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Th' adorning thee with so much art
I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : Tis like the poisoning of a dart
My very written flames so violent be,
They ’ve burnt and wither’d-up the tree. The ministering angels none can see;
How should I live myself, whose heart is found 'Tis not their beauty or their face,
Deeply graven every where
With the large history of many a wound,
Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put.
The leaves and beauties all,
As a strong poison with one drop does make COUNSEL.
The nails and hairs to fall :
Love (1 see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.
Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this
And pardon me, thou gentle tree; A little puff of breath, we find,
I thought her name would thee have happy made, Small fires can quench and kill;
And blessed omens hop'd from thee: But, when they're great, the adverse wind
“ Notes of my love, thrive here,” said I, “ and Does make them greater still.
grow; Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,
And with ye let my love do so."
Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive! Alas! th' effect must needs be such
This blasted tree predestines it;
Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there hast writ,
To that unlucky history.
HER UNBELIEF. ,
Cowe, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove; Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love. There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring; Compar'd with heats I now sustain,
A ferer is so cool a thing,
(Like drink which feverish men desire) That I should hope 'twould almost quench my
Ask me not what my love shall do or be
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show,
For 'tis the body of my love:
Not that my love will ny away,
"Tss a strange kind of ignorance this in you,
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!
Should kill, but not know how, nor who !
Whilst all the people smell and see
The odorous flames I offer thee,
Thy constant, zealous worshipper,
Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-ey'd enough to spy my love;
Than the effect appears in mine.
Must I, who with such restless care
Would make this truth to thee appear,
Damn'd by thy incredulity?
Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
And raise me from the dead again!
But lovers' hopes are full of art,
And thus dispute-That, since my heart, Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou mnay'st not know thiue ovih
I've seen too much, if this be all. [call; There's then, at last, no more tu do:
The happy work 's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won ;
The fruits of conquest now begin ;
lö, triumph! enter in.
Remains there still an enemy?
Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;
Have Lo'ercome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose ?
Noisy nothing ! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou nadle? And so at last, my dear, should you do too. Empty cause of solid harms !
But I shall find out counter-charms,
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy!
Unlike to every other sprite,
Nor appear'st but in the light.
And gently kisses every thing!
THE INNOCENT ILL.
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat, Though all thy gestures and discourses be
Coin'd and staip'd by modesty;
Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away Can find in love more pleasure than to see. One word which nuns at th' altar might not sayi
Yet guch a sweetness, such a grace,
That what to th' eye a beauteous face,
That thy tongue is to th'ear:
So cunningly it wounds the heart, I TRY'd if books would cure my love, but found
It strikes such heat through every part, Love made them nonseuse all;
That thou a tempter worse than Satan art. I apply'd receipts of business to my wound, But stirring did the pain recall.
Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
So much as of original sin, [beek As well might men who in a fever fry,
Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Mathematic doubts debate;
Desires in dying confess'd saints excite:
Thou, with strange adultery,
Dost in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do lust for thee,
And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Who to such multitudes did give
The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.
Though in thy breast so quick a pity be, Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there That a fly's death 's a wound to thee; Did double the desire.
Though sarage and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woes, I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known, And inix'd with pleasant companies ;
Whose rage was of so large extent; My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
The ills thou dost are whole thine own; And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.
Thou’rt principal and instrument: Nay, God forgive me for't! at last I try'd,
In all the deaths that come from you, 'Gainst this, some new desire to stir,
You do the treble office do
Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,
Thou pleasant, universal ill, As wholesome med’cines the disease improve Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dos There where they work not well.
Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny!
And thou in pity didst apply Thou chaste committer of a rape!
The kind and only remedy: Thou voluntary destiny,
The cause absolves the crime ; since me Which no man can, or would escape !
So mighty force did move, so mighty goodness So gentle, and so glad to spare,
thee. So wondrous good, and wondrous fair,
She, Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee (We know) ev’n the destroying-angels are.
And yet I'm sure I love thee too !
I'm angry; but my wrath will prove
More innocent than did thy love. Ske. What have ve done? what cruel passion
Thou hast this day undone me quite; mov'd thee,
Yet wilt undone more should'st thou not come
VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gutten AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay treasure !
'Gainst what an oracle shall say; lle. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in
Fool that I was, to venture to deny
A tongue so us'd to victory!
A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
That never yet it spoke but gain'd an hcart : Safe in my memory treasure:
Though what you said had not been true, What though the flower itself do waste,
If spoke by any else but you ; The essence from it drawn does long and
Your speech will govern Destiny,
And Fate will change rather than you should lye. sweeter last.
'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide, She. No: l'in undone; my honour thou hast slain, And nothing can restore 't again.
Reason, methinks, was on my side; Art and labour to bestow,
But that 's a guide, alas ! we must resign,
When th' authority's divine. l'pon the carcase of it now,
She said, she said herself it would be so;
And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no:
Never so justly, sure, before, fled.
Errour the name of blindness bore; e. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone For whatso'er the question be, By Love, but Indiscretion.
There's no man that has eyes would bet for me. To th' wise it all things does allow;
If Truth itself (as other angels do
When they descend to human view)
In a material forin would deign to shine,
"Twould imitate or borrow thine: She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear, commit,
So well-proportion'd would the parts appear ! Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
Happy the eye which Truth could see Por men, with Roman pride, above
Cloath'd in a shape like thee; The conquest do the triumph love;
But happier far the eve Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy. Unless they through the streets their captive Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more lead enchain'd.
Than what I ow'd to thee before: Me. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, Who would not venture for that debt to play,
The bawd to his own wise is made; Which he were bound howe'er to pay? Beside, what boast is left for me,
If Nature gave me power to write in verse, Whose whole wealth 's a gift from thee? She gave it me thy praises to rehearse: 'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you
Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Who have not only ta'en, but bound and Has such a sovereign right to it, gaggd me too.
That no man's Muse for public vent is free,
Will rack and torture us within: [sin
BATHING IN THE RIVER.
To the false light that treacherous fishers shew, When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the And all with as much ease might taken be, skin at last.
As she at first took me; Me. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I
For ne'er did light so clear
Among the waves appear,
Why to mute fish should thou thyself discover, Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
Secure of being again o'erthrown?
Since such an enemy needs not fear
Lest any else should quarter there,
Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down
the town. (Poor ignorants !) they're mermaids all below. The amorous waves would fain about her stay,
THE FORCE OF LOVE. But still new amorous waves drive them away,
PRESERVED FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT. And with swift current to those joys they haste, Throw
Hrow an apple up an hill,
Down the apple tumbles still;
Roll it down, it neyer stops
Till within the vale it drops:
So are all things prone to Love,
C'p ascends the lambent flame;
Smoke and vapour mount the skies" ;
All preserve their unities;
Nought below, and nought above;
Seems averse, but prone to Love: Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee,
Stop the meteor in its flight, Haste without stop to a devouring sea;
Or the orient rays of light;
Did the planets not incline;
'Tis as vajn, below, above,
To impede the course of Love,
Salamanders live in fire,
Thus appears, below, above,
A propensity to Love.
Luscious grapes upon the vine;
Still the needle marks the pole;
Parts are equal to the whole:
Quickens all, below, above. Leave, wretched Cowley ! leave
Man is born to live and die, Thyself with shadows to deceive;
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly'; Think that already lost which thou inust never Fishes in the waters swim, gain.
Doves are mild, and lions grim : Three of thy lustiest and thy freshest years,
Nature thus, below, above, (Toss'd in storms of hopes and fears)
Pushies all things on to Love. Like helpless ships that be
Does the cedar love the mountain ? Set on fire i’ th' midst oʻthe sea,
Or the thirsty deer the fountain ? Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd | Does the shepherd love his crook ? in tears.
Or the willow court the bruok? Resolve then on it, and by force or art
Thus by nature all things move, Free thy unlucky heart;
Like a running stream, to Love. Since Fate does disapprove
Is the valiant hero bold ? Th' ambition of thy love,
Does the miser doat on gold? And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part. | Seek the birds in spring to pair? If e'er I clear my heart of this desire,
Breathes the rose-bud scented air? If e'er it home to its brcast retire,
Should you this deny, you'll prote It ne'er shall wander more about,
Nature is averse to Love. 'Though thousand beauties call it out: As the wencher loves a lass, A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire. As the toper loves his glass,
As the friar loves his cow),
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,
Fly precipitate to love. We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shud, by these.
When the Moon out-shines the Sun
Is a man should undertake to translate Pindar , almost without any thing else, makes an excelword for word, it would be thought, that one mad- lent poet; for though the grammarians and critics man had translated another; as may appear, have laboured to reduce his verses into regular when he that understands not the original, reads feet and measures (as they have also those of the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they than which nothing seems more raving. And are little better than prose to our ears. And I sare, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and would gladly know what applause our best pieces the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monstrare & of English poesy could expect from a Frenchsentio tantum) would but make it ten times man or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word more distracted than it is in prose. We must for word, into French or Italian prose. And consider in Pindar the great difference of time when we have considered all this, we must needs betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in confess, that, after all these losses sustained by pictures, at least
, the colours of poetry; the no Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or inless difference betwixt the religions and castoms vention (not deserting still his subject) is not of our countries; and a thousand particularities like to make him a richer man than he was in his of places, persons, and manners, which do but own country. This is in some measure to be confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a dis- applied to all translations ; and the not observing tance, And lastly (which were enough alone of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw for my purpose) we must consider, that our are so much inferior to their originals. The fars are strangers to the music of his numbers, like happens too in pictures, from the same root which, sometimes (especially in songs and odes) of exact imitation ; which, being a vile and un