University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

I. SATIRES. 1593–1602.

SATIRE VI. TO SR NICHOLAS SMYTH.

Sleep, next Society and true friendship,
Man's best contentment, doth securely slip
His passions, and the world's troubles; rock me,
O sleep, wean'd from my dear friend's company,
In a cradle free from dreams or thoughts, there
Where poor men ly, for Kings asleep do fear.
Here sleep, and howsed by famous Ariosto,
By silver-tongu'd Ovid, and many moe,
Perhaps by gold-mouth'd Spencer too pardie
(Which builded was two dozen Stories high),
I had repair'd, but that it was so rotten,
As sleep awak'd by Ratts from them was gotten:
And I will build no new, for by my Will,
Thy father's house shall be the fairest still
In Excester. Yet, methinks, for all their Wit,
Those wits that say nothing, best describe it.
Without it there is no Sense, only in this
Sleep is unlike a long Parenthesis.
Not to save charges, but would I had slept
The time I spent in London, when I kept
Fighting and untrust gallants Company,
In which Natta, the new Knight, seized on me,
And offered me the experience he had bought
With great Expence. I found him throughly taught
In curing Burnes. His thing had had more scars
Then T--- himself; like Epps it often wars,
And still is hurt. For his Body and State
The Physick and Councel (which came too late
'Gainst Whores and Dice) he now on me bestows:
Most superficially he speaks of those.
I found by him, least sound him who most knows.
He swears well, speakes ill, but best of Clothes,
What fits Summer, what Winter, what the Spring
He had Living, but now these waies comein[ge]
His whole Revenew; Where his Whore now dwells,
And hath dwelt since his father's death, he tells.
Yea he tells most cunningly each hid cause
Why Whores forsake their Bawds: To these, some Laws
He knows of the Duel, and touch his Skill
The least Jot in that or these, he quarrel will
Though sober, but he 'as never fought. I know
What made his Valour undubd Windmill go
Within a Pint at most! yet for all this
(Which is most strange) Natta thinks no man is
More honest than himself. Thus men may want
Conscience, whilst being brought up ignorant,
They use themselves to vice. And besides those
Illiberal Arts forenam'd, no Vicar knows,
Nor other Captain less then he; His Schools
Are Ordinaries, where civil men seem fools,
Or are for being there; His best bookes, Plaies,
Where, meeting godly Scenes, perhaps he praies.
His first set prayer was for his father ill
And sick,—that he might dye: That had, until
The Lands were gone, he troubled God no more:
And then ask'd him but his Right, That the whore
Whom he had kept, might now keep him: She, spent,
They left each other on even terms; she went
To Bridewel, he unto the Wars, where want
Hath made him valiant, and a Lieutenant
He is become: Where, as they pass apace,
He steps aside, and for his Captain's place
He praies again: Tells God, he will confess
His sins, swear, drink, dice, and whore thenceforth less,
On this Condition, that his Captain dye
And he succeed; But his Prayer did not; they
Both cashir'd came home, and he is braver now
Than his captain: all men wonder, few know how:
Can he rob? No. Cheat? No. Or doth he spend
His own? No. Fidus, he is thy dear friend,
That keeps him up. I would thou wert thine own,
Or hadst as good a friend as thou art one.
No present Want nor future hope made me,
Desire (as once I did) thy friend to be:
But he had cruelly possest thee then,
And as our Neighbours the Low-Country men,
Being (whilst they were Loyal, with Tyranny
Opprest) broke loose, have since refus'd to be
Subject to good Kings, I found even so,
Wert thou well rid of him, thou't have no moe.
Could'st thou but chuse as well as love, to none
Thou should'st be second: Turtle and Damon
Should give thee place in songs, and Lovers sick
Should make thee only Love's Hieroglyphick:
Thy Impress should be the loving Elm and Vine,
Where now an ancient Oak with Ivy twine,
Destroy'd, thy Symbole is. O dire Mischance!
And, O vile verse! And yet our Abraham France
Writes thus, and jests not. Good Fidus for this
Must pardon me, Satyre's Bite when they kiss.
But as for Natta, we have since faln out:
Here on his knees, he pray'd, else we had fought.
And because God would not he should be winner,
Nor yet would have the Death of such a sinner,
At his seeking, our Quarrel is deferr'd,
I'l leave him at his Prayers, and as I heard,
His last: and, Fidus, you and I do know,
I was his friend, and durst have been his foe,
And would be either yet; But he dares be
Neither: Sleep blots him out and takes in thee.
‘The mind, you know, is like a Table-book,
The old, unwipt, new writing never took.’
Hear how the Huishers, Checques, Cupbord, and Fire
I pass'd: (by which Degrees young men aspire
In Court): And how that idle and she-state
(When as my judgment cleer'd) my soul did hate,
How I found there (if that my trifling Pen
Durst take so hard a Task) Kings were but men,
And by their Place more noted, if they erre;
How they and their Lords unworthy men prefer;
And, as unthrifts, had rather give away
Great Summs to flatterers, than small debts pay;
So they their greatness hide, and greatness show
By giving them that which to worth they owe:
What Treason is, and what did Essex kill,
Not true Treason, but Treason handled ill:
And which of them stood for their Countrie's good,
Or what might be the Cause of so much Blood;
He said she stunck, and men might not have said
That she was old before that she was dead.
His Case was hard, to do or suffer; loth
To do, he made it harder, and did both.
Too much preparing lost them all their Lives,
Like some in Plagues kill'd with preservatives.
Friends, like land-souldiers in a storm at Sea,
Not knowing what to do, for him did pray.
They told it all the world: where was their wit?
Cuff's putting on a sword, might have told it.
And Princes must fear Favorites more then Foes,
For still beyond Revenge Ambition goes.
How since Her death, with Sumpter-horse that Scot
Hath rid, who, at his coming up, had not
A Sumpter-dog. But till that I can write
Things worth thy Tenth reading (dear Nick) good night.

III. ELEGIES.

XIII. LOVE-MEMORIES IN ABSENCE.

XVIII. LOVE'S PROGRESS.

XIX. TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED.

XX. OPINION.

The heavens rejoice in motion; why should I
Abjure my so beloued varyety,
And not with many, youth and loue deuide?
Pleasure is none, if not diversifide.
The sun, that sitting in the chaire of light,
Sheds flame into what else soe'er seemes bright,
Is not contented att one Sign to inn,
But ends his yeare, and att a new begins.
All things doe willingly in chang delight,
The fruitfull mother of our appetite:
Riuers the clerer and more pleasing are,
Wheere their faire-spreading streams run wide and clear;
And a dead lake, that no strange barque doth greete,
Corrupts itself and what doth liue in itt.
Let no man tell me such a one is faire
And worthy all alone my loue to sheire.
Nature hath done in her the liberall part
Of a kind mistress, and emploide her art
To make her loueable; and I auerr
Him not humane, that would return from her;
I loue her well; and could, if need weer, dye
To doe her seruice. But followes itt that I
Must serue her only, when I may haue choice?
The lawe is hard, and shall not haue my voice.
The last I saw in all extreames is faire,
And houlds me in the sunnbeams of her haire;
Her nymphlike features such agreements haue,
That I could venture with her to the graue:
Another's broune, I like her not the worse;
Her toungue is soft, and takes me with discourse;
Others, for that they well descended are,
Doe in my loue obteine as larg a share;
And though they be not faire, 'tis much with me
To winn their loue only for their degree;
And though I faile of my requirèd ends,
The attempt is glorious, and ittself comends.
How happy weer our sires in ancient time,
Who held plurality of loues no crime!
With them it was accounted charrety
To stirr up race of all indifferently;
Kindred were not exempted from the bands,
Which with the Persians still in usage stands.
Women were then no sooner askt then won;
And what they did was honest, and well done.
But since this title honnour hath been used,
Ower weake credulety hath been abusde;
The goulden lawes of nature are repeald,
Which our first fathers in such reuerence held;
Our libertye's reverst, and chartar's gone,
And we made servants to Opinion;
A monster in no certeine shape attird,
And whose originall is much desired;
Formless at first, butt growing on, itt fashions,
And doth prescribe manners and laws to nations.
Here Loue received immedicinable harmes,
And was despoilèd of his daring armes;
A greater want then is his dareing eyes,
He lost those awfull wings with which he flyes;
His sinewy bow, and those imortal darts,
Wherewith hee's wont to bruise resisting harts.
Only some few, strong in themselues, and free,
Retaine the seeds of ancient liberty;
Following that part of loue, although deprest,
And make a throne for him within their brest;
In spite of modern censures, him avouing
Their soveraigne, all seruice him allowing.
Amongst which troope, although I am the least,
Yet equall in affections with the best,
I glory in subjection of his hand,
Nor neuer did decline his least comaund;
For in whateuer form the message came,
My heart did open, and receaue the flame.
But time will in its course a point descrye,
When I this lovèd seruice must denye;
For our allegience temporary is;
With firmer age returne ower libertyes.
What time, in grauer judgement, wee repos'd,
Shall not soe easily be to change disposed;
Nor to the art of several eyes obeying,
But beauty with true worth soe rarely weying;
Which being found assembled in some one,
Wee'll loue her euer, and loue her alone.

XXI. A PARADOX OF A PAINTED FACE.

Not kisse! by Jouve I must, and make impression!
As longe as Cupid dares to hould his scessyoun
Within my flesh and blood, our kisses shall
Out-minvte tyme, and without number fall.
Doe I not know these balls of blushinge redd
That on thy cheeks thus amorously are spread,
Thy snowie necke, those vaines vpon thy browe
Which with their azure twinklinge sweetly bowe,
Are artificiall, borrowed, and no more thyne owne
Then chaynes which on St. George's day are showne
Are propper to their wearers; yet for this
I idole thee, and begge a luschyous kisse.
The fucus and ceruse, which on thy face
Thy cuninge hand layes on to add new grace,
Deceive me with such pleasinge fraud, that I
Fynd in thy art, what can in Nature lye.
Much like a paynter that vpon some wall
On which the cadent sun-beames vse to fall
Paynts with such art a guylded butterflie
That sillie maids with slowe-mov'd fingers trie
To catch it, and then blush at their mistake,
Yet of this painted flie most reckoninge make:
Such is our state, since what we looke vpon
Is nought but colour and proportionn.
Take we a face as full of frawde and lyes
As gipsies in your common lottereyes,
That is more false and more sophisticate
Then are saints' reliques, or a man of state;
Yet such beinge glosèd by the sleight of arte
Gaine admiration, wininge many a hart.
Put case there be a difference in the mold,
Yet may thy Venus be more choice, and hold
A dearer treasure. Oftentimes we see
Rich Candyan wynes in wooden bowles to bee;
The oderiferous civett doth not lye
Within the pretious muscatt's eare or eye,
But in a baser place; for prudent Nature
In drawinge us of various formes and feature,
Gives from ye envious shopp of her large treasure
To faire partes comlynesse, to baser pleasure.
The fairest flowres that in ye Springe do grow
Are not soe much for vse, as for the showe;
As lyllies, hyacinths, and your gorgious byrth
Of all pied-flowers, which dyaper the Earth,
Please more with their discoulered purple traine
Then holsome pot-hearbs which for vse remayne.
Shall I a gawdie-speckled serpent kisse
For that the colours which he wears be his?
A perfum'd cordevant who will not weare
Because ye sent is borrowed otherwhere?
The robes and vestments which do grace vs all
Are not our owne, but adventitiall.
Tyme rifles Nature's bewtie, but slie Art
Repaires by cuninge this decayinge part;
Fills here a wrinckle and there purls a vayne,
And with a nymble hand runs ore againe
The breaches dented in by th'arme of Tyme,
And makes deformitie to be noe cryme;
As when great men be grypt by sicknes' hand
Industrious phisick pregnantly doth stand
To patch vp fowle diseases, and doth strive
To keepe their totteringe carcasses alive.
Bewtie's a candle-light, which euery puffe
Blowes out, and leaves naught but a stinking snuff
To fill our nostrills with. This boldly thinke,
The clearest candle makes ye greatest stinke;
As your pure food and cleanest nutriment
Getts the most hott and most strong excrement.
Why hang we then on things so apt to varye,
So fleetinge, brittle, and so temporarie,
That agues, coughs, the tooth-ake, or catharr
(Slight howses of diseases) spoyle and marr?
But when old age their bewty hath in chace,
And ploughes vpp furrowes in their once smooth face,
Then they become forsaken, and doe shewe
Like stately abbies ruyn'd longe agoe.
Nature but gives the modell and first draught
Of faire perfection, which by Art is taught
To make itselfe a compleat forme and birth
Soe, stands a coppie to these shapes on Earth.
Jove grant me then a repairable face,
Which whil'st that coulors are, can want noe grace;
Pigmalion's painted statue I wold loue,
Soe it were warme or soft, or could but move.

XXII. LOVE'S WAR.

Till I have peace with thee, warr other men;
And when I haue peace, can I leave thee then?
All other warrs are scrupelous, only thou
A faire free cyttie, maist thy selfe allowe
To any one. In Flanders, who can tell
Whether the master 'press, or men rebell?
Onely we knowe, that which all ideots say,
They beare most blowes that come to part the fray.
France in her lunatique giddines did hate
Even our men, yea and our God of late;
Yet she relies vpon our angells well,
Which n'ere returne no more then they that fell.
Sicke Ireland is with a strange warr possesst,
Like to an ague, now raging, now at rest,
Which tyme will cure: yet it must doe her good
If she were purg'd, and her head-vaine let blood.
And Midas joyes, our Spanish jorneys give,
We touche all gold, but fynd no food to live.
And I shold be in the hot parchinge clyme
To dust and ashes turnd before my tyme.
To mewe me in a shipp is to inthrall
Me in a prisonn, that were like to fall;
Or in a cloister, save that there men dwell
In a calme Heav'n, here in a swayring Hell.
Long voiages are long consumptions,
And shipps are carts for executyons;
Yea, they are deaths: It is all one to flye
Into another world, as 'tis to die.
Heere let me warre, in these arms let me lye;
Here let me parley: better bleed then dye.
Thyne arms imprison mee, and myn arms thee;
Thy hart thy ransom is, take myne for mee.
Other men warr, that thay their rest may gaine,
But we will rest that we may fight againe.
Those warrs th'ignorant, these the experienct love;
There we are alwais vnder, heere aboue;
There engines farr of[f] breed a iust true feare;
Neere thrusts, pickes, stabbs, yea bullets, hurt not heere.
There lyes are wronges, here safe vprightly lye;
There men kill men, wee'le make one by and by.
Thou nothinge, I not halfe soe much to doe
In these warrs, as they may which from vs two
Shall springe. Thowsands we see which travail not
To warr, but stay, swords, arms, and shott
To make at home; and shall not I do then
More gloriovs service, staying to make men?

XXIII. LOVE'S POWER.

Shall Love, that gave Latona's heire the foile,
(Proud of his archerie and Pethon's spoile,)
And so enthral'd him to a nimph's disdaine
As, when his hopes were dead, hee, full of paine,
Made him above all trees the lawrell grace,
An embleme of Loue's glory, his disgrace;
Shall he, I say, be termed a foot-boy now
Which made all powers in Heauen and Earth to bowe?
Or is't a fancy which themselves doe frame,
And therefore dare baptize by any name?
A flaming straw! which one sparke kindles bright,
And first hard breath out of itselfe doth fright;
Whose father was a smile, and death a frowne,
Soon proud of little and for lesse cast downe?
'Tis so! and this a lackie terme you may,
For it runs oft, and makes but shortest stay.
But thou, O Love! free from Time's eating rust,
That sett'st a limite unto boundles lust,
Making desire grow infinitely stronge,
And yett to one chast subiect still belong;
Bridling self-love, that flatters us in ease,
Quick'ning our witts to striue that they may please;
Fixing the wand'ring thoughts of straying youth,
The firmest bond of Faith, the knott of Truth:
Thou that did'st never lodge in worthles hart,
Thou art a master, whersoe're thou art.
Thou mak'st food loathsome, sleep to be unrest,
Lost labor easeful, scornefull lookes a feast;
And when thou wilt, thy ioyes as farr excell
All elce as, when thou punish'st, thy Hell.
Oh make that rebell feele thy matchles power,
Thou that mad'st Jove a bull, a swan, a showre.
Give him a love as tirannous as faire,
That his desire goe yoakèd with despaire;
Live in her eyes, but in her frozen heart
Lett no thaw come that may have sence of smart.
Lett her a constant silence never breake,
Till he doe wish repulse to heare her speake;
And last, such sence of error lett him haue
As he may never dare for mercy crave.
Then none will more capittulate with thee,
But of their harts will yield the empire free.

XXIV. LOVE AND REASON.

Base Love, the stain of youth, the scorn of age,
The folly of a man, a woman's rage;
The canker of a froward will thou art,
The business of an idle, empty heart;
The rack of Jealousy and sad Mistrust,
The smooth and justified excuse of lust;
The thief which wastes the taper of our life;
The quiet name of restless jars and strife;
The fly which dost corrupt and quite distaste
All happiness if thou therein be cast;
The greatest and the most concealed impostor
That ever vain credulity did foster;
A mountebank extolling trifles small,
A juggler playing loose, not fast with all;
An alchymist, whose promises are gold,
Payment but dross, and hope at highest sold.
This, this is Love, and worse than I can say
When he a master is, and bears the sway.
He guides like Phaeton, burns and destroys,
Parches and stifles what would else be joys.
But when clear Reason, sitting in the throne,
Governs his beams,—which otherwise are none
But darts and mischiefs,—oh, then, sunlike, he
Doth actuate, produce, ripen, and free
From grossness, those good seeds which in us lie
Till then as in a grave, and there would die.
All high perfections in a perfect lover
His warmth does cherish, and his light discover.
He gives an even temper of delight
Without a minute's loss; nor fears affright
Nor interrupt the joys such love doth bring,
Nor no enjoying can dry up the spring.
Unto another he lends out our pleasure,
That—with the use—it may come home a treasure.
Pure link of bodies where no lust controuls,
The fastness and security of souls!
Sweetest path of life, virtue in full sail,
Tree-budding hope whose fruit doth never fail!
To this dear love I do no rebel stand,
Though not employed, yet ready at command.
Wherefore, oh Reason high, thou who art king
Of the world's king, and dost in order bring
The wild affections, which so often swerve
From thy just rule, and rebel passions serve;
Thou without whose light love's fire is but smoke,
Which puts out eyes and mind's true sense doth choak;
Restore this lover to himself again,
Send him a lively feeling of his pain,
Give him a healthy and discerning taste
Of food and rest, that he may rest at last,
By strength of thee, from his strange strong disease,
Wherein the danger is that it doth please.
Grant this, oh Reason, at his deep'st request
Who never loved to see your power supprest.
And now to you, Sir Love, your love I crave,
Of you no mastery I desire to have.
But that we may, like honest friends, agree,
Let us to Reason fellow-servants be.

XXV. TO A LADY OF DARK COMPLEXION.

If shadows be the picture's excellence
And make it seem more lively to the sense;
If stars in the bright day are lost from sight
And seem most glorious in the mask of Night;
Why should you think, rare creature, that you lack
Perfection, cause your eyes and hair are black;
Or that your heavenly beauty, which exceeds
The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,
The damask colour of your cheeks and lips
Should suffer by their darkness an eclipse?
Rich diamonds shine brightest being set
And compassèd within a field of jet;
Nor were it fit that nature should have made
So bright a sun to shine without some shade—
It seems that Nature, when she first did fancy
Your rare composure, studied nigromancy:
That when to you this gift she did impart
She usèd altogether the black art,
By which infusèd powers from magic book
You do command, like spirits, with a look.
She drew those magic circles in your eyes,
And made your hair the chains with which she ties
Rebelling hearts. Those blue veins, which appear
Winding meanders about either sphere,
Mysterious figures are; and when you list,
Your voice commandeth as the exorcist.
O, if in magic you have power so far,
Vouchsafe to make me your familiar.
Nor hath dame Nature her black art revealed
To outward parts alone, some lie concealed.
For as by heads of springs men often know
The nature of the streams which run below,
So your black hair and eyes do give direction
To think the rest to be of like complexion;
That rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,
That Indian mine, that straight of Magelan,
That world-dividing gulph, where he who ventures
With swelling sails and ravisht senses, enters
To a new world of bliss. Pardon I pray,
If my rude Muse presumeth to display
Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast
In praising sweetness which I ne'er did taste.
Starved men do know there's meat, and blind men may,
Though hid from light, presume there is a day.
The rover, in the mark his arrow strikes
Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks;
And if that I might aim my shaft aright,
The black mark I would hit and not the white.

XXVI. AN ELEGIE TO MRS. BOULSTRED.

Shall I goe force an elegy? abuse
My witt? and breake the hymen of my Muse
For one poore hower's love? deserues it such
Which serues not mee to doe on her as much?
Or if it would, I would that fortune shunn—
Who would be rich to be soe soon vndone?
The beggar's best that wealth doth never know,
And but to shew it him increaseth woe.
But we two may enioy an hower, when never
It returns, who would have a losse for ever?
Nor can soe short a loue, if true, but bring
A half-hower's feare with thought of loosing.
Before it all howers were hope, and all are,
That shall come after it, yeares of dispaire.
This ioy brings this doubt, whether it were more
To haue enioyed it, or haue dy'de before.
'Tis a lost Paradize, a fall from grace,
Which I think Adam felt more than his race;
Nor need these angels any other Hell,
It is enough for them from Heaven they fell.
Beside, conquest in love is all in all,
That when I list shee under me may fall;
And for this turne, both for delight and view
I'll haue a Succuba as good as you.
But when these toyes are past, and or blood ends,
The best injoying is, wee still are freindes.
Loue can but be friendship's outside, there two
Beauties differ as minds and bodyes do.
Thus I this good still fayne would be to take,
Vnles one hower another happy make;
Or that I might forgett it instantly;
Or in that blest estate that I might dye.
But why doe I thus trauaile in the skill
Of dispos'd Poetry, and perchance spill
My fortune, or undoe myself in sport
By hauing but that daungerous name in Court?
I'll leave, and since I doe your poet proue,
Keepe you my lines as secret as my love.

XXVII. LOVE AND WIT.

Trew love fynds wytt, but he whose witt doth move
Him to love, confesseth he doth not love;
And from his wytt, passions and true desire
Are forc't as hard as from the flynnt is fyre.
My Love's all fyer, whose flames my sowle doth nurs,
Whose smoakes are syghs, whose euery spark's a vers.
Doth measure win women? Then I know the why
Most of our ladyes with the Scots doe lye.
A Scot is measured, in each syllable, terse
And smooth as a verse, and like that smooth verse
Is shallow, and wants matter cut in bands,
And they're rugged. Her state better stands
Whom dawncinge measures tempted, not ye Scott;
In briefe their out of measure cost, so gott.
Greene-sicknes wenches (not needs must, but) may
Looke pale, breathe short: at Court none so long stay.
Good wit never dispairèd there, or ay me sayd,
For never wench at Covrt was ravishèd.
And she but cheats on Heav'n whom soe you wynn,
Thinkinge to share the sport, but not the synn.

XXVIII. A LOVE-MONSTER.

Behold a wonder such as hath not bene
From Pirrhus age vnto this present seene!
Six fingers, two heads, and such rarieties
Which sometyme haue been thought as prodigies
May passe as common things. No monster there
Compar'd with this which I about me beare.
Sporting with Calda as I oft before
Had done with her, and many of them more,
When in few dayes somthinge began t'appeare
The thought whereof amazèd me with feare.
I 'had thought that I 'had plundyred a sandy shore,
For what's more barren then a comon whore?
But now I see the signes, feele them and handle,
And know, alas, I 'am in for sope and candle.
But heer's the wonder, that noe Oedipus
Nor sphinx can ere vnryddle without vs.
The father and the mother are the same,
And I the agent both and patient am.
I gott the chyld and beare it, she is free,
The care of being delivered lyes in mee.
My belly swells and cannot be conceald,
The poyson is gone too farr to be heald.
All men that see me [do] faint, halt and shrinke,
Wonder to see't, but know not what to think.
Now is the tyme of my deliverance neare,
And now I labour betwixt hope and feare.
Hopinge ye best, yet euermore in doubt
How this Cæsarian bratt can be cut out.
A barber is my mydwife, and a knyfe
That cuts the infant's throat doth give it life.
One such a chance acruid to Jove, when hee
Slylie on earth stole secret leacherye.
When Vulcan launc't him and so drest ye sore
That from that tyme he never felt it more.
The chyld he Pallas call'd, because, quoth hee,
Hereafter I do meane wyser to bee.
So call I myne as aptly and as fytt,
For I'me resolvèd, myne shal teach me wytt.