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LOVE'S FAREWELL...FROM A CHILD...ON A GIRDLE.

LOVE'S FAREWELL.

TREADING the path to nobler ends,
A long farewell to love I gave:
Resolv'd my country, and my friends,

All that remain'd of me should have.
And this resolve, no mortal dame,

None but those eyes, could have o'erthrown:
The nymph I dare not, need not, name,
So high, so like herself alone.

Thus the tall oak, which now aspires
Above the fear of private fires,
Grown and design'd for nobler use,

Not to make warm, but build the house,
Though from our meaner flames secure,
Must that which falls from Heaven endure.

FROM A CHILD.

MADAM, as, in some climes, the warmer sun
Makes it full summer ere the spring's begun,
And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load,
Before our violets dare look abroad:

So, measure not, by any common use,
The early love your brighter eyes produce.
When lately your fair hand in woman's weed
Wrap'd my glad head, I wish'd me so indeed,
That hasty time might never make me grow
Out of those favours you afford me now;
That I might ever such indulgence find,
And you not blush, or think yourself too kind,
Who now, I fear, while I these joys express,
Begin to think how you may make them less:
The sound of love makes your soft heart afraid,
And guard itself, though but a child invade,
And innocently at your white breast throw
A dart as white, a ball of new-fall'n snow.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT, which her slender waist confin'd,
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.

TO THE MUTABLE FAIR. HERE, Cælia! for thy sake I part With all that grew so near my heart; The passion that I had for thee, The faith, the love, the constancy! And, that I may successful prove, Transform myself to what you love. Fool that I was! so much to prize Those simple virtues you despise : Fool! that with such dull arrows strove, Or hop'd to reach a flying dove.

For you, that are in motion still,
Decline our force, and mock our skill;
Who, like Don Quixote, do advance
Against a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air,
Mount, make a stoop at every fair;
And, with a fancy unconfin'd,
(As lawless as the sea or wind)
Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly,
And with your various thoughts comply.
The formal stars do travel so,

As we their names and courses know;
And he that on their changes looks,
Would think them govern'd by our books:
But never were the clouds reduc'd
To any art: the motions us'd

By those free vapours are so light,
So frequent, that the conquer'd sight
Despairs to find the rules, that guide
Those gilded shadows as they slide,
And therefore of the spacious air
Jove's royal consort had the care,
And by that power did once escape,
Declining bold Ixion's rape;
She with her own resemblance grac'd
A shining cloud, which he embrac'd.

Such was that image, so it smil'd
With seeming kindness, which beguil'd
Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought
He had his fleeting Cælia caught.
'Twas shap'd like her; but for the fair,
He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the less,
Because the gods had like success.
For in their story, one, we see,
Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree:
A second, with a lover's haste,
Soon overtakes whom he had chas'd;
But she, that did a virgin seem,
Possest, appears a wandering stream:
For his supposed love, a third
Lays greedy hold upon a bird;
And stands amaz'd to find his dear
A wild inhabitant of th' air.

To these old tales, such nymphs as you
Give credit, and still make them new;
The amorous now like wonders find,
In the swift changes of your mind.

But, Cælia, if you apprehend
The Muse of your incensed friend,
Nor would that he record your blame,
And make it live, repeat the same;
Again deceive him, and again,

And then he swears he'll not complain :
For still to be deluded so,

Is all the pleasure lovers know;
Who, like good falconers, take delight,
Not in the quarry, but the flight.

TO FLAVIA.

SONG.

'Tis not your beauty can engage
My wary heart:
The Sun, in all his pride and rage,
Has not that art;
And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

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SEE! how the willing earth gave way,
To take th' impression where she lay!
See how the mould, as loth to leave
So sweet a burden, still doth cleave
Close to the nymph's stain'd garment! Here
The coming spring would first appear;
And all this place with roses strow,
If busy feet would let them grow.

Here Venus smil'd, to see blind Chance
Itself, before her son, advance;
And a fair image to present,

Of what the boy so long had meant.
'Twas such a chance as this made all
The world into this order fall.
Thus the first lovers, on the clay,
Of which they were composed, lay:
So in their prime, with equal grace,
Met the first patterns of our race.

Then blush not, fair! or on him frown,
Or wonder how you both came down;
But touch him, and he'll tremble strait:
How could he then support your weight?
How could the youth, alas! but bend,
When his whole Heaven upon him lean'd'
If aught by him amiss were done,
"Twas, that he let you rise so soon.

I pluck'd it, though no better grown;
And now you see how full 'tis blown.
Still as I did the leaves inspire,

With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,

And, spreading so, would flame anon: All that was meant by air or sun, To the young flower, my breath has done. If our loose breath so much can do,

What may the same in forms of love, Of purest love, and music too,

When Flavia it aspires to move? When that, which lifeless buds persuades To wax more soft, her youth invades ?

SONG.

BEHOLD the brand of beauty tost!

See how the motion does dilate the flame! Delighted Love his spoils does boast, And triumph in this game.

Fire, to no place confin'd,

Is both our wonder, and our fear; Moving the mind,

As lightning hurled through the air.

High Heaven the glory does increase

Of all her shining lamps this artful way: The Sun, in figures, such as these,

Joys with the Moon to play:

To the sweet strains they advance,
Which do result from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance

Moves with the numbers which she hears.

OF SYLVIA.

Our sighs are heard, just Heaven declares
The sense it has of lovers' cares:
She, that has so far the rest outshin'd,
Sylvia the fair, while she was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now.

So when the sky makes us endure
A storm, itself becomes obscure.
Hence 'tis, that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's self her name;
Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand such as I,
Their grief untold, should pine and die,
Than her bright morning, overcast
With sullen clouds, should be defac'd.

THE BUD.

LATELY on yonder swelling bush, Big with many a coming rose, This early bud began to blush,

And did but half itself disclose:

ON THE

DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.

PYGMALEON's fate revers'd is mine;

His marble love took flesh and blood;
All that I worshipp'd as divine,
That beauty! now 'tis understood,
Appears to have no more of life,
Than that whereof he fram'd his wife.

As women yet, who apprehend

1

Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find,
Like leaves saluted by the wind:

So, though the beauty do appear

No beauty, which amaz'd me so; Yet from my breast I cannot tear

The passion, which from thence did grow;
Nor yet out of my fancy rase
The print of that supposed face.

A real beauty, though too near,
The fond Narcissus did admire:
I doat on that which is no where;
The sign of beauty feeds my fire.
No mortal flame was e'er so cruel
As this, which thus survives the fuel.

TO A LADY,

FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.

MADAM! intending to have try'd

The silver favour which you gave,
In ink the shining point I dy'd,

And drench'd it in the sable wave;
When, griev'd to be so foully stain'd,
On you it thus to me complain'd.
"Suppose you had deserv'd to take
From her fair hand so fair a boon;
Yet how deserved I to make

So ill a change, who ever won.
Immortal praise for what I wrote,
Instructed by her noble thought?

"I, that expressed her commands

To mighty lords and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands,

Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile."

So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladyship, in these:

And now 'tis forced to confess, That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more noble, write.

TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! Since first our calm of peace Was frighted hence, this good we find, Your favours with your fears increase, And growing mischiefs make you kind.

So the fair tree, which still preserves

Her fruit and state, while no wind blows; In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs.

May not a thousand dangers sleep In the smooth bosom of the deep? No: 'tis so rockless and so clear, That the rich bottom does appear Pav'd all with precious things; not torn From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born. Sweetness, truth, and every grace,

Which time, and use, are wont to teach, The eye may in a moment reach, And read distinctly in her face.

Some other nymphs, with colours faint, And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, And a weak heart in time destroy; She has a stamp, and prints the boy : Can, with a single look, inflame The coldest breast, the rudest tame.

THE SELF-BANISHED.

Ir is not that I love you less,

Than when before your feet I lay; But, to prevent the sad increase

Of hopeless love, I keep away,

In vain, alas! for every thing,
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the spring, from the new sún
Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot.
Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must

Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made to love you too,

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THYRSIS, GALATEA.

THYRSIS.

As lately I on silver Thames did ride,
Sad Galatea on the bank I spy'd:

Such was her look as sorrow taught to shine;
And thus she grac'd me with a voice divine.

GAL. You, that can tune your sounding strings so
Of ladies' beauties, and of love, to tell, [well,
Once change your note, and let your lute report
The justest grief, that ever touch'd the court.

[share,

THYR. Fair nymph! I have in your delights no
Nor ought to be concerned in your care;
Yet would I sing, if I your sorrows knew;
And to my aid invoke no muse but you.
GAL. Hear then, and let your song augment our
Which is so great, as not to wish relief. [grief,

She that had all which Nature gives, or Chance,
Whom Fortune join'd with Virtue to advance
To all the joys this island could afford,
The greatest mistress, and the kindest lord;
Who with the royal mixt her noble blood,
And in high grace with Gloriana stood;
Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness, such,
That none e'er thought her happiness too much;
So well inclin'd her favours to confer,
And kind to all, as Heaven had been to her!
The virgin's part, the mother, and the wife,
So well she acted in the span of life,
That, though few years (too few, alas!) she told,
She seem'd in all things, but in beauty, old.
As unripe fruit, whose verdant stalks do cleave
Close to the tree, which grieves no less to leave
The smiling pendant, which adorns her so,
And until autumn on the bough should grow:
So seem'd her youthful soul not easily forc'd,
Or from so fair, so sweet, a seat divorc'd.
Her fate at once did hasty seem, and slow;
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.

THYR. Under how hard a law are mortals born!
Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn:
What Heaven sets highest, and seems most to prize,
Is soon removed from our wondering eyes!
But since the sisters 3 did so soon untwine
So fair a thread, I'll strive to piece the line.
Vouchsafe, sad nymph! to let me know the dame,
And to the muses I'll commend her name:
Make the wide country echo to your moan,
The listening trees, and savage mountains, groan.
What rock's not moved when the death is sung
Of one so good, so lovely, and so young!
GAL. 'Twas Hamilton !—whom I had nam'd before,
But naming her, grief lets me say no more.

ON THE HEAD OF A STAG.
So we some antique hero's strength
Learn by his lance's weight, and length;
As these vast beams express the beast,
Whose shady brows alive they drest.
Such game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue.
What huntsman of our feeble race,
Or dogs, dare such a monster chase?
Resembling, with each blow he strikes,
The charge of a whole troop of pikes.

3 Parcæ.

O fertile head! which every year
Could such a crop of wonder bear!
The teeming Earth did never bring,
So soon, so hard, so huge a thing:
Which might it never have been cast,
(Each year's growth added to 'he last)
These lofty branches had supply'd
The Earth's bold sons' prodigious pride:
Heaven with these engines had been scal'd,
When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.
SEES not my love, how Time resumes

The glory which he lent these flowers?
Though none should taste of their perfumes,
Yet must they live but some few hours:
Time, what we forbear, devours!
Had Helen, or th' Egyptian queen 4,

Been near so thrifty of their graces;
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.
Should some malignant planet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless shower,
Upon the autumn, or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.
Could the resolve of Love's neglect

Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion
Nor would I indulge my passion.

;

THE MISER'S SPEECH:

IN A MASQUE.

BALLS of this metal slack'd Atlanta's pace,
Venus, (the nymph's mind measuring by her own)
And on the amorous youth 5 bestow'd the race:
Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise
Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe:
Th' adventurous lover how to gain the prize.

For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danaë, or the brazen tower,
That they withstood not that almighty shower?
Never till then did Love make Jove put on
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,
A form more bright, and nobler, than his own:
That slack devotion should his thunder scape.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

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ON MR. FLETCHER'S

Thou hast alone those various inclinations,
Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-resembling pen,
That whate'er custom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them so,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is represented to the wondering eyes
Of all, that see or read thy comedies.
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind,
And, by the help of so divine an art,
At leisure view and dress his nobler part.
Narcissus, cozen'd by that flattering well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preserv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac'd,
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion grac'd.
The sundry postures of thy copious Muse

Who would express, a thousand tongues must use;
Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,

So none could render thine; which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of shapes;
Who was, nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.

ON MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS.
FLETCHER! to thee we do not only owe
All those good plays, but those of others too:
Thy wit repeated, does support the stage,
Credits the last, and entertains this age.
No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine,
Could purchase robes, to make themselves so fine.
What brave commander is not proud, to see
Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry?
Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn
Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn:
Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.

I never yet the tragic strain assay'd,
Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid 6.
And, when I venture at the comic style,
Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.

Thus has thy Muse at once improv'd and marr'd
Our sport in plays, by rendering it too hard!
So, when a sort of lusty shepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the rest out-go
So far, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts:
But, if some brawny yeoman of the guard
Step in, and toss the axletree a yard,
Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the rest,
Despairing stand; their sport is at the best.

TO MR. GEORGE SANDYS,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF Some partTS OF THE BIBLE.

How bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men,
Who here with the same spirit sung,

The Maid's Tragedy.

PLAYS...TO MR. SANDYS.

Wherewith they now assist the choir
Of angels, who their songs admire!
Whatever those inspired souls

Were urged to express, did shake
The aged deep, and both the poles;

Their numerous thunder could awake
Dull Earth, which does with Heaven consent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.
Say, sacred bard! what could bestow

Courage on thee, to soar so high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee so
To shake off all mortality?

To light this torch thou hast climb'd higher,
Than he 7 who stole celestial fire.

TO MR. HENRY LAWES,

WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE, IN THE YEAR 1635.

VERSE makes heroic virtue live;

But you can life to verses give.

As, when in open air we blow,

The breath (though strain'd) sounds flat and low,
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high and makes it last:
So, in your airs our numbers drest,
Make a shrill sally from the breast
Of nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd,
Our passions to themselves commend;
While Love, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice and heart.

You, by the help of tune and time,
Can make that song, which was but rhyme:
Noy pleading, no man doubts the cause,
Or questions verses set by Lawes.

As a church-window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint;
So others, with division, hide
The light of sense, the poet's pride:
But you alone may truly boast
That not a syllable is lost:
The writer's and the setter's skill
At once the ravish'd ears do fill.
Let those, which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a song,
Content themselves with ut, re, mi :
Let words and sense be set by thee.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT,

55

UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT: WRITTEN IN
FRANCE.

THUS the wise nightingale, that leaves her home,
Her native wood, when storms and winter come,
Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring,
To foreign groves does her old music bring.

The drooping Hebrews banish'd, harps, unstrung,
At Babylon upon the willows hung:
Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel
No less in courage, than in singing well;
While, unconcern'd, you let your country know,
They have impoverish'd themselves, not you:
Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those Fates,
Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states.

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