sands, on his translation of the Psalmes.

I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwasht Muse, polutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the porch she stayes,
And with glad eares sucks in thy sacred layes.
So, devout penitents of Old were wont,
Some without dore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne exercise:
Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine;
Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy Larke,
Her Lyrick feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knowes, but that her wandring eyes that run,
Now hunting Glow-wormes, may adore the Sun,
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power
Into her brest, the earthy flame devoure.
My eyes, in penitentiall dew may steepe
That brine, which they for sensuall love did weepe,
So (though 'gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht;
Perhaps my restlesse soule, tyr'de with persuit
Of mortall beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfi'd, though cloy'd;
Weary of her vaine search below, Above
In the first faire may find th'immortall Love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But teare those Idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Sprit, not fond Love shall indite;
Then, I no more shall court the verdant Bay,
But the dry leavelesse Trunke on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gaine from thence one Thorne,
Then all the flourishing wreathes by Laureats worne.

To my much honoured friend, Henry Lord Cary of Lepington, upon his translation of Malvezzi.

My Lord,

In every triviall worke 'tis knowne
Translators must be masters of their owne,
And of their Authors language, but your taske
A greater latitude of skill did aske.
For your Malvezzi first requir'd a man
To teach him speake vulgar Italian:
His matter's so sublime, so now his phrase,
So farre above the stile of Bemboe's dayes;
Old Varchies rules, or what the Grusca yet
For currant Tuscan mintage will admit,
As I beleeve your Marquesse, by a good
Part of his Natives hardly understood.
You must expect no happier fate, tis true
He is of noble birth, of nobler you:
So nor your thoughts, nor words fit common eares,
He writes, and you translate, both to your Peeres.

To my worthy Friend, M. D'avenant, Vpon his Excellent Play, The Iust Italian.

I'le not mispend in praise, the narrow roome
I borrow in this leafe; the Garlands bloome
From thine owne seedes, that crowne each glorious page
Of thy triumphant worke; the sullen Age
Requires a Satyre. What starre guides the soule
Of these our froward times, that dare controule,
Yet dare not learne to judge? When didst thou flie
From hence, cleare, candid Ingenuitie?
I have beheld, when pearch'd on the smooth brow
Of a faire modest troope, thou didst allow
Applause to slighter workes; but then the weake
Spectator, gave the knowing leave to speake.
Now noyse prevailes, and he is tax'd for drowth
Of wit, that with the crie, spends not his mouth.
Yet aske him, reason why he did not like;
Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike
Thy soule with scorne, and Pity: marke the places
Provoke their smiles, frownes, or distorted faces,
When, they admire, nod, shake the head; they'le be
A scene of myrth, a double Comedie.
But thy strong fancies (raptures of the braine,
Drest in Poetique flames) they entertaine
As a bold, impious reach; for they'le still slight
All that exceeds Red Bull, and Cockpit flight.
These are the men in crowded heape that throng
To that adulterate stage, where not a tong
Of th'untun'd Kennell, can a line repeat
Of serious sence: but like lips, meet like meat;
Whilst the true brood of Actors, that alone
Keepe naturall unstrain'd Action in her throne
Behold their Benches bare, though they rehearse
The terser Beaumonts or great Johnsons verse.
Repine not Thou then, since this churlish fate
Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the State
Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good,
Have by the Rabble beene misunderstood.
So was thy Play; whose cleere, yet loftie straine,
Wisemen, that governe Fate, shall entertaine.

To the Reader of Master William Davenant's Play.

It hath beene said of old, that Playes are Feasts,
Poets the Cookes, and the Spectators Guests,
The Actors Waitors: From this Similie,
Some have deriv'd an unsafe libertie
To use their Judgements as their Tastes, which chuse
Without controule, this Dish, and that refuse:
But Wit allowes not this large Priviledge,
Either you must confesse, or feele it's edge;
Nor shall you make a currant inference
If you trans-fer your reason to your sense:
Things are distinct, and must the same appeare
To every piercing Eye, or well-tun'd Eare.
Though sweets with yours, sharps best with my tast mee:
Both must agree, this meat's, or sharpe or sweet:
But if I sent a stench, or a perfume,
Whilst you smell nought at all, I may presume
You have that sense imperfect: So you may
Affect a sad, merry, or humerous Play,
If, though the kind distaste or please, the Good
And Bad, be by your Judgement understood;
But if, as in this Play, where with delight
I feast my Epicure an appetite
With rellishes so curious, as dispence
The utmost pleasure to the ravisht sense,
You should professe that you can nothing meet
That hits your taste, either with sharpe or sweet,
But cry out, 'tis insipid; your bold Tongue
May doe it's Master, not the Author wrong;
For Men of better Pallat will by it
Take the just elevation of your Wit.

TO MY FRIEND, Will. D'avenant.

The Comparison.

Dearest thy tresses are not threads of gold,
Thy eyes of Diamonds, nor doe I hold
Thy lips for Rubies: Thy faire cheekes to be
Fresh Roses; or thy teeth of Ivorie:
Thy skin that doth thy daintie bodie sheath
Not Alablaster is, nor dost thou breath
Arabian odours, those the earth brings forth
Compar'd with which would but impaire thy worth.
Such may be others Mistresses, but mine
Holds nothing earthly, but is all divine.
Thy tresses are those rayes that doe arise
Not from one Sunne, but two; Such are thy eyes:
Thy lips congealed Nectar are, and such
As but a Deitie, there's none dare touch.
The perfect crimson that thy cheeke doth cloath
(But onely that it farre exceeds them both)
Aurora's blush resembles, or that redd
That Iris-struts in when her mantl's spred,
Thy teeth in white doe Leda's Swan exceede,
Thy skin's a heavenly and immortall weede
And thou when breath'st, the winds are readie strait
To filch it from thee, and doe therefore wait
Close at thy lips, and snatching it from thence
Beare it to Heaven, where 'tis Joves frankincense.
Faire Goddesse since thy feature makes thee one
Yet be not such for these respects alone.
But as you are divine in outward view
So be within as faire, as good, as true.

The Enquiry.

The Sparke.

My first love whom all beauties did adorne:
Firing my heart supprest it with her scorne,
Sun-like to tinder in my brest it lies,
By every sparkle made a sacrifice.
Each wanton eye now kindles my desire,
And that is free to all that was entire:
Desiring more, by thee (desire) I lost,
As those that in consumptions hunger most,
And now my wandring thoughts are not confind,
Vnto one woman, but to woman kinde.
This for her shape of love, that for her face,
This for her gesture, or some other grace,
And where I none of these doe use to find,
I choose thereby the kernell not the rynd:
And so I hope since my first hopes are gone,
To find in many what I lost in one,
And like to Merchants after some great losse,
Trade by retaile, that cannot now ingrosse,
The fault is hers that made me goe astray,
He needs must wander that hath lost his way.
Guiltlesse I am shee did this change provoke,
And made that charcoale which to her was oake,
And as a looking glasse from the aspect,
Whilst it is whole, doth but one face reflect,
But being crack't, or broken there are showne,
Many halfe faces, which at first were one.
So love vnto my heart did first proffer
Her image, and there planted none but her,
But since t'was broke and martird by her scorne,
Many lesse faces in her face are borne,
Thus like to tynder am I prone to catch
Each falling sparkle, fit for any match.

The Complement.

On sight of a Gentlewomans face in the water.

A Song.

[Aske me no more where Iove bestowes]

Song.

[Would you know what's soft? I dare]

The second Rapture.

No worldling, no, tis not thy gold,
Which thou dost use but to behold;
Nor fortune, honour, nor long life,
Children, or friends, nor a good wife,
That makes thee haypy; these things be
But shaddowes of felicitie.
Give me a wench about thirteene,
Already voted to the Queene
Of lust and lovers, whose soft haire,
Fann'd with the breath of gentle aire
O're spreads her shoulders like a tent,
And is her vaile and ornament:
Whose tender touch, will make the blood
Wild in the aged, and the good.
Whose kisses fastned to the mouth,
Of threescore yeares and longer slouth.
Renew the age, and whose bright eye,
Obscure those lesser lights of skie.
Whose snowy breasts (if we may call
That snow, that never melts at all)
Makes Jove invent a new disguise,
In spite of Iunoes jealousies:
Whose every part doth re-invite,
The old decayed appetite:
And in whose sweet imbraces I,
May melt myselfe to lust, and die.
This is true blisse, and I confesse,
There is no other happinesse.

The Hue and Cry.

To his Mistris confined.

Song.

The Primrose.

The tinder.

Of what mould did nature frame me?
Or was it her intent to shame me,
That no woman can come neere me
Faire, but her I court to heare me?
Sure that mistris to whose beauty.
First I paid a lovers duty.
Burnt in rage my heart to tinder.
That nor prayers, nor teares can hinder.
But where ever I doe turne me,
Every sparke let fall doth burne me.
Women since you thus inflame me,
Flint and steele Il'e ever name yee.

A Song.

[In her faire cheekes two pits doe lye]

The Carver.

To his Mistris.

A Carver having lov'd too long in vaine,
Hewd out the portraiture of Venus Sunne
In marble rocke upon the which did raine
Small drisling drops that from a fount did runne.
Imagining the drops would either weare
His fury out, or quench his living flame:
But when hee saw it bootlesse did appeare,
He swore the water did augment the same.
So I that seeke in verse to carve thee out,
Hoping thy beauty will my flame allay.
Veiwing my lines impolish't all throughout,
Find my will rather to my love obey:
That with the Carver I my work doe blame,
Finding it still th'augmenter of my flame.

To the Painter.

Fond man that hop'st to catch that face,
With those false colours, whose short grace
Serves but to shew the lookers on,
The faults of thy presumption.
Or at the least to let us see,
That is divine, but yet not shee:
Say you could imitate the rayes,
Of those eyes that out-shine the dayes,
Or counterfeite in red and white,
That most vncounterfeited light
Of her complexion; yet canst thou,
(Great Master though thou be) tell how
To paint a vertue? Then desist,
This faire, your Artifice hath mist:
You should have markt how shee begins,
To grow in vertue, not in sinnes:
In stead of that same rosie die,
You should have drawne out modestie.
Whose beauty sits enthroned there,
And learne to looke and blush at her.
Or can you colour just the same,
When vertue blushes or when shame:
When sicknes, and when innocence,
Shewes pale or white unto the sence?
Can such course varnish ere be sed,
To imitate her white and red?
This may doe well else-where in Spaine,
Among those faces died in graine,
So you may thrive and what you doe,
Prove the best picture of the two.
Besides (if all I heare be true,)
'Tis taken ill by some that you
Should be so insolently vaine,
As to contrive all that rich gaine
Into one tablet, which alone
May teach us superstition;
Instructing our amazed eyes,
To admire and worship Imag'ries,
Such as quickly might out shine
Some new Saint, wer't allow'd a shrine,
And turne each wandring looker on,
Into a new Pigmaleon.
Yet your Art cannot equalize,
This Picture in her lovers eyes,
His eyes the pencills are which limbe
Her truly, as her's coppy him,
His heart the Tablet which alone,
Is for that porctraite the tru'st stone.
If you would a truer see,
Marke it in their posteritie:
And you shall read it truly there,
When the glad world shall see their Heire.

Loves Courtship.

On a Damaske rose sticking vpon a Ladies breast.

Let pride grow big my rose, and let the cleare
And damaske colour of thy leaves appeare.
Let scent and lookes be sweete and blesse that hand,
That did transplant thee to that sacred land.
O happy thou that in that garden rest's,
That Paradice betweene that Ladies breasts.
There's an eternall spring; there shalt thou lie,
Betwixt two lilly mounts, and never die.
There shalt thou spring amongst the fertile valleyes,
By budds like thee that grow in midst of Allyes.
There none dare plucke thee, for that place is such
That but a good devine, there's none dare touch,
If any but approach, straite doth arise
A blushing lightning flash, and blasts his eyes.
There stead of raine shall living fountaines flow,
For wind her fragrant breath for ever blow.
Nor now, as earst, one Sun shall on thee shine,
But those two glorious suns, her eyes devine.
O then what Monarch would not think't a grace,
To leave his Regall throne to have thy place.
My selfe to gaine thy blessed seat do vow,
Would be transformd into a rose as thou.

The protestation a Sonnet.

The tooth-ach cured by a kisse.

Fate's now growne mercifull to men,
Turning disease to blisse:
For had not kind Rheume vext me then,
I might not Celia kisse.
Phisitians you are now my scorne:
For I have found a way:
To cure diseases (when forlorne
By your dull art) which may
Patch vp a body for a time,
But can restore to health,
No more then Chimists can sublime
True Gold, the Indies wealth.
That Angell sure that us'd to move
The poole, men so admir'd,
Hath to her lip the seat of love,
As to his heaven retir'd.

To his jealous Mistris.

The Dart.

Oft when I looke I may descry,
A little face peepe through that eye,
Sure that's the boy which wisely chose,
His throne among such beames as those,
Which if his quiver chance to fall:
May serve for darts to kill withall.

The mistake.