In sound of peace or wars,

No harp e'er hit the stars,

In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign ;
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his wain."
Ben Jonson.

AN EPIGRAM TO KING CHARLES FOR AN

HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT ME

REAT Charles, among the holy gifts of
Annexed to thy person and thy place,
'Tis not enough (thy piety is such)

grace

To cure the call'd King's-Evil with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a kinglier mastery try,
To cure the Poet's-Evil, poverty:

And in these cures dost so thyself enlarge,
As thou dost cure our evil at thy charge.
Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
One poet, than of other folks ten score.
O piety, so to weigh the poor's estates!
O bounty, so to difference the rates!
What can the poet wish his king may do,
But that he cure the People's Evil too?

Ben Jonson.

VIRTUE.

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert.

UPON THE CURTAIN OF LUCASTA'S PICTURE.

H, stay that covetous hand; first turn all eye,
All depth and mind; then mystically spy
Her soul's fair picture, her fair soul's, in all

So truly copied from the original,

That
you will swear her body by this law
Is but its shadow, as this its ;-now draw.

Richard Lovelace.

THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA,

MIKE the violet, which alone

Prospers in some happy shade,

My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betray'd;

For she's to herself untrue

Who delights i' th' public view.

E

Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace; Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place;
Folly boasts a glorious blood—
She is noblest, being good.

She her throne makes reason climb,
Whilst wild passions captive lie;
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.

All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me.

[4 st.

William Habington.

HERRICK'S CAVALIER.

IVE me that man that dares bestride
The active sea-horse, and with pride
Through that huge field of waters ride;
Who, with his looks too, can appease
The ruffling winds and raging seas
In midst of all their outrages.
This, this a virtuous man can do,
Sail against rocks, and split them too;
Ay, and a world of pikes pass through.

Robert Herrick.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON,

M

HEN love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,

The birds, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When-like committed linnets-I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace.

TO AMARANTHA, THAT SHE WOULD

DISHEVEL HER HAIR,

MARANTHA sweet and fair,

Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher, the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th' East,
To wanton o'er that spicie nest.

Every tress must be confest
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clue of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light In ribands, and o'er-cloud in night, Like the sun in 's early ray;

But shake your head, and scatter day.

[ 3 st.

Richard Lovelace.

TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER.

HARM me asleep, and melt me so

With thy delicious numbers,

That being ravish'd, hence I go

Away in

easy slumbers.

Ease my sick head,

And make my bed,