University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

EPIGRAMS.

[KLOCKIUS.]

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Klockius so deeply hath sworn ne'er more to come
In bawdy house, that he dares not go home.

[RALPHIUS.]

Compassio

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n in the world again is bred;
Ralphius is sick, the broker keeps his bed.

DOUBTFUL POEMS.

BORROWING.

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One calls me friend, yet urges me to pay
A debt I borrow'd, not upon a day,
But upon terms of love; am I his friend?
I may then owe as freely as he lend.

SUPPING HOURS.

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Thou in the field walk'st out thy supping hours,
And yet thou say'st thou hast supp'd like a king;
Like Nebuchadnezzar perchance, with grass and flowers,
A salad worse than Spanish dieting.

THE SMITH.

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Smug the smith for ale and spice
Sold all his tools, but kept his vice.

POEMS HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED.

[TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY.]

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O fruitful garden, and yet never till'd!
Box full of treasure, yet by no man fill'd!
O thou which hast made Him that first made thee!
O near of kin to all the Trinity!
O palace, where the King of all, and more,
Went in and out, yet never open'd door,
Whose flesh is purer than an other's spirit,
Reach Him our prayers, and reach us down His merit!
O bread of life which swelld'st up without leaven!
O bridge which join'st together earth and heaven!
Whose eyes see me through these walls, and through glass,
And through this flesh as thorough cypress pass.
Behold a little heart made great by thee
Swelling, yet shrinking at thy majesty.
O dwell in it! for wheresoe'er thou go'st,
There is the temple of the Holy Ghost.

TO MY LORD OF PEMBROKE.

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Fie, fie, you sons of Pallas, what mad rage
Makes you contend, that Love's or God or page?
He that admires, his weakness doth confess,
For as love greater grows, so he grows less.
He that disdains, what honour wins thereby,
That he feels not, or triumphs on a fly?
If love with queasy pain thy stomach move,
So will a slut whom none dare touch or love.
If it with sacred strains do thee inspire
Of poetry, so we may want admire.
If it thee valiant make, his rival Hate
Can outdo that, and make men desperate.
Yielding to us, all women conquer us,
By gentleness we are betrayed thus.
We will not strive with love that's a she beast;
But playing we are bound, and yield in jest.
As in a cobweb toil a fly hath been
Undone, so have I some faint lover seen.
Love cannot take away our strength, but tame,
And we less feel the thing than fear the name,
Love is a temperate bath; he that feels more
Heat or cold there, was hot or cold before.
But as sunbeams, which would but nourish, burn
Drawn into hollow crystal, so we turn
To fire her beauty's lustre willingly,
By gathering it in our false treacherous eye.
Love is nor you, nor you, but [aye a calm,]
Sword to the stiff, unto the wounded balm.
Praise nothing adds, if it be infinite;
If it be nothing, who can lessen it?

OF A LADY IN THE BLACK MASK.

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Why choose she black; was it that in whiteness
She did Leda equal? whose brightness
Must suffer loss to put a beauty on,
Which hath no grace but from proportion.
It is but colour, which to lose is gain,
For she in black doth the Æthiopian stain.
Being the form that beautifies the creature,
Her rareness not in colour is, but feature.
Black on her receives so strong a grace
It seems the fittest beauty for the face.
Colour is not, but in estimation,
Fair or foul, as it is styled by fashion.
Kings wearing sackcloth it doth royal make;
So black[nes]s from her face doth beauty take.
It not in colour but in her inheres,
For what she is is fair, not what she wears.
The Moor shall envy her, as much, or more,
As did the ladies of our court before.
The sun shall mourn that he had westward been,
To seek his love, whilst she i'th' north was seen.
Her blackness lends like lustre to her eyes,
As in the night pale Phoebe glorifies.
Hell, sin, and vice their attributes shall lose
Of black; for it wan and pale whiteness choose,
As like themselves, common, and most in use.
Sad of that colour is the late abuse.

A LETTER WRITTEN BY SIR H[ENRY] G[OODYERE] AND J[OHN] D[ONNE], ALTERNIS VICIBUS.

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TO THE AUTHOR [Thomas Coryat].

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INCIPIT JOANNES DONES.

Lo here's a man, worthy indeed to travel
Fat Libyan plains, strangest China's gravel,
For Europe well hath seen him stir his stumps,
Turning his double shoes to simple pumps;
And for relation, look he doth afford
Almost for every step he took a word.
What had he done, had he ere hugg'd th'ocean
With swimming Drake or famous Magellan;
And kiss'd that unturn'd

Terra incognita

cheek of our old mother,
Since so our Europe's world he can discover.
It's not that French

Rabelais

which made his giant

Pantagruel

see
Those uncouth islands where words frozen be,
Till by the thaw next year they're voiced again,
When Papagauts, Andouilets and that train
Should be such matter for a Pope to curse,
As he would make; make! makes ten times worse,
And yet so pleasing as shall laughter move,
And be his vein, his gain, his praise, his love.
Sit not still then, keeping fame's trump unblown,
But get thee, Coryat, to some land unknown;
From whence proclaim thy wisdom with those wonders
Rarer than summer's snows or winter's thunders,
And take this praise of that th'hast done already;
Tis pity e'er thy flow should have an eddy.

ON FRIENDSHIP.

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Friendship on earth we may as easily find,
As he the North-west passage that is blind;
It's not unlike th'imaginary stone,
That tatter'd chemists long have doted on.
Sophisticate affection's not the best,
The world affords few friends will bide the test;
They'll make a glorious show a little space,
But tarnish in the rain, like copper lace;
Or, melted in affliction, in one day
They'll smoke and stink and vapour quite away.
We miss the true materials, choosing friends;
On virtue we project not, but our ends.
So by desert, while we embrace too many,
We courted are like ---, not loved by any.
Good deeds ill placed, which we on most men heap,
Are seeds of that ingratitude we reap;
For he that is so sweet, that none denies,
Is made of honey for the nimble flies.
Choose one or two companions for thy life
But be as true, as thou wouldst have thy wife.
Though he lives joyless, that enjoys no friend,
He, that has many, pays for 't in the end.

THE CONSTANT LOVER.

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I know as well as you she is not fair,
Nor hath she sparkling eyes, nor curling hair,
Nor can she boast of virtue, or of truth,
Nor anything about her, but her youth.
I know she cannot love, or, if she do,
Alas, 'twill be but for an hour or two;
For she a woman is; I know in vain
I spend my vows and tears, which down do rain
From my unhappy eyes, and to no end
I know I verses write and letters send;
For she hath vow'd my death shall never move her;
Yet for all this I cannot choose but love her.
Yet am I not so blind as some men be,
Who vow and swear they little Cupid see
In their fair mistress' eyes, and say there dwell
Roses about her cheeks that do excell
Rubies and coral, as if love were built
In fading red and white, the body's gilt;
As if they could not love, unless they tell
Where, how, and in what place their loves do dwell.
Vain heretics they are, for I love more
Than ever any did, that told wherefore.
Then do not trouble me, nor ask me why;
'Tis because she is she, and I am I.

[AN IDEAL.]

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When I do love, my mistress must be fair,
Yet not extremely so, lest I despair.
When I do love, my mistress must be wise,
Yet not a wit; I'll not be so precise.
When I do love, my mistress chaste must be,
Not obstinate, for then she's not for me.
When I do love, my mistress must be kind,
Yet not before I her by merit bind.
She whom I love need not for to be rich,
For virtue and not wealth doth me bewitch.
She whom I love may once have loved before,
For, meeting equal, we can love the more.
And, to conclude, my mistress must be young,
And last (that's hardest) not have too much tongue.

THE LIE.

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[TRUE LOVE.]

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Love bred of glances 'twixt amorous eyes,
Like children's fancies, soon bred, soon dies.
Guilt, bitterness and smiling woe
Doth oft deceive poor lovers so,
And the fond sense the unwary soul deceives
With deadly poison wrapt in lily leaves.
But hearts so chain'd, 'tis goodness stands
With truth unstain'd to couple hands.
Love being to all beauty blind,
Save the clear beauties of the mind,
Where reason is pleased, continual blisses shedding,
Angels are guests and dance at his blest wedding.