University of Virginia Library

The Invocation.

Sir J. S.

Sir Toby Matthews.

Love turn'd to Hatred.

I Will not love one minute more I swear,
No not a minute; not a sigh or tear
Thou getst from me, or one kind look agen,
Though thou shouldst court me to't and wouldst begin.
I will not think of thee but as men do
Of debts and sins, and then I'le curse thee too:
For thy sake woman shall be now to me
Less welcom, then at midnight ghosts shall be:
Ile hate so perfectly, that it shall be
Treason to love that man that loves a she;
Nay I will hate the very good, I swear,
That's in thy sex, because it doth lie there;
Their very vertue, grace, discourse, and wit,
And all for thee; what, wilt thou love me yet?

The careless Lover.

Love and Debt alike troublesom.

This one request I make to him that sits the clouds above
That I were freely out of debt, as I am out of love:
Then for to dance, to drink and sing, I should be very willing
I should not ow one Lass a kiss, nor ne'r a Knave a shilling.
'Tis only being in Love and Debt, that breaks us of our rest;
And he that is quite out of both, of all the world is blest:
He sees the golden age wherein all things were free and common;
He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest, he fears no man nor woman.
Though Cræsus compassed great wealth, yet he still craved more,
He was as needy a beggar still, as goes from dore to dore.
Though Ovid were a merry man, Love ever kept him sad;
He was as far from happiness, as one that is stark mad.
Our Merchant he in goods is rich, and full of gold and treasure;
But when he thinks upon his Debts, that thought destroys his pleasure.
Our Courtier thinks that he's preferr'd, whom every man envies;
When Love so rumbles in his pate, no sleep comes in his eyes
Our Gallants case is worst of all, he lies so just betwixt them;
For he's in Love, and he's in Debt, and knows not which most vex him.
But he that can eat Beef, and feed on bread which is so brown
May satisfie his appetite, and owe no man a crown:
And he that is content with Lasses clothed in plain woollen,
May cool his heat in every alace, he need not to be sullen,
Nor sigh for love of Lady fair; for this each wise man knows
As good stuff under Flanel lies, as under Silken clothes.

Song.

To a Lady that forbad to love before Company.

What no more favors, not a Ribband more,
Not Fan nor Muff to hold as heretofore?
Must all the little blisses then be left,
And what was once Loves gift, become our theft?
May we not look our selves into a trance,
Teach our souls parlie at our eyes, not glance,
Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there
Whisper a Love that only yes can hear?
Not free a sigh, a sigh that's there for you,
Dear must I love you, and not love you too?
Be wise, nice, fair; For sooner shall they trace
The feather'd Choristers from place to place
By prints they make in th'air, and sooner say
By what right line the last Star made his way
That fled from heaven to earth, then ghess to know
How our Loves first did spring, or how they grow.
Love is all spirit, Fairies sooner may
Be taken tardy, when they night-tricks play
Then we, we are too dull and lumpish rather,
Would they could find us both in bed together!

The guiltless Inconstant.

My first Love whom all beauties did adorn,
Firing my heart, supprest it with her scorn;
Since like the tinder in my breast it lies,
By every sparkle made a sacrifice.
Each wanton eye can kindle my desire,
And that is free to all which was entire;
Desiring more by the desire I lost,
As those that in Consumptions linger most.
And now my wandring thoughts are not confin'd
Unto one woman, but to womankind:
This for her shape I love, that for her face,
This for her gesture, or some other grace:
And where that none of all these things I find,
I chuse her by the kernel, not the rind:
And so I hope since my first hope is gone,
To find in many what I lost in one;
And like to Merchants after some great loss
Trade by retail, that cannot do in gross.
The fault is hers that made me go astray,
He needs must wander that hath lost his way:
Guiltless I am; she doth this change provoke,
And made that Charcoal, which to her was Oak.
And as a Looking glass from the Aspect
Whilst it is whole, doth but one face reflect;
But being crackt or broken, there are grown
Many less faces, where there was but one:
So Love unto my heart did first prefer
Her image, and there placed none but her;
But since twas broke and martyr'd by her scorn,
Many less faces in her place are born.

Love's Representation.

Leaning her hand upon my Brest,
There on Loves Bed she lay to rest;
My panting heart rock'd her asleep,
My heedful eyes the watch did keep,
Then Love by me being harbored there,
No hope to be his Harbinger,
Desire his rival, kept the door;
For this of him I begg'd no more,
But that, our Mistress to entertain,
Some pretty fancy he would frame,
And represent it in a dream,
Of which my self should give the Theam.
Then first these thoughts I bid him show,
Which onely he and I did know,
Arrayed in duty and respect,
And not in Fancies that reflect,
Then those of value next present,
Approv'd by all the World's consent;
But to distinguish mine asunder,
Apparell'd they must be in wonder.
Such a device then I would have,
As Service not reward should crave,
Attir'd in spotless Innocence,
Not self-respect, nor no pretence:
Then such a Faith I would have shown,
As heretofore was never known.
Cloth'd with a constant clear intent,
Professing always as it meant.
And if Love no such Garments have,
My minde a Wardrobe is so brave,
That there sufficient he may see
To cloath Impossibility.
Then beamy Fetters he shall finde;
By admiration subt'ly twin'd
That will keep fast the wanton'st thought,
That ere Imagination wrought:
There he shall finde of Joy a chain,
Fram'd by despair of her disdain,
So curiously that it can't tie
The smallest hopes that Thoughts now spie.
There acts as glorious as the Sun,
Are by her veneration spun,
In one of which I would have brought
A pure unspotted abstract thought.
Considering her as she is good,
Not in her frame of Flesh and Blood.
These Attoms then, all in her sight
I bad him joyn, that so he might
Discern between true Loves Creation,
And that Loves form that's now in fashion.
Love granting unto my request
Began to labor in my Brest;
But with the motion he did make,
It heav'd so high that she did wake.
Blush'd at the favor she had done,
Then smil'd, and then away did run.

SONG.

Upon the Black Spots worn by my Lady D. E.

Madam,

I Know your heart cannot so guilty be,
That you should wear those spots for vanity;
Or as your Beauties Trophies, put on one
For every murther which your eyes have done:
No, they're your Mourning-weeds for Hearts forlorn,
Which though you must not love, you could not scorn;
To whom since cruel Honor doth deny
Those joyes could onely cure their misery;
Yet you this noble way to grace them found,
Whilst thus your grief their martyrdom hath crown'd.
Of which take heed you prove not prodigal,
For if to every common Funeral,
By your eyes martyr'd, such grace were allow'd,
Your Face would wear not Patches but a Cloud.

Profer'd Love rejected.

Desdain.

---

16

English'd thus by the Author.

Lutea Allison: Si sola es, nulla es.

Though you Diana-like have liv'd still chast,
Yet must you not (Fair) die a Maid at last:
The roses on your cheeks were never made
To bless the eye alone, and so to fade;
Nor had the cherries on your lips their being
To please no other sense then that of seeing:
You were not made to look on, though that be
A bliss too great for poor mortalitie:
In that alone those rarer parts you have,
To better uses sure wise Nature gave
Then that you put them to; to love, to wed,
For Hymens rights, and for the Marriage-bed
You were ordain'd, and not to lie alone;
One is no number, till that two be one.
To keep a maidenhead but till fifteen,
Is worse then murder, and a greater sin
Then to have lost it in the lawful sheets
With one that should want skill to reap those sweets:
But not to lose't at all, by Venus, this,
And by her son, inexpiable is;
And should each Female guilty be o'th' crime,
The world would have its end before its time.

Perjury excus'd.

Alas it is too late! I can no more
Love now, then I have lov'd before:
My Flora, 'tis my Fate, not I;
And what you call Contempt, is Destiny.
I am no Monster sure, I cannot show
Two hearts; one I already ow:
And I have bound my self with oaths, and vowed
Oftner I fear then Heaven hath ere allowed,
That Faces now should work no more on me,
Then if they could not charm, or I not see.
And shall I break them? shall I think you can
Love, if I could, so foul a perjur'd man?
Oh no, 'tis equally impossible that I
Should love again, or you love Perjury.

A Song.

Hast thou seen the Down in the air,
when wanton blasts have tost it?
Or the Ship on the Sea,
when ruder winds have crost it?
Hast thou markt the Crocodiles weeping,
or the Foxes sleeping?
Or hast viewed the Peacock in his pride,
or the Dove by his Bride,
when he courts for his leacherie?
Oh so fickle, oh so vain, oh so false, so false is she!

Upon T. C. having the P.

Troth, Tom, I must confess I much admire
Thy water should find passage through the fire:
For fire and water never could agree,
These now by nature have some sympathie:
Sure then his way he forces; for all know
The French ne'r grants a passage to his foe.
If it be so, his valor I must praise,
That being the weaker, yet can force his ways;
And wish that to his valor he had strength,
That he might drive the fire quite out at length:
For (troth) as yet the fire gets the day,
For evermore the water runs away.

Upon the first sight of my Lady Seimor.

VVonder not much, if thus amaz'd I look,
Since I saw you, I have been Planet-strook:
A Beauty, and so rare I did descrie,
As should I set her forth, you all as I
Would lose your hearts; for he that can
Know her and live, he must be more then man.
An apparition of so sweet a Creature,
That credit me, she had not any feature
That did not speak her Angel. But no more
Such heavenly things as these we must adore,
Nor prattle of; lest when we do but touch,
Or strive to know, we wrong her too too much.

Upon L. M. weeping.

Whoever was the cause your tears were shed,
May these my curses light upon his head:
May he be first in love, and let it be
With a most known and black Deformitie,
Nay far surpass all Witches that have been
Since our first parents taught us how to sin!
Then let this Hag be coy, and he run mad
For that which no man else would ere have had:
And in this fit may he commit the thing
May him impenitent to th' gallows bring!
Then might he for one tear his pardon have,
But want that single grief his life to save!
And being dead, may he at heaven venter,
But for the guilt of this one fact ne'r enter.

The deformed Mistress.

I Know there are some Fools that care
Not for the body, so the face be faire:
Some others too that in a female creature
Respect not beauty, but a comely feature:
And others too, that for those parts in sight
Care not so much, so that the rest be right.
Each man his humor hath; and faith 'tis mine
To love that woman which I now define.
First I would have her Wainscot Foot and Hand
More wrincled far then any pleited band,
That in those furrows, if I'de take the pains,
I might both sow and reap all sorts of grains:
Her Nose I'de have a foot long, not above,
With pimples embroder'd, for those I love;
And at the end a comely Pearl of Snot,
Considering whether it should fall or not:
Provided next that half her Teeth be out,
Nor do I care much if her pretty Snout
Meet with her furrow'd Chin, and both together
Hem in her Lips, as dry as good whit leather:
One Wall-Eye she shall have; for that's a signe
In other Beasts the best, why not in mine?
Her Neck I'le have to be pure Jet at least,
With yellow Spots enammell'd; and her Breast
Like a Grashoppers wing both thin and lean,
Not to be toucht for dirt, unless swept clean:
As for her Belly, 'tis no matter, so
There be a Belly, and ------
Yet if you will, let it be somthing high,
And always let there be a timpanie.
But soft, where am I now! here I should stride,
Lest I fall in the place must be so wide;
And pass unto her Thighs, which shall be just
Like to an Ants that's scraping in the dust:
Into her Legs I'de have Loves issues fall,
And all her Calf into a gouty Small:
Her Feet both thick, and Eagle like displaid,
The symptoms of a comely handsom Maid.
As for her parts behind, I ask no more,
If they but answer those that are before,
I have my utmost wish; and having so,
Judge whether I am happy, yea or no.

Non est mortale quod opto: Upon Mrs A. L.

Thou thinkst I flatter when thy praise I tell,
But thou dost all Hyperboles excell:
For I am sure thou art no Mortal creature,
But a Divine one thron'd in humane feature.
Thy piety is such, that heaven by merit,
If ever any did, thou shouldst inherit:
Thy modesty is such, that hadst thou bin
Tempted as Eve, thou wouldst have shunn'd her sin:
So lovely fair thou art, that sure Dame Nature
Meant thee the pattern of the Female creature:
Besides all this, thy flowing Wit is such,
That were it not in thee, 't had bin too much
For Woman-kind: should Envy look thee ore,
It would confess thus much, if not much more.
I love thee well, yet wish some bad in thee,
For sure I am thou art too good for me.

His Dream.

On a still silent night, scarce could I number
One of the clock, but that a golden slumber
Had lockt my senses fast, and carried me
Into a world of blest felicitie,
I know not how: First to a Garden where
The Apricock, the Cherry, and the Peare,
The Strawberry, and Plumb, were fairer far
Then that eye-pleasing Fruit that caus'd the jar
Betwixt the Goddesses, and tempted more
Then fair Atlanta's Ball, though gilded ore.
I gaz'd a while on these, and presently
A Silver stream ran softly gliding by,
Upon whose banks, Lillies more white then snow
New faln from heaven, with Violets mixt, did grow;
Whose scent so chaf'd the neighbor air, that you
Would surely swear Arabick spices grew
Not far from thence, or that the place had been
With Musk prepar'd, to entertain Loves Queen.
Whilst I admir'd, the River past away,
And up a Grove did spring, green as in May,
When April had been moist: upon whose bushes
The pretty Robins, Nightingals, and Thrushes
Warbled their Notes so sweetly, that my ears
Did judge at least the musick of the Sphears.
But here my gentle Dream conveyed me
Into the place which I most long'd to see,
My Mistress bed; who, some few blushes past,
And smiling frowns, contented was at last
To let me touch her neck; I not content
With that, slipt to her breast, thence lower went,
And then—I awak'd.

Upon A. M.

Yeeld all, my Love; but be withall as coy,
As if thou knew'st not how to sport and toy:
The Fort resign'd with ease, men Cowards prove
And lazie grow. Let me besiege my Love,
Let me despair at least three times a day,
And take repulses upon each assay:
If I but ask a kiss, straight blush as red
As if I tempted for thy maidenhead:
Contract thy smiles, if that they go too far,
And let thy frowns be such as threaten war.
That Face which Nature sure never intended
Should ere be marr'd, because 't could ne'r be mended.
Take no corruption from thy Grandame Eve;
Rather want faith to save thee, then believe
Too soon: For credit me 'tis true,
Men most of all enjoy, when least they doe.

A Candle.

There is a thing which in the Light
Is seldom us'd, but in the Night
It serves the Maiden Female crew,
The Ladies, and the Good-wives too:
They use to take it in their hand,
And then it will uprightly stand;
And to a hole they it apply,
Where by its good will it would dye:
It spends, goes out, and still within
It leaves its moisture thick and thin.

The Metamorphosis.

The little Boy, to shew his might and power,
Turn'd Io to a Cow, Narcissus to a Flower;
Transform'd Apollo to a homely Swain,
And Jove himself into a Golden Rain.
These shapes were tolerable, but by th' Mass
H'as metamorphos'd me into an Ass.

To B. C.

VVhen first, fair Mistress, I did see your face,
I brought, but carried no eyes from the place:
And since that time God Cupid hath me led,
In hope that once I shall enjoy your bed.
But I despair; for now alas I find,
Too late for me, The blind does lead the blind.

Upon Sir John Laurence's bringing Water over the hills to my L. Middlesex his House at Witten.

And is the Water come? sure't cannot be,
It runs too much against Philosophie;
For heavy bodies to the Centre bend,
Light bodies only naturally ascend.
How comes this then to pass? The good Knights skill
Could nothing do without the Waters will:
Then 'twas the Waters love that made it flow,
For Love will creep where well it cannot go.

A Barber.

I Am a Barber, and I'de have you know,
A Shaver too, sometimes no mad one though:
The reason why you see me now thus bare,
Is 'cause I always trade against the haire.
But yet I keep a state; Who comes to me,
Whos'ere he is, he must uncover'd be.
When I'm at work, I'm bound to find discourse
To no great purpose, of great Swedens force,
Of Witel, and the Burse, and what 'twill cost
To get that back which was this Summer lost.
So fall to praising of his Lordships haire,
Ne'r so deform'd, I swear 'tis sans compare:
I tell him that the Kings doth sit no fuller,
And yet his is not half so good a color:
Then reach a pleasing Glass, that's made to lye
Like to its Master, most notoriously:
And if he must his Mistress see that day,
I with a Powder send him strait away.

A Soldier.

To my Lady E. C. at her going out of England.

I Must confess, when I did part from you,
I could not force an artificial dew
Upon my cheeks, nor with a gilded phrase
Express how many hundred several ways
My heart was tortur'd, nor with arms across
In discontented garbs set forth my loss:
Such loud expressions many times do come
From lightest hearts, great griefs are always dumb;
The shallow Rivers rore, the deep are still
Numbers of painted words may shew much skill,
But little anguish and a cloudy face
Is oft put on, to serve both time and place:
The blazing wood may to the eye seem great,
But 'tis the fire rak'd up that has the heat,
And keeps it long: True sorrow's like to wine,
That which is good does never need a signe.
My eyes were channels far too small to be
Conveyers of such floods of miserie:
And so pray think; or if you'd entertain
A thought more charitable, suppose some strain
Of sad repentance had, not long before,
Quite emptied for my sins, that watry store.
So shall you him oblige that still will be
Your servant to his best abilitie.

A Pedler of Small-wares.

L. W.

L. E.

L. E. L. M.

L. B. L. A.

An Answer to some Verses made in his praise.

The antient Poets, and their learned rimes,
We still admire in these our later times,
And celebrate their fames: Thus though they die,
Their names can never taste mortalitie:
Blind Homer's Muse, and Virgil's stately Verse,
While any live, shall never need a herse.
Since then to these such praise was justly due
For what they did, what shall be said to you?
These had their helps; they writ of Gods and Kings,
Of Temples, Battels, and such gallant things:
But you of Nothing; how could you have writ,
Had you but chose a Subject to your Wit?
To praise Achilles, or the Trojan crew,
Shewed little art, for praise was but their due.
To say she's fair that's fair, this is no pains:
He shews himself most Poet, that most feigns:
To find out vertues strangely hid in me;
I, there's the art and learned Poetrie,
To make one striding of a Barbed Steed,
Prancing a stately round: I use indeed
To ride Bat Jewels Jade; this is the skill,
This shews the Poet wants not wit at will.
I must admire aloof, and for my part
Be well contented, since you do't with art.

Love's Burning-glass.

Wondering long how I could harmless see
Men gazing on those beams that fired me;
At last I found, it was the Chrystal Love
Before my heart, that did the heat improve:
Which by contracting of those scatter'd rayes
Into it self, did so produce my blaze.
Now lighted by my Love, I see the same
Beams dazle those, that me are wont t'inflame.
And now I bless my Love, when I do think
By how much I had rather burn then wink.
But how much happier were it thus to burn,
If I had liberty to choose my urn!
But since those beams do promise only fire,
This flame shall purge me of the dross Desire.

The Miracle.

If thou bee'st Ice, I do admire
How thou couldst set my heart on fire;
Or how thy fire could kindle me,
Thou being Ice, and not melt thee;
But even my flames, light at thy own,
Have hardned thee into a stone!
Wonder of Love, that canst fulfill,
Inverting nature thus, thy will;
Making ice one another burn,
Whilst it self doth harder turn.

[Foreknowledge.]

Englished thus.

If man might know
The ill he must undergo,
And shun it so,
Then it were good to know:
But if he undergo it,
Though he know it,
What boots him know it,
He must undergo it?

The Expostulation.

Detraction execrated.

Thou vermin Slander, bred in abject minds
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! couldst thou find
Nought but our Love, whereon to shew thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thy base dull aid
Was useless in our conversation,
Where each meant more, then could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?
That part of us ne'r knew that we did love:
Or from the air? Our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste Mornings breath,
When from the Nights cold arms it creeps away,
Were cloth'd in words; and Maidens blush that hath
More purity, more innocence then they.
Nor from the water couldst thou have this tale,
No briny tear hath furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he aile
That had her Love, for what else could he seek?
We shortned days to moments by Loves art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous extasie
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our Love had been of still Eternity.
Much less could have it from the purer fire,
Our heat exhales no vapor from course sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desires;
Our mutual Love it self did recompence.
Thou hast no correspondencie in heaven,
And th'elemental world thou seest is free:
Whence hadst thou then this talking, Monster? even
From hell, a harbor fit for it and thee.
Curst be th'officious Tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruine my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving loos'd, unpittied it lament!
I must forbear her sight, and so repay
In grief, those hours Joy shortned to a dram:
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
And in one year outlive Methusalem.

SONG.

A Prologue of the Author's to a Masque at Witten.

Expect not here a curious River fine,
Our wits are short of that: alas the time!
The neat refined language of the Court
We know not; if we did, our Country sport
Must not be too ambitious; 'tis for Kings,
Not for their Subjects, to have such rare things.
Besides though, I confess, Parnassus hardly,
Yet Helicon this Summer-time is dry:
Our wits were at an ebbe or very low,
And, to say troth, I think they cannot flow.
But yet a gracious influence from you
May alter Nature in our Brow-sick crew.
Have patience then, we pray, and sit a while;
And, if a laugh be too much, lend a smile.