Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cease thou afflicted soule to mourne,
Whose love and faith are paid with scorne;
For I am starv'd that feele the blisses
Of deare embraces, smiles, and kisses
From my soules Jdoll, yet complaine
Of equall love more then disdaine.

Cease, Beauties exile to lament
The frozen shades of banishment,
For I in that faire besome dwell
That is my Paradise, and Hell;
Banisht at home, at once at ease
In the safe Port, and tost on Seas.

Cease in cold jealous feares to pine
Sad wretch, whom Rivals undermine;
For though I hold lockt in mine armes
My lifes sole joy, a Traytors charmes
Prevaile, whilst I may onely blame
My selfe, that myne owne Rivall am.

107

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

Oh whither is my fayre Sun fled,
Bearing his light, not heat away?
If thou repose in the moyst bed
Of the Sea-Queene, bring backe the day
To our darke clime, and thou shalt lye
Bath'd in the sea flowes from mine eye.

Upon what whirlewind didst thou ride
Hence, yet remaine fixt in my heart,
From me, and to me; fled, and ty'de?
Darke riddles of the amorous art;
Love tent thee wings to flye so Hee
Vnfeather'd, now must rest with mee.

Helpe, helpe, brave Youth, I burne, I bleed,
The cruell God with Bow and Brand
Pursues the life thy valour freed,
Disarme him with thy conquering hand;
And that thou mayest the wilde boy tame
Give me his dart, keepe Thou his flame.

108

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

109

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;

110

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.

111

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.

112

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.

113

Obsequies to the Lady Anne Hay.

I heard the Virgins sigh, I saw the sleeke
And polisht Courtier, channell his fresh cheeke
With reall teares; the new-betrothed Maid
Smild not that day; the graver Senate layd
Their businesse by; of all the Courtly throng,
Griefe seald the heart, and silence bound the tongue.
I that ne're more of private sorrow knew
Then from my Pen some froward Mistresse drew
And for the publike woe, had my dull sense
So fear'd with ever adverse influence,
As the invaders sword might have, unfelt,
Pierc'd my dead bosome, yet began to melt:
Griefe's strong instinct, did to my blood suggest
In the unknowne losse peculiar interest.
But when I heard, the noble Carlil's Gemme,
The fayrest branch of Dennye's ancient stemme
Was from that Casket stolne, from this Trunke torne,
I found just cause, why they, why I should mourne.

114

But who shall guide my artlesse Pen, to draw
Those blooming beauties, which I never saw?
How shall posteritie beleeve my story,
If I, her crowded graces, and the glory
Due to her riper vertues, shall relate
Without the knowledge of her mortall state?
Shall I, as once Apelles, here a feature,
There steale a Grace, and rifling so whole Nature
Of all the sweets a learned eye can see,
Figure one Venus, and say, such was shee?
Shall I her legend fill, with what of old
Hath of the Worthies of her sex beene told,
And what all pens, and times to all dispence,
Restraine to her, by a prophetique sence?
Or shall I, to the Morall, and Divine
Exactest lawes, shape by an even line,
A life so straight, as it should shame the square
Left in the rules of Katherine, or Clare,
And call it hers, say, so did she begin,
And had she liv'd, such had her progresse been?
These are dull wayes, by which base pens, for hire,
Dawbe glorious vice, and from Apollo's quire
Steale holy Dittyes, which prophanely they
Vpon the herse of every strumpet lay,

115

We will not bathe thy corps with a forc'd teare,
Nor shall thy traine borrow the blacks they weare:
Such vulgar spice, and gums, embalme not thee,
Thou art the Theame of Truth, not Poetrie.
Thou shalt endure a tryall by thy Peeres,
Virgins of equall birth, of equall yeares,
Whose vertues, held with thine an emulous strife,
Shall draw thy picture, and record thy life.
One shall enspheare thine eyes, another shall
Impearle thy teeth; a third, thy white and small
Hand, shall besnow; a fourth, incarnadine
Thy rosie cheeke, untill each beauteous line,
Drawne by her hand, in whom that part excells,
Meet in one Center, where all beautie dwells.
Others, in taske shall thy choyce vertues share,
Some shall their birth, some their ripe growth declare,
Though niggard Time left much unhach'd by deeds,
They shall relate how thou hadst all the seeds
Of every Vertue, which in the pursuit
Of time, must have brought forth admired fruit,
Thus shalt thou, from the mouth of envy, raise
A glorious journall of thy thrifty dayes,
Like a bright starre, shot from his spheare, whose race
In a continued line of flames, we trace.

116

This, if survay'd, shall to thy view impart
How little more then late, thou wer't, thou art,
This shall gaine credit with succeeding times,
When nor by bribed pens, nor partiall times
Of engag'd kindred, but the sacred truth
Is storied by the partners of thy youth;
Their breath shall Saint thee, and be this thy pride,
Thus even by Rivals to be Deifide.

117

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

Madam, men say you keepe with dropping eyes
Your sorrowes fresh, wat'ring the Rose that lyes
Fall'n from your cheeks upon your deare Lords Hearse,
Alas! those odors now no more can pierce
His cold pale nosthrill, nor the crymson dye
Present a gracefull blush to his darke eye.
Thinke you that flood of pearly moysture hath
The vertue fabled of old Æsons bath.
You may your beauties, and your youth consume
Over his Vrne, and with your sighes perfume
The solitarie Vault, which as you grone
In hollow Ecchocs shall repeate your moane.
There you may wither, and an Autumne bring
Vpon your selfe, but not call back his spring.
Forbeare your fruitlesse griefe then, and let those
Whose love was doubted, gaine beliefe with showes
To their suspected faith; you, whose whole life
In every act crown'd you a constant Wife,

118

May spare the practise of that vulgar trade,
Which superstitious custome onely made;
Rather a Widow now of wisedome prove
The patterne, as a Wife you were of love:
Yet since you surfet on your griefe, 'tis fit
I tell the world, upon what cates you sit
Glutting your sorrowes; and at once include
His story, your excuse, my gratitude.
You, that behold how yond' sad Lady blends
Those ashes with her teares, lest, as she spends
Her tributarie sighes, the frequent gust
Might scatter up and downe the noble dust,
Know when that heape of Atomes, was with bloud
Kneaded to solid flesh, and firmely stood
On stately Pillars, the rare forme might move
The froward Juno's, or chast Cinthia's love.
In motion, active grace, in rest, a calme
Attractive sweetnesse, brought both wound and balme
To every heart. He was compos'd of all
The wishes of ripe Virgins, when they call
For Hymens rites, and in their fancies wed
A shape of studied beauties to their bed.
Within this curious Palace dwelt a soule
Gave lustre to each part, and to the whole.

119

This drest his face in curteous smiles; and so
From comely gestures, sweeter manners flow.
This courage joyn'd to strength, so the hand, bent,
Was valours, open'd, Bounties instrument
Which did the scale, and sword, of Justice hold,
Knew how to brandish steele, and scatter gold.
This taught him, not to engage his modest tongue
In suites of private gaine, though publike wrong;
Nor mis-employ (As is the Great-mans use.)
His credit with his Master, to traduce,
Deprave, maligne, and ruine Innocence
In proud prevenge of some mis-judg'd offence.
But all his actions had the noble end
T'advance desert, or grace some worthy friend.
He chose not in the active streame to swim,
Nor hunted Honour; which, yet hunted him.
But like a quiet Eddie, that hath found
Some hollow creeke, there turnes his waters round,
And in continuall circles, dances free
From the impetuous Torrent; so did hee
Give others leave to turne the wheele of State,
(Whose restlesse motions spins the subjects fate)
Whilst he retir'd from the tumultuous noyse
Of Court, and suitors presse; apart, enjoyes

120

Freedome, and mirth, himselfe, his time, and friends,
And with sweet rellish tastes each houre he spends.
I could remember how his noble heart
First kindled at your beauties, with what Art
He chas'd his game through all opposing feares,
When I his sighes to you, and back your teares
Convay'd to him, how loyall then, and how
Constant he prov'd since to his mariage vow.
So as his wandring eyes never drew in
One lustfull thought to tempt his soule to sinne,
But that I feare such mention rather may
Kindle new griefe, than blow the old away.

Then let him rest joyn'd to great Buckingham,
And with his brothers, mingle his bright flame,
Looke up, and meet their beames, and you from thence
May chance derive a chearfull influence,
Seeke him no more in dust, but call agen
Your scatterd beauties home, and so the pen
Which now I take from this sad Elegie
Shall sing the Trophies of your conquering eye.

121

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

Can we not force from widowed Poetrie
Now thou art dead (Great Donne) one Elegie,
To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet did we not trust,
Though with unkneaded dow-bak'd prose, thy dust,
Such as th'uncizard Lect'rer from the flower
Of fading Rhet'rique, short-liv'd as his houre,
Drie as the sand that measures it, might lay
Vpon the ashes, on the Funerall day?
Have we nor tune, nor voyce? didst thou dispence
Through all our languge both the words and sence?
'Tis a sad truth. The Pulpit may her plaine,
And sober Christian precepts still retaine,
Doctrines it may, and wholsome uses, frame,
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, but the flame
Of thy brave soule, that shot such heat, and light,
As burnt our Earth, and made our darknesse bright,
Committed holy rapes upon the will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill.

122

And the deepe knowledge, of darke truths, so teach
As sence might judge what fancy could not reach,
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heare the Delphique Quire,
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath
Glow'd here awhile, lyes quencht now in thy death.
The Muses garden, with Pedantique weedes
O're-spread, was purg'd by thee, the lazie seeds
Of servile imitation throwne away,
And fresh invention planted; thou did'st pay
The debts of our penurious banqueront Age:
Licentious thefts, that make poetique rage
A mimique furie, when our soules must be
Possest, or with Anacreons extasie,
Or Pindars, not their owne, the subtle cheate
Of slie exchanges, and the jugling feate
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greeke or Latine tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and Opened us a Mine
Of rich and pregnant fancie, drawne a line
Of Masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seene, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold
Their Leade more precious then thy burnisht gold,

123

Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more,
They each in others dung had search'd for Ore.
Thou shalt yeeld no precedence, but of Time,
And the blind fate of Language, whose tun'd chime
More charmes the outward sense; yet thou mayst claime
From so great disadvantage, greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our trouble some language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-rib'd hoopes, to gird about
Thy Gyant fancie, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they call the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred yeare,
And left the rifled fields, besides the feare
To touch their harvest, yet from those bare lands
Of what was onely thine, thy onely hands
(And that their smallest worke) have gleaned more
Then all those times, and Tongues, could reape before.

But thou art gone, and thy strickt lawes will be
Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie,
They will recall the goodly exil'd ttaine:
Of Gods, and Goddesses, which in thy just raigne
Was banisht nobler Poems; now, with these,
The silenc'd tales i'th' Metamorphoses

124

Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windie page
Till verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age
Turne Ballad-rime, or those old Idols be
Ador'd againe with new Apostasie.

Oh! pardon me that breake with untun'd Verse
The reverend silence, that attends thy Hearse,
Whose solemne, awfull Murmurs, were to thee
More then these rude lines, a loude Elegie,
That did proclaime in a dumbe Eloquence
The death of all the Arts, whose influence
Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lyes
Gasping short-winded accents, and so dyes
So doth the swiftly-turning wheele, not stand
In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some short time retaine a faint weake course,
By vertue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funerall Pile,
Thy crowne of Bayes, oh let it crack awhile
And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes,

I will not draw the envy, to engrosse
All thy perfections, or weepe all the losse,
Those are too numerous for one Elegie,
And this too great to be exprest by me.

125

Let others carve the rest; it shall suffize,
I on thy Grave this Epitaph incize.
Here lyes a King, that rul'd as he thought fit
The Vniversall Monarchie of wit,
Here lyes two Flamens, and both those the best,
Apollo's first, at last the true God's Priest.

126

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

Why dost thou sound, my deare Aurelian,
In so shrill accents, from thy Barbican,
A loude allarum to my drowsie eyes,
Bidding them wake in teares and Elegies
For mightie Swedens fall? Alas! how may
My Lyrique feet, that of the smooth soft way
Of Love, and Beautie, onely know the tread,
In dancing paces celebrate the dead
Victorious King, or his Majesticke Hearse
Prophane with th'humble touch of their low verse?
Virgil, nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso more
Then both, not Donne, worth all that went before,
With the united labour of their wit
Could a just Poem to this subject fit,
His actions were too mighty to be rais'd
Higher by Verse, let him in prose be prays'd,

127

In modest faithfull story, which his deedes
Shall turne to Poems: when the next Age reades
Of Frankfort, Leipsigh, Worsburgh, of the Rhyne;
The Leck, the Danube, Tilly, Wallestein,
Bavaria, Papenheim, Lutzenfield, where Hee
Gain'd after death a posthume Victorie,
They'le thinke his Acts things rather feign'd then done
Like our Romances of the Knight o'th' Sun.
Leave we him then to the grave Chronicler,
Who though to Annals he can not refer
His too-briefe storie, yet his Journals may
Stand by the Cæsars yeares, and every day
Cut into minutes, each, shall more containe
Of great designement then an Emperours raigne;
And (since 'twas but his Church-yard) let him have
For his owne ashes now no narrower Grave
Then the whole German Continents vast wombe,
Whilst all her Cities doe but make his Tombe:
Let us to supreame providence commit
The fate of Monarchs, which first thought it fit
To rend the Empire from the Austrian graspe,
And next from Swedens, even when he did claspe
Within his dying armes the Soveraigntie
Of all those Provinces, that men might see

128

The Divine wisedome would not leave that Land
Subject to any one Kings sole command.
Then let the Germans feare if Cæsar shall,
Or the Vnited Princes, rise, and fall,
But let us that in myrtle bowers sit
Vnder secure shades, use the benefit
Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand
Of our good King gives this obdurate Land,
Let us of Revels sing, and let thy breath
(Which fill'd Fames trumpet with Gustavus death,
Blowing his name to heaven) gently inspire
Thy past'rall pipe, till all our swaines admire
Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise
The beauties of the SHEPHERDS PARADISE;
For who like thee (whose loose discourse is farre
More neate and polisht then our Poems are,
Whose very gate's more gracefull then our dance)
In sweetly-flowing numbers may advance
The glorious night? When, not to act foule rapes,
Like birds, or beasts, but in their Angel-shapes
A troope of Deities came downe to guide
Our steerelesse barkes in passions swelling tide
By vertues Carde, and brought us from above
A patterne of their owne celestiall love.

129

Nor lay it in darke sullen precepts drown'd
But with rich fancie, and cleare Action crown'd
Through a misterious fable (that was drawne
Like a transparant veyle of purest Lawne
Before their dazelling beauties) the divine
Venus, did with her heavenly Cupid shine.
The stories curious web, the Masculine stile;
The subtile sence, did Time and sleepe beguile,
Pinnion'd and charm'd they stood to gaze upon
Th'Angellike formes, gestures, and motion.
To heare those ravishing sounds that did dispence
Knowledge and pleasure, to the soule, and sense.
It fill'd us with amazement to behold
Love made all spirit, his corporeall mold
Dissected into Atomes melt away
To empty ayre, and from the grosse allay
Of mixtures, and compounding Accidents
Resin'd to immateriall Elements,
But when the Queene of Beautie did inspire
The ayre with perfumes, and our hearts with fire,
Breathing from her celestiall Organ sweet
Harmonious notes, our soules fell at her feet,
And did with humble reverend dutie, more
Her rare perfections, then high state adore,

130

These harmelesse pastimes let my Townsend sing
To rurall tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing
To soare a loftier pitch, for she hath made
A noble flight, and plac'd th'Heroique shade
Above the reach of our faint flagging ryme;
But these are subjects proper to our clyme.
Tourneyes, Masques, Theaters, better become
Our Halcyon dayes; what though the German Drum
Bellow for freedome and revenge, the noyse
Concernes not us, nor should divert our joyes;
Nor ought the thunder of their Carabins
Drowne the sweet Ayres of our tun'd Violins;
Beleeve me friend, if their prevailing powers
Gaine them a calme securitie like ours,
They'le hang their Armes up on the Olive bough,
And dance, and revell then, as we doe now.

131

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,

132

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.

133

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

134

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.

135

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,

136

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.

137

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.

138

To a Lady that desired I would love her.

1

Now you have freely given me leave to love,
What will you doe?
Shall I your mirth, or passion move
When I begin to wooe;
Will you torment, or scorne, or love me too?

2

Each pettie beautie can disdaine, and I
Spight of your hate
Without your leave can see, and dye;
Dispence a nobler Fate,
'Tis easie to destroy, you may create.

3

Then give me leave to love, and love me too
Not with designe
To rayse, as Loves curst Rebells doe;
When puling Poets whine,
Fame to their beautie, from their blubbr'd eyne.

139

4

Griefe is a puddle, and reflects not cleare
Your beauties rayes,
Joyes are pure streames, your eyes appeare
Sullen in sadder layes,
In chearfull numbers they shine bright with prayse.

5

Which shall not mention to expresse you fayre
Wounds, flames, and darts,
Stormes in your brow, nets in your haire,
Suborning all your parts,
Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.

6

I'le make your eyes like morning Suns appeare,
As milde, and faire
Your brow as Crystall smooth, and cleare,
And your dishevell'd hayre
Shall flow like a calme Region of the Ayre.

7

Rich Natures store, (which is the Poets Treasure)
I'le spend, to dresse
Your beauties, if your mine of Pleasure
In equall thankfulnesse
You but unlocke, so we each other blesse.

140

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

1

Heare this, and tremble all
Vsurping Beauties, that create
A government Tyrannicall
In Loves free state,
Justice, hath to the sword of your edg'd eyes
His equall ballance joyn'd, his sage head lyes
In Loves soft lap, which must be just and wise.

2

Harke how the sterne Law breathes
Forth amorous sighs, and now prepares
No fetters, but of silken wreathes,
And, braded hayres;
His dreadfull Rods and Axes are exil'd
Whilst he sits crown'd with Roses, Love hath fil'de
His native roughnesse, Justice is growne milde,

141

3

The golden Age returnes,
Loves bowe, and quiver, uselesse lye,
His shaft, his brand, nor wounds, nor burnes,
And crueltie
Is sunke to Hell, the fayre shall all be kind,
Who loves, shall be belov'd, the froward mind
To a deformed shape shall be confin'd.

4

Astræa hath possest
An earthly seate, and now remaines
In Finches heart, but Wentworths brest
That Guest containes;
With her she dwells, yet hath not left the skies,
Nor lost her Spheare, for, new-enthron'd she cryes
I know no Heaven but fayre Wentworths eyes.

142

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;

143

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,

144

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;

145

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.

146

To my friend G.N. from Wrest.

I breathe (sweet Ghib:) the temperate ayre of Wrest
Where I no more with raging stormes opprest,
Weare the cold nights out by the bankes of Tweed,
On the bleake Mountains, where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting Winter dwells; where milde
Favonius, and the Vernall windes exilde,
Did never spread their wings: but the wilde North
Brings sterill Fearne, Thistles, and Brambles forth.
Here steep'd in balmic dew, the pregnant Earth,
Sends from her teeming wombe a flowrie birth,
And cherisht with the warme Suns quickning heate,
Her porous bosome doth rich odours sweate;
Whose perfumes through the Ambient ayre diffuse
Such native Aromatiques, as we use
No forraigne Gums, nor essence fetcht from farre,
Vo Volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate, but at Natures cheape expence
With farre more genuine sweetes refresh the sense.

147

Such pure and uncompounded beauties, blesse
This Mansion with an usefull comelinesse.
Devoide of Art, for here the Architect
Did not with curious skill a Pile erect
Of carved Marble, Touch, or Porpherie,
But built a house for hospitalitie;
No sumptuous Chimney-peece of shining stone
Invites the strangers eye to gaze upon,
And coldly entertaines his sight, but cleare
And cheerefull flames, cherish and warme him here:
No Dorique, nor Corinthian Pillars grace
With Imagery this structures naked face.
The Lord and Lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act, then seeme in sight;
In stead of Statues to adorne their wall
They throng with living men, their merry Hall,
Where at large Tables fill'd with wholsome meates
The servant, Tennant, and kind neighbour eates.
Some of that ranke, spun of a finer thred
Are with the Women, Steward, and Chaplaine fed
With daintier cates; Others of better note
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the Heralds coate
Have sever'd from the common, freely sit
At the Lords Table, whose spread sides admit

148

A large accesse of friends to fill those seates
Of his capacious sickle, fill'd with meates
Of choycest rellish, till his Oaken back
Vnder the load of pil'd-up dishes crack.
Nor thinke, because our Piramids, and high
Exalted Turrets threaten not the skie,
That therefore Wrest of narrownesse complaines
Or streightned Walls, for she more numerous traines:
Of Noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with farre more conveniencie dispose
Then prouder Piles, where the vaine builder spent
More cost in outward gay Embellishment
Then reall use: which was the sole designe
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
But fit for service Amalthea's Horne
Of plentie is not in Effigie worne
Without the gate, but she within the dore
Empties her free and unexhausted store.
Nor, croun'd with wheaten wreathes, doth Ceres stand
In stone, with a crook'd circle in her hand:
Nor, on a Marble Tunne, his face besmear'd
With grapes, is curl'd uncizard Bacchus rear'd.
We offer not in Emblemes to the eyes,
But to the taste those usefull Deities.

149

Wee presse the juycie God, and quaffe his blood,
And grinde the Yeallow Goddesse into food.
Yet we decline not, all the worke of Art,
But where more bounteous Nature beares a part
And guides her Hand-maid, if she but dispence
Fit matter, she with care and diligence
Employes her skill, for where the neighbour sourse
Powers forth her waters she directs their course,
And entertaines the flowing streames in deepe
And spacious channells, where they slowly creepe
In snakie windings, as the shelving ground
Leades them in circles, till they twice surround
This Island Mansion, which i'th' center plac'd,
Is with a double Crystall heaven embrac'd,
In which our watery constellations floate,
Our Fishes, Swans, our Water-man and Boate,
Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake
Their starre-burnt limbes, in our refreshing lake,
But they stick fast nayl'd to the barren Spheare,
Whilst our encrease in fertile waters here
Disport, and wander freely where they please
Within the circuit of our narrow Seas.

With various Trees we fringe the waters brinke,
Whose thirstie rootes the soaking moysture drinke.

150

And whose extended boughes in equall rankes
Yeeld fruit, and shade, and beautie to the bankes.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddie-cheek'd Pomona. Zephyre sports
On th'other, with lov'd Flora, yeelding there
Sweetes for the smell, sweetes for the palate here.
But did you taste the high & mighty drinke
Which from that Fountaine flowes, you'ld cleerly think
The God of Wine did his plumpe clusters bring,
And crush the Falerne grape into our spring;
Or else disguis'd in watery Robes did swim
To Ceres bed, and make her big of Him,
Begetting so himselfe on Her: for know
Our Vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in Autumne, but our fire boyles here
As lustie liquour as the Sun makes there.

Thus I enjoy my selfe, and taste the fruit
Of this blest Peace, whilst toyl'd in the pursuit
Of Bucks, and Stags, th'embleme of warre you strive
To keepe the memory of our Armes alive.

151

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,

152

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.

153

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.

154

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.

155

To the New-yeare for the Countesse of Carlile.

Give Lucinda Pearle, nor Stone,
Lend them light who else have none,
Let Her beautis shine alone.

Gums nor spice bring from the East,
For the Phenix in Her brest
Builds his funerall pile, and nest.

No tyre thou canst invent,
Shall to grace her forme be sent,
She adornes all ornament.

Give Her nothing, but restore
Those sweet smiles which heretofore,
In Her chearfull eyes she wore.

Drive those envious cloudes away,
Vailes that have o're-cast my day,
And ecclips'd Her brighter ray.

156

Let the royall Goth mowe downe
This yeares harvest with his owne
Sword, and spare Lucinda's frowne.

Janus, if when next I trace
Those sweet lines, I in her face
Reade the Charter of my grace,

Then from bright Apollo's tree,
Such a Garland wreath'd shall be,
As shall Crowne both Her and thee.

157

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

The Heire being borne, was in his tender age
Rockt in the Cradle of a private Stage,
Where lifted up by many a willing hand,
The child did from the first day fairely stand.
Since having gather'd strength, he dares preferre
His steps into the publike Theater
The World: where he dispaires not but to find
A doome from men more able, not lesse kind;

I but his Vsher am, yet if my word
May passe, I dare be bound he will afford
Things must deserve a welcome, if well knowne
Such as best writers would have wisht their owne.

You shall observe his words in order meet,
And softly stealing on with equall feet
Slide into even numbers, with such grace
As each word had beene moulded for that place.

You shall perceive an amorous passion, spunne
Into so smooth a web, as had the Sunne

158

When he pursu'd the swiftly flying Maid,
Courted her in such language, she had staid,
A love so well exprest, must be the same
The Authour felt himselfe from his faire flame:

The whole plot doth alike it selfe disclose
Through the five Acts, as doth the Locke that goes
With letters, for till every one be knowne,
The Lock's as fast, as if you had found none.
And where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread
Of mirth, chast Matrons may not blush to reade.

Thus have I thought it fitter to reveale
My want of art (deare friend) then to conceale
My love. It did appeare I did not meane
So to commend thy well-wrought Comick-scene,
As men might judge my aime rather to be,
To gaine praise to my selfe, then give it thee;
Though I can give thee none, but what thou hast
Deserv'd, and what must my faint breath out-last.

Yet was this garment (though I skillesse be
To take thy measure) onely made for thee,
And if it prove to scant, 'tis cause the stuffe
Nature allow'd me was not large enough.

159

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.

160

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.

161

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.

162

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.

163

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.

164

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,

165

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.

166

TO MY FRIEND, Will. D'avenant.

I crowded 'mongst the first, to see the Stage
(Inspir'd by thee) strike wonder in our age,
By thy bright fancie dazled. Where each Sceane
Wrought like a charme, and forc't the audience leane
To th'passion of thy Pen, thence Ladyes went
(Whose absence Lovers sigh'd for) to repent
Their unkind scorne; And Courtiers, who by art
Made love before, with a converted heart,
To wed those Virgins, whom they woo'd t'abuse;
Both rendred Hymen's pros'lits by thy Muse.

But others who were proofe 'gainst Love, did sit
To learne the subtle Dictats of thy Wit;
And as each profited, tooke his degree,
Master, or Batchelor, in Comedie.
Wee, of th'adult'rate mixture not complaine,
But thence more Characters of Vertue gaine;

167

More pregnant Patternes, of transcendent Worth,
Than barren and insipid Truth brings forth:
So, oft the Bastard nobler fortune meets,
Than the dull Issue of the lawfull sheets.

168

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

169

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.

170

The Enquiry.

Amongst the myrtles as I walk't,
Love and my sighes thus intertalk't,
Tell me (said I in deepe distresse)
Where may I find my shepheardesse?

Thou foole (said love) knowst thou not this
In every thing that's good shee is;
In yonder tulip goe and seeke,
There thou maist find her lip, her cheeke.

In you ennammel'd pausie by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloome of peach, in rosie bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood,

In brightest lillies that there stands,
The emblems of her whiter hands.
In yonder rising hill there smells
Such sweets as in her bosome dwells.

'Tis true (said I) and thereupon
I went to plucke them one by one

171

To make of parts a vnion
But on a suddaine all was gone.

With that I stopt said love these be,
(Fond man) resemblances of thee,
And as these flowres, thy joyes shall die
Even in the twinkling of an eye.
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets, thus knit together.

172

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.

173

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.

174

The Complement.

O my deerest I shall grieve thee
When I sweare, yet sweete beleeve me,
By thine eyes the tempting booke
On which even crabbed old men looke
I sweare to thee, (though none abhorre them)
Yet I doe not love thee for them.

I doe not love thee for that faire,
Rich fanne of thy most curious haire;
Though the wires thereof be drawne
Finer then the threeds of lawne,
And are softer then the leaves
On which the subtle spinner weaues

I doe not love thee for those flowers,
Growing on thy cheeks (loves bowers)
Though such cunning them hath spread
None can paint them whit and red:
Loves golden arrowes thence are shot,
Yet for them I loue thee not

175

I doe not love thee for those soft,
Red corrall lips I've kist so oft;
Nor teeth of pearle, the double guard.
To speech, whence musicke still is heard:
Though from those lips a kisse being taken,
Might tyrants melt and death awaken.

I doe not love thee (ô my fairest)
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar which stands vnder
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neeke be whiter farre,
Then towers of pollisht Ivory are.

I doe not love thee for those mountaines
Hill'd with snow, whence milkey fountaines,
(Suger'd sweets, as sirropt berries)
Must one day run through pipes of cherries;
ô how much those breasts doe move me,
Yet for them I doe not love thee:

I doe not love thee for that belly,
Sleeke as satten, soft as jelly
Though within that Christall round
Heapes of treasure might be found,

176

So rich that for the best of them,
A King might leave his Diadem.

I doe not love thee for those thighes,
Whose Alablaster rocks doe use
So high and even that they stand
Like Sea-markes to some happy land.
Happy are those eyes have seene them,
More happy they that saile betweene them.

I love thee not for thy moist palme,
Though the dew thereof be balme:
Nor for thy pretty legge and foote,
Although it be the precious roote,
On which this goodly cedar growes,
(Sweete) I love thee not for those.

Nor for thy wit though pure and quicke,
Whose substance no arithmeticke
Can number downe: nor for those charmes
Mask't in thy embracing armes.
Though in them one night to lie,
Dearest I would gladly die

I love not for those eyes, nor haire,
Nor cheekes, nor lips, nor teeth so rare.

177

Nor for thy speech, thy necke, nor breast,
Nor for thy belly, nor the rest:
Nor for thy hand, nor foote so small,
But wouldst thou know (deere sweet) for all.

178

On sight of a Gentlewomans face in the water.

Stand still you floods doe not deface,
That Image which you beare:
So Votaries from every place,
To you shall Alters reare.

No winds but Lovers sighs blow here,
To trouble these glad streames,
On which no starre from any Spheare,
Did ever dart such beames.

To Christall then in hast congeale,
Least you should loose your blisse:
And to my cruell faire reveale,
How cold, how hard she is.

But if the envious Nymphes shall feare,
Their beauties will be scorn'd,
And hire the ruder winds to teare,
That face which you adorn'd.

179

Then rage and foame amaine that we,
Their malice may despise:
When from your froath we soone shall see,
A second Venus rise.

180

A Song.

[Aske me no more where Iove bestowes]

Aske me no more where Iove bestowes,
When Iune is past the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deepe,
These flowers as in their causes, steepe.

Aske me no more whether doth stray,
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love heaven did prepare,
Those powders to inrich your haire.

Aske me no more whether doth hast,
The Nightingale when May is past:
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters and keepes warme her note.

Aske me no more where those starres light,
That downewards fall in dead of night:
For in your eyes they sit and there,
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Aske me no more if East or West,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest:

181

For vnto you at last shee flies,
And in your fragrant bosome dyes.

Song.

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

Would you know what's soft? I dare,
Not bring you to the downe, or aire:
Nor to starres to shew what's bright,
Nor to snow to teach you white.

Nor if you would Musicke heare,
Call the orbes to take your care:
Nor to please your sence bring forth,
Bruised Nard or what's more worth.

Or on food were your thoughts plac't,
Bring you Nectar, for a tast:
Would you have all these in one,
Name my mistris, and 'tis done.

182

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)

183

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.

184

The Hue and Cry.

In loves name you are charg'd hereby,
To make a speedy Hue and Crie,
After a face which t'other day,
Stole my wandring heart away.
To direct you these (in briefe,)
Are ready markes to know the theife.

Her haire a net of beames would prove,
Strong enough to captive Jove
In his Eagles shape; Her brow,
Is a comely field of snow.
Her eye so rich, so pure a grey,
Every beame creates a day.
And if she but sleepe (not when
The sun sers) 'tis night agen.
In her cheekes are' to be seene,
Of flowers both the King and Queene,
Thither by the graces led,
And freshly laid in nuptiall bed.
On whom lips like Nymphes doe waite,
Who deplore their virgin state,

185

Oft they blush, and blush for this,
That they one another kisse,
But observe besides the rest,
You shall know this Fellon best,
By her tongue, for if your eare
Once a heavenly musicke heare,
Such as neither Gods nor Men,
But from that voice, shall heare agen
That that is she. O strait surprise,
And bring her unto loves Assize?
If you let her goe she may,
Antedate the latter day,
Fate and Philosophy controle,
And leave the world without a soule.

186

To his Mistris confined.

Song.

O thinke not Phœbe 'cause a cloud,
Doth now thy silver brightnes shrowd,
My wandring eye
Can stoope to common beauties of the Skye.
Rather be kind, and this Ecclips.
Shall neither binder eye nor lips,
For wee shall meete,
Within our hearts and kisse, and none shall see't.

Nor canst thou in thy prison be,
Without some living signe of me;
When thou dost spye,
A Sun beame peepe into the roome, 'tis J.
For I am bid within a flame,
And thus into thy chamber came,
To let thee see,
In what a mart tyredome I burne for thee.

When thou dost touch thy Lute thou mayest,
Thinke on my heart, on which thou plaiest;

187

When each sad tone,
Vpon the strings doth shew my deeper groane.
When thou dost please, they shall rebound,
With nimble ayres strucke to the sound,
Of thy owne voyce;
O thinke how much I tremble and reioyce.

There's no sad picture that doth dwell,
Vpon thy Arras wall, but well
Resembles me,
No matter though our age doe not agree.
Love can make old, as well as time,
And he that doth but twenty clime,
If he dare proue,
As true as I, shewes fourescore yeares in love.

188

The Primrose.

Aske me why I send you here,
This firstling of the infant veare:
Aske me why I send to you,
This Primrose all bepearl'd with dew.
I strait will whisper in your eares,
The sweets of love are wash't with teares.

Aske me why this flower doth shew,
So yellow greene and sickly too:
Aske me why the stalke is weake;
And bending yet it doth not breake;
I must tell you these discover,
What doubts and feares are in a lover.

189

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.

190

A Song.

[In her faire cheekes two pits doe lye]

In her faire cheekes two pits doe lye,
To bury those slaine by her eye,
So spight of death this comforts me,
That fairely buried I shall be.
My grave with rose and lilly spread,
O 'tis a life to be so dead.
Come then and kill me with thy eye,
For if thou let me live, I die.

When I behold those lips againe;
Reviving what those eyes have slaine,
With kisses sweet, whose balsome pure,
Loves wounds as soone as made, can cure.
Me thinkes 'tis sickenes to be sound,
And there's no health to such a wound.
Come then &c.

When in her chaste breast I behold,
Those downy mounts of snow ne're cold,
And those blest hearts her beauty kills,
Reviv'd by climing those faire hills.

191

Mee thinkes there's life in such a death,
And so t'expire, inspires new breath.
Come then, &c.

Nymphe since no death is deadly where.
Such choice of Antidotes are neere,
And your keene eyes but kill in vaine,
Those that are sound, as soone as slaine,
That I no longer dead survive,
Your way's to bury me alive
Jn Cupids cave, where happy J,
May dying live, and living die.
Come then and kill me with thy eye,
For if thou let me live, I die.

192

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.

193

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.

194

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,

195

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.

196

Loves Courtship.

Kisse lovely Celia and be kind,
Let my desires freedome find,
Sit thee downe,
And we will make the Gods confesse,
Mortals enjoy some happines.

Mars would disdaine his Mistris charmes,
If he beheld thee in my armes,
And descend:
Thee his mortall Queene to make,
Or live as mortall for thy sake.

Uenus must loose her title now,
And leave to brag of Cupid's bow,
Silly Queene.
Shee hath but one, but I can spie,
Ten thousand Cupids in thy eye.

Nor may the sunne behold our blisse,
For sure thy eyes doe dazle his
If thou feare.

197

That he'll betray thee with his light,
Let me ecclipse thee from his sight.

And while I shade thee from his eye,
Oh let me heare thee gently cry,
Celia yeelds,
Maids often loose their Maidenhead,
Ere they set foote in Nuptiall bed.

198

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.

199

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.

200

The protestation a Sonnet.

No more shall meads be deckt with flowers,
Nor sweetnesse dwell in rosie bowers:
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor Aprill violets paint the grove,
If I forsake my Celias love.

The fish shall in the Ocean burne,
And fountaines sweet shall bitter turne,
The humble oake no flood shall know,
When floods shall highest hills ore-flow.
Blacke Læthe shall oblivion leave,
If ere my Celia I deceive.

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus doves want wings to flie:
The Sun refuse to shew his light,
And day shall then be turn'd to night,
And in that night no starre appeare,
If once I leave my Celia deere.

201

Love shall no more inhabite earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth,
Nor joy above in heaven dwell,
Nor paine torment poore soules in hell.
Grim death no more shall horrid prove,
If ere I leave bright Celias love.

202

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.

203

To his jealous Mistris.

Admit (thou darling of mine eyes)
I have some Idoll lately fram'd:
That under such a false disguise,
Our true loves might the lesse be fam'd.
Canst thou that knowest my heart suppose,
'Ile fall from thee, and worship those.

Remember (deare) how loath and slow,
I was to cast a looke or smile,
Or one love-line to mis-bestow,
Till thou hadst chang'd both face and stile.
And art thou growne afraid to see.
That maske put on thou mad'st for me.

I dare not call those childish feares,
Comming from love, much lesse from thee,
But wash away with frequent teares,
This counterfeit Idolatrie.
And henceforth kneele at ne're a shrine,
To blind the world, but only thine.

204

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.

205

The mistake.

When on faire Celia I did spie,
A wounded heart of stone,
The wound had almost made me cry,
Sure this heart was my owne.

But when I saw it was enthron'd,
In her celestiall brest:
O then I it no longer own'd,,
For mine was ne're so blest.

Yet if in highest heavens doe shine,
Each constant Martyrs heart:
Then shee may well give rest to mine,
That for her sake doth smart.

Where seated in so high a blisse,
Though wounded it shall live:
Death enters not in Paradise,
The place free life doth give.

Or if the place lesse sacred were,
Did but her saving eye;

206

Bath my sicke heart in one kind teare,
Then should I never dye.

Slight balmes may heale a slighter sore,
No medicine lesse divine,
Can ever hope for to restore,
A wounded heart like mine.