Say, are not women truly, then, Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
At morne, and even, shades are longest; At noone, they are or short, or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they 're not knowne. Say, are not women truly, then, Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
WHY, Disease, dost thou molest Ladies? and of them the best? Do not men, ynow of rites To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfets: and their dayes, And nights too, in worser wayes? Take heed, Sicknesse, what you do, I shall feare, you 'll surfet too. Live not we, as, all thy stals, Spittles, pest-house, hospitals, Scarce will take our present store? And this age will build no more: 'Pray thee, feed contented, then, Sicknesse, only on us men. Or if needs thy lust will taste Woman-kind; devoure the waste Livers, round about the town. But, forgive me, with thy crown They maintaine the truest trade, And have more diseases made. What should, yet, thy pallat please? Daintinesse, and softer easc, Sleeked lims, and finest blood? If thy leannesse love such food, There are those, that, for thy sake, Do enough; and who would take Any paines; yea, think it price, To become thy sacrifice. That distill their husbands' land In decoctions; and are mann'd With ten emp'ricks, in their chamber, Lying for the spirit of amber. That for the oyle of talck, dare spend More than citizens dare lend Them, and all their officers. That to make all pleasure theirs, Will by coach, and water go, Every stew in towne to know; Dare entayle their loves on any, Bald, or blind, or ne're so many: And, for thee at common game, Play away, health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve: And will, long ere thou should'st starve, On their bed most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest sute, In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.
DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup, And I'le not looke for wine. The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe, And sent'st it back to me:
Since when, it growes, and smells, I sweare, Not of it selfe, but thee.
AND must I sing? what subject shall I chuse? Or whose great name in poets' Heaven use? For the more countenance to my active Muse?
Hercules? alas his bones are yet sore, With his old earthly labours. T' exact more, Of his dull god-head, were sinne. I'le implore
Phœbus? no, tend thy cart still. Envious day Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay, And foundred thy hot teame, to tune my lay.
Nor will I begge of thee, lord of the vine, To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, In the greene circle of thy ivie twine.
Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, That, at thy birth, mad'st the poore smith affraid, Who, with his axe, thy father's mid-wife plaid.
Goe, crampe dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, Or, with thy tribade trine, invent new sports. Thou, nor thy loosenesse, with my making sorts.
Let the old boy, your sonne, ply his old taske, Turne the stale prologue to some painted maske, His absence in my verse, is all I aske.
Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steale his sister's Pegasus, And riffle him: or pawne his Petasus.
Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, (Though they were crusht into one forme) could make A beautie of that merit, that should take
My Muse up by commission: no, I bring My owne true fire. Now my thought takes wing, And now an epode to deepe eares I sing.
or to know vice at all, and keepe true state, Is vertue, and not fate:
Text, to that vertue, is to know vice well, And her black spight expell. Which to effect (since no brest is so sure, Or safe, but she 'll procure
ome way of entrance) we must plant a guard Of thoughts to watch, and ward
At th' eye and eare (the ports unto the minde) That no strange, or unkinde
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spie) Give knowledge instantly,
To wakefull reason, our affections' king: Who (in th' examining)
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit Close, the close cause of it.
T is the securest policie we have,
To make our sense our slave.
But this true course is not embrac'd by many:
By many scarce by any.
For either our affections doe rebell,
Or else the sentinell
Nor meane we those, whom vowes and conscience Have fill'd with abstinence:
Though we acknowledge, who can so abstayne, Makes a most blessed gaine.
He that for love of goodnesse hateth ill, Is more crowne-worthy still,
Than he, which for sin's penalty forbeares; His heart sins, though he feares. But we propose a person like our dove, Grac'd with a phoenix love;
(That should ring larum to the heart) doth sleepe, A beauty of that cleare, and sparkling light,
Or some great thought doth keepe
Back the intelligence, and falsely sweares, They 're base, and idle feares
Whereof the loyall conscience so complaines. Thus by these subtill traines,
Doe severall passions invade the minde,
And strike our reason blinde.
Of which usurping ranck, some have thought love The first; as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrours, and unrests, In our enflamed brests:
But this doth from the cloud of errour grow, Which thus we over-blow.
The thing, they here call love, is blinde desire, Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire; Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 't is borne, Rough, swelling, like a storme:
With whom who sailes, rides on the surge of feare, And boyles, as if he were
In a continuall tempest. Now, true love
No such effects doth prove;
That is an essence farre more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;
It is a golden chaine let downe from Heaven, Whose linkes are bright, and even.
That falls like sleepe on lovers, and combines The soft, and sweetest mindes
In equall knots: this beares no brands, nor darts, To murther different hearts,
But, in a calme, and god-like unitie,
Preserves communitie.
O, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoyes Th' elixir of all joyes?
A forme more fresh, than are the Eden bowers, And lasting, as her flowers:
Richer than time, and as time's vertue, rare: Sober, as saddest care:
A fixed thought, an eye un-taught to glance; Who (blest with such high chance) Would, at suggestion of a steep desire, Cast himselfe from the spire
Would make a day of night,
And turne the blackest sorrowes to bright joyes:
Whose od'rous breath destroyes
All taste of bitternesse, and makes the ayre As sweet as she is faire.
A body so harmoniously compos'd,
As if Nature disclos'd
All her best symmetrie in that one feature! O, so divine a creature,
Who could be false to? chiefly when he knowes
How only she bestowes
The wealthy treasure of her love on him; Making his fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection? What savage, brute affection,
Would not be fearefull to offend a dame Of this excelling frame?
Much more a noble and right generous mind (To vertuous moods inclin'd)
That knowes the weight of guilt: he will refraine From thoughts of such a straine.
And to his sense object this sentence ever, Man may securely sinne, but safely never.
EPISTLE TO ELIZABETH COUNTESSE OF RUTLAND,
WHILST that, for which all vertue now is sold, And almost every vice, almightie gold, [Heaven, That which, to boote with Hell, is thought worth And for it, life, conscience, yea soules are given, Toyles, by grave custome, up and downe the court, To every squire, or groome, that will report Well, or ill, only, all the following yeere, Just to the waight their this daye's presents beare ; While it makes huishers serviceable men, And some one apteth to be trusted, then,
Though never after; whiles it gaynes the voyce Of some grand peere, whose ayre doth make rejoyce The foole that gave it; who will want, and weepe, When his proud patron's favours are asleepe; While thus it buyes great grace, and hunts poore fame; [dame; Runs betweene man, and man; 'tweene dame, and Solders crackt friendship; makes love last a day; Or perhaps lesse: whilst gold beares all this sway, I, that have none to send you, send you verse. A present which (if elder writs reherse The truth of times) was once of more esteeme, Than this our gilt, nor golden age can deeme, When gold was made no weapon to cut throats, Or put to flight Astrea, when her ingots Were yet unfound, and better plac'd in earth, Than, here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth. But let this drosse carry what price it will With noble ignorants, and let them still, Turne, upon scorned verse, their quarter-face: With you, I know, my offring will finde grace. For what a sinne 'gainst your great father's spirit, Were it to think, that you should not inherit His love unto the Muses, when his skill Almost you have, or may have, when you will? Wherein wise Nature you a dowrie gave, Worth an estate, treble to that you have. Beauty, I know, is good, and blood is more; [store Riches thought most: but, madame, thinke what The world hath seene, which all these had in trust, And now lye lost in their forgotten dust. It is the Muse alone, can raise to Heaven, And, at her strong armes' end, hold up, and even, The soules she loves. Those other glorious notes, Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the cotes Painted, or carv'd upon our great-men's tombs, Or in their windowes; doe but prove the wombs, That bred them, graves: when they were borne, they dy'd,
That had no Muse to make their fame abide. How many equall with the Argive queene Have beauty knowne, yet none so famous seeue? Achilles was not first, that valiant was, Or, in an armie's head, that lockt in brasse, Gave killing strokes. There were brave men, before Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store
That Homer brought to Troy; yet none so live: Because they lack'd the sacred pen, could give Like life unto 'hem. Who heav'd Hercules Unto the starrs? or the Tyndarides? Who placed Jason's Argo in the skie? Or set bright Ariadne's crowne so high? Who made a lampe of Berenice's hayre? Or lifted Cassiopea in her chayre? But only poets, rapt with rage divine? And such, or my hopes faile, shall make you shine. You, and that other starre, that purest light Of all Lucina's traine; Lucy the bright. Than which, a nobler Heaven it selfe knowes not. Who, though she have a better verser got, (Or poet, in the court account) than I, And who doth me (though I not him) envy, Yet, for the timely favours she hath done, To my lesse sanguine Muse, wherein she' hath wonne My gratefull soule, the subject of her powers, I have already us'd some happy houres, To her remembrance; which when time shall bring To curious light, to notes, I then shall sing, Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be: For I shall move stocks, stones, no lesse than he.
Then all, that have but done my Muse least grace, Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet, Had not their forme touch'd by an English wit. There like a rich and golden pyramede, Borne up by statues, shall I reare your head, Above your under-carved ornaments, And show, how, to the life, my soule presents Your forme imprest there: not with tickling rimes, Or common-places, filch'd, that take these times, But high, and noble matter, such as flies From braines entranc'd, and fill'd with extasies; Moods, which the god-like Sydney oft did prove, And your brave friend, and mine so well did love. Who, wheresoere he be..........
EPISTLE TO KATHERINE, LADY AUBIGNY.
'Tis growne almost a danger to speake true Of any good minde, now: there are so few. The bad, by number, are so fortified, As what they 've lost t' expect, they dare deride. So both the prais'd, and praisers suffer: yet, For others' ill, ought none their good forget. I, therefore, who professe my selfe in love With every vertue, wheresoere it move, And howsoever; as I am at fewd With sinne and vice, though with a throne endew'd; And, in this name, am given out dangerous By arts, and practise of the vicious, Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit For their owne cap'tall crimes, t' indite my wit; I, that have suffer'd this; and, though forsooke Of Fortune, have not alter'd yet my looke, Or so my selfe abandon'd, as because Men are not just, or keepe no holy lawes Of nature, and societie, I should faint; Or feare to draw true lines, 'cause others paint: I, madame, am become your praiser. Where, If it may stand with your soft blush to heare, Your selfe but told unto your selfe, and see, In my character, what your features bee, You will not from the paper slightly passe: No lady, but at sometime loves her glasse. And this shall be no false one, but as much Remov'd, as you from need to have it such. Looke then, and see your selfe. I will not say Your beautie; for you see that every day: And so doe many more. All which can call It perfect, proper, pure, and naturall, Not taken up o' th' doctors, but as well As I, can say and see it doth excell. That askes but to be censur'd by the eyes: And, in those outward formes, all fooles are wise. Nor that your beautie wanted not a dower, Doe I reflect. Some alderman has power, Or cos'ning farmer of the customes so, T' advance his doubtfull issue, and ore-flow A prince's fortune: these are gifts of chance, And raise not vertue; they may vice enhance. My mirror is more subtill, cleare, refin'd, And takes, and gives the beauties of the mind. Though it reject not those of Fortune: such As blood and match. Wherein, how more than much
Are you engaged to your happie fate, For such a lot! that mixt you with a state Of so great title, birth, but vertue most, Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost. T is onely that can time and chance defeat: For he, that once is good, is ever great. Wherewith, then, madame, can you better pay This blessing of your starres, than by that way Of vertue, which you tread? what if alone, Without companions? "T is safe to have none. In single paths, dangers with ease are watch'd: Contagion in the prease is soonest catch'd. This makes, that wisely you decline your life Farre from the maze of custome, errour, strife, And keepe an even, and unalter'd gaite;
Not looking by, or back, (like those, that waite Times, and occasions, to start forth, and seeme) Which though the turning world may dis-esteeme, Because that studies spectacles, and showes, And after varied, as fresh objects, goes, Giddie with change, and therefore cannot see Right, the right way: yet must your comfort be Your conscience, and not wonder, if none askes For truth's complexion, where they all weare maskes. Let who will follow fashions, and attyres, Maintaine their liegers forth, for forrain wyres, Melt downe their husband's land, to powre away On the close groome, and page, on new-yeare's day, And almost all dayes after, while they live; They finde it both so wittie, and safe to give) Let 'hem on powders, oyles, and paintings, spend, Till that no usurer, nor his bawds dare lend Them, or their officers: and no man know, Whether it be a face they weare, or no. Let 'hem waste body and state; and after all, When their owne parasites laugh at their fall, May they have nothing left, whereof they can Boast, but how oft they have done wrong to man: And call it their brave sinne. For such their be That doe sinne onely for the infamie :
And never think how vice doth every houre, Eat ou her clients, and some one devoure. You,madam, yong have learn'd to shun these shelves, Whereon the most of mankind wracke themselves, And keeping a just course, have early put Into your harbour, and all passage shut [peace; 'Gainst stormes, or pyrats, that might charge your For which you worthy are the glad increase Of your blest wombe, made fruitfull from above To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love: And raise a noble stemme, to give the fame To Clifton's blood, that is deny'd their name. Grow, grow, faire tree, and as thy branches shoote, Heare what the Muses sing above thy root, By me, their priest, (if they can ought divine) Before the moones have fill'd their tripple trine, To crowne the burthen which you go withall, It shall a ripe and timely issue fall, T'expect the honours of great 'Aubigny : And greater rites, yet writ in mystery, But which the Fates forbid me to reveale. Only thus much out of a ravish'd zeale, Unto your name and goodnesse of your life They speake; since you are truly that rare wife, Other great wives may blush at, when they see What your try'd manners are, what theirs should be; How you love one, and him you should; how still You are depending on his word and will; Not fashion'd for the court or strangers' eyes; But to please him, who is the dearer prise
Good and great God, can I not think of thee, But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease,
That, laden with my sinnes, I seeke for ease? O, be thou witnesse, that the reines dost know, And hearts of all, if I be sad for show, And judge me after, if I dare pretend To ought but grace, or ayme at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to me, First, midst, and last, converted one, and three; My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state, My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate. Where have I been this while exil'd from thee? And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to me? Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where, How can I doubt to finde thee ever here?
I know my state, both full of shame and scorne, Conceiv'd in sinne, and unto labour borne, Standing with feare, and must with horrour fall, And destin'd unto judgement, after all.
I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground, Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death, With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.
SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the musick beares,
"Woe weeps out her division, when she sings."
Droup, hearbs and flowres;
Fall, griefe, in showres; "Our beauties are not ours:" O, I could still
(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,)
drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill.
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