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TO A FRIEND.
Nor with much gazing on her face, Sir,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place : WHETHER these lines do find you out,
She's fair, &c.
A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
To this and t'other friend I drink;
And if 'tis nam'd another's hcalth, And live at once eternally,
I never make it her's by stealth :
She's fair, &c.
Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall, (Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men).
Is even as much as is the fall And come to town; 'tis fit you shew
Of fountains on a pathless grove, Yourself abroad, that men may know
And nourishes as much as my love : (Whate'er some learned men have guest)
She's fair, &c.
I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day : Dishes, with names not known in books,
Who does not thus in Cupid's school, And less amongst the college cooks,
He makes not love, but plays the fool :
She's fair, &c.
Hast thou seen the down in the air,
When wanton blasts have tost it? As serves all Windsor for a year;
Or the ship on the sea, And which the carrier brings to you,
When ruder winds have crost it? After thas here been found not true.
Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping, Then think what company's design'd
Or the foxes sleeping ? To meet you here, men so refin’d,
Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride, Their very common talk at board,
Or the dove by his bride, Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord :
When he courts for his leachery? And makes him capable to be
Oh! so fickle, oh! so vain, oh! so false, so false is she !
Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then ? thou base dull aid
Wast useless in our conversation, NEVER believe me if I love,
Where each meant more than could by both be said. Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth ? And yet in faith I lie, I do,
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love ;
Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
More purity, more innocence than they. My foolish heart could never bear:
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, One sigh imprison'd ruins more
No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas’d, I pray what should he ail
That had her love, for what else could he seek?
We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, When I am hungry I do eat,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy And cut no fingers 'stead of meat ;
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity;
Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Much less could have it from the purer fire,
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content: Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense, May it one minute taste such happiness, Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire;
Deserving lost unpitied it lament ! Our mutual love itself did recompense :
I must forbear her sight, and so repay
In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;
GEORGE WITHER-A. D. 1588-1667.
FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia's Pastorals) not to give
over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him. Willy. For a song I do not pass
And the vapours that do breathe 'Mongst my friends, but what, alas !
From the earth's gross womb beneath, Should I have to do with them,
Scem they not with their black strcams That my music do contemn?
To pollute the sun's bright beams; Roget. What's the wrong?
And yet vanish into air, Willy.
A slight offence, Leaving it unblemish'd, fair ? Wherewithal I can dispense ;
So, my Willy, shall it be But hereafter, for their sake,
With Detraction's breath on thee. To myself I'll music make,
It shall never rise so high Roget. What, because some clown offends,
As to stain thy poesy. Wilt thou punish all thy friends ?
As that sun doth oft exhale Willy. Honest Roget, understand me,
Vapours from each rotten vale, Those that love me may command me;
| Poesy so sometime drains But thou know'st I am but young,
Gross conceits from muddy brains, And the pastoral I sung
Mists of envy, fogs of spite, Is by some supposed to be
'Twixt men's judgments and her light. (By a strain) too high for me ;
But so much her power may do, So they kindly let me gain
That she can dissolve them too. Not my labour for my pain.
If thy verse do bravely tower, Trust me, I do wonder why
As she makes wing, she gets power : They should me my own deny.
Yet the higher she doth soar, Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
She's affronted still the more, On the wings of borrow'd wit.
Till she to the high'st hath past, I'll make my own feathers rear me
Then she rests with fame at last. Whither others' cannot bear me.
Let nought therefore thee affright, Yet I'll keep my skill in store,
But make forward in thy flight.
For, if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fily, That's the ready way to blot
Till I reach'd eternity. All the credit thou hast got.
But alas ! my Muse is slow, Rather in thy age's prime
For thy place she flags too low; Get another start of time;
Yea, the more's her hapless fate, And make those that so fond be,
Her short wings were clipt of late ; Spite of their own dullness, see,
And poor I, her fortune ruing, That the sacred Muses can
Am myself put up a muing. Make a child in years a man.
But, if I my cage can rid, Envy makes their tongues now run,
I'll fly where I never did. More than doubt of what is done.
And, though for her sake I'm crost, See'st thou not in clearest days,
Though my best hopes I have lost, Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double ; I should love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For, though banish'd from my flocks, And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light, And consume the sullen night, She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the spring-tide yields ; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last But remembrance (poor relief) That more makes than mends my grief ; She's my mind's companion still, Maugre envy's evil will; Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortals' power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace ; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling, By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan gocs to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made ; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves ; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss ; The rude portals, which give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of Neglect, Wall'd about with Disrespect : From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this; Poesy, thou sweet's content That e'er heaven to mortals lent, Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; Though thou be to them a scorn, Who to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee. Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of sadness, If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some too secming holy Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What make knaves and fools of them.
WALLER-A. D. 1605-87.
ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
PHEBUS AND DAPHNE. Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame ! THYRSI3, a youth of the inspired train, The matchless Sydney that immortal frame
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd :
Like Phæbus sung the no less am'rous boy ; Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With such extremes of excellence, compose ;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursucs, Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use ! Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads; As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had but this copy (which the artist took
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, From the fair picture of that noble book)
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd, Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, In his own house thus practis'd what he taught. Attend his passion, and approve his song. This glorious piece transcends what he could think, Like Phæbus, thus acquiring unsought praise, So much his blood is nobler than his ink!
He catch'd at love, and fill’d his arms with bays.
Ye lofty beeches ! tell this matchless dame,
Itself discharges on our foes ;
Unwisely we the wiser East
All to one female idol bend,
All this with indignation spoke,
So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dogs, resolves to try The combat next; but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He strait resumes his wonted care, Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
To him the fairest nymphs do shew
Ah Chloris ! that kind Nature thus
ON A BREDE OF DIVERS COLOURS. TWICE twenty slender virgin-fingers twine This curious web, where all their fancies shine. As nature them, so they this shade have wrought, Soft as their hands, and various as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He wooes the female to his painted bed: No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies, So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.
Joy salutes me when I set
If sweet Amoret complains,
All that of myself is mine,
If the soul had free election
If not love, a strong desire
"Tis amazement more than love Which her radiant eyes do move :
DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR. We must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim In storms, as loud as his immortal fame :