Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of these delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

TO CYRIACK SKINNER.

Cyriack! this three years' day these eyes, though clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun or moon or star throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot

Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend! to have lost them overplied

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain masque, Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great Son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from Death by Force: though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the Old Law did save,

And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.
Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

LUCIUS CARY.

(VISCOUNT FALKLAND.) 1610—1643.

AN EPITAPH.

The chief perfections of both sexes join'd,
With neither's vice nor vanity combined,
Of this our age the wonder, love, and care,
The example of the following, and despair :
Such beauty that from all hearts love must flow,
Such majesty that none durst tell her so :
A wisdom of so large and potent sway,

Rome's Senate might have wish'd, her Conclave may :
Which did to earthly thoughts so seldom bow,
Alive she was scarce less in heaven than now :

So void of the least pride, to her alone
These radiant excellences seem'd unknown :
Such once there was, but let thy grief appear!
Reader! there is not. Huntingdon lies here.

THOMAS NABBES.

1612?-1645.

HER REAL WORTH.

What though with figures I should raise
Above all height my Mistress' praise,

Calling her cheek a blushing rose,
The fairest June did e'er disclose,
Her forehead lilies, and her eyes
The luminaries of the skies;
That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows?
Two great hyperbolès! unless
She loves me she is none of these.
But if her heart and her desires
Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor:
She is all these, and ten times more.

JAMES GRAHAME.

(MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.) 1612-13-1650.

TO HIS LOVE.

My dear and only Love! I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
Than purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone :
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.

And I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe :
But 'gainst my batteries if I find
Thou kick, or vex me sore,
As that thou set me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part
Or dare to vie with me,-
Or Committees if thou erect
And go on such a score,-

I'll mock and smile at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

1615-1652.

WISHES.

TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS.

Whoe'er she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,

Lock'd up from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe Birth

Of studied Fate stand forth

And teach her fair steps tread our earth;

Till that Divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine :

Meet her, my Wishes!

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be you call'd my absent kisses.—

I wish her beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tye,

Something more than

Taffeta or tissue can,

Or rampant feather or rich fan,

More than the spoil

Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile;

A face that's best

By its own beauty dress'd, And can alone commend the rest,—

A face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope;

A cheek where youth

And blood, with pen of truth Write what their reader sweetly ru'th,

A cheek where grows

More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes;

Lips where all day

A lover's kiss may play,

Yet carry nothing thence away;

Looks that oppress

Their richest tires, but dress

Themselves in simple nakedness ;

Eyes that displace

The neighbour diamond and outface That sun-shine by their own sweet grace;

Tresses that wear

Jewels, but to declare

How much themselves more precious are,