SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be She fairer than the Day,
Or the flow'ry Meads in May;
If She think not well of me,
What care I, how Fair She be!
Shall my silly heart be pined,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove, or pelican;
If She be not so to me,
What care I, how Kind She be!
Shall a woman's virtue move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be She with that goodness blest,
Which may merit name of best;
If She be not such to me,
What care I, how Good She be!
'Cause her fortune seems too high;
Shall I play the fool, and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps She find,
Thinks what, with them, He would do;
That, without them, dares her woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I, how Great She be!
Great, or Good, or Kind, or Fair;
I will ne'er the more despair!
If She love me, (this believe!)
I will die ere She shall grieve!
If She slight me, when I woo;
I can scorn, and let her go!
For if She be not for me,
What care I, for whom She be!
I, THAT erstwhile the world's sweet air did draw,
Graced by the Fairest ever mortal saw;
Now closely pent with walls of ruthless stone,
Consume my days and nights, and all alone.
When I was wont to sing of Shepherds' loves,
My walks were fields, and downs, and hills, and groves:
But now, alas, so strict is my hard doom,
Fields, downs, hills, groves, and all,'s but one poor room!
Each morn, as soon as daylight did appear,
With Nature's music, birds would charm mine ear:
Which now, instead of their melodious strains,
Hear rattling shackles, gyves, and bolts, and chains.
But though that all the world's delights forsake me;
I have a Muse, and she shall music make me!
Whose airy notes, in spite of closest cages,
Shall give content to me, and after Ages!
Nor do I pass for all this outward ill!
My heart's the same; and undejected still!
And (which is more than some in freedom win)
I have true rest, and peace, and joy within!
And then, my Mind, that (spite of prison) 's free,
Whene'er she pleases, anywhere can be!
She 's, in an hour, in France, Rome, Turkey, Spain,
In Earth, in Hell, in Heaven; and here again!
Yet there's another comfort in my woe;
My Cause is spread! and all the World doth know
My fault's no more but speaking truth and reason!
Not debt, nor theft, nor murder, rape, nor treason.
Nor shall my foes, with all their might and power,
Wipe out their shame; nor yet this fame of our!
Which when they find; they shall my fate envy
Till they grow lean, and sick, and mad, and die!
Then though my body here in prison rot,
And my poor Satires seem a while forgot:
Yet, when both fame and life have left those men,
My verse and I'll revive, and live again!
So, thus enclosed, I bear Affliction's load;
But with more true content than some abroad!
For whilst their thoughts do feel my Scourge's sting;
In bands, I'll leap! and dance! and laugh! and sing!
CALL for the robin redbreast, and the wren!
Since o'er shady groves they hover;
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole,
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm; And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm. But keep the wolf far thence! that's foe to men; For with his nails, he'll dig them up again!
Let Holy Church receive him duly;
Since he paid the Church tithes truly.
ONE OF THE SIRENS SINGS THIS SONG.
STEER hither! steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners!
Here lie LovE's undiscovered mines,
A prey to passengers!
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest!
Fear not your ships!
Nor any to oppose you, save our lips!
But come on shore!
Where no joy dies, till Love hath gotten more!
Where no joy dies, till Love hath gotten more!
For swelling waves; our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange! and be a while our guests!
For stars; gaze on our eyes!
The Compass, Love shall hourly sing;
And, as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth, with a kiss!
Where no joy dies, till Love hath gotten more!
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