Fair-Virtue the Mistress of Philarete
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FAIRE-VIRTVE, THE MISTRESSE OF PHIL'ARETE. Written by George Wither.
Catul. Carm. xv▪
—nihil veremur
Istos, qui inplatea, mod
•
huc, modo illuc
I
•
re pretereunt sua occupati.
LONDON, Printed for John Grismand. M.DC.XXII.
THE STATIONER TO THE READER.
T His, being one of the Authors first Poems, was composed many years agone; and unknown to him, gotten out of his custody by an acquaintance of his. And coming lately to my hands without a Name, it was thought to have so much resemblance of the Maker, that many, upon the first sight, undertook to guess who was Author of it: And, persuaded that it was likely also, to become profitable both to them, and me.
Whereupon, I got it authorised, according to Order: intending to publish it, without further inquiry. But, attaining by chance a more perfect knowledge to whom it most properly belonged: I thought it fitting to acquaint him therewithal. And did so; desiring also, both his good will to publish the same, and leave to pass it under his Name. Both which, I found him very unwilling to permit; least the seeming lightness of such a Subject, might somewhat disparage, the more serious Studies, which he hath since undertaken.
Yet, doubting (this being got out of his Custod •• ) some imperfecter Copies might hereafter be scattered abroad in writing, or, be unknown to him, imprinted: He was pleased (upon my importunities) to condescend that it might be published, without his Name. And his words were these.
When (said he) I first composed it, I well liked
thereof; and it well enough became my
years: but now, I neither like, nor dislike it.
That (therefore) it should be di
•
ulged, I desire
not: and whether it be, or whether (if it happen
so) it be approved or no,
I care not.
For
this I am sure of: howsoever it be valued; it is
worth as much as I prize it at: likely it is also
to be as beneficial to the World, as the World
hath been to me; and will be more then those
who like it not, ever deserved at my hands.
These were his speeches: And (if you looked for a Prologue; thus much he wished me to tell you, instead thereof: because (as he said) he himself had somewhat else to do. Yet, (to acknowledge the truth) I was so earnest with him, that, as busy as he would seem to be, I got him to write this Epistle for me: And have thereunto set my Name. Which, he wished me to confess: Partly, to avoid the occasion of belying my Invention; and partly, because he thought some of you would suppose so much.
I entreated him, to explain his meaning, in certain obscure passages. But, he told me, how that were to take away the employment of his Interpreters: Whereas, he would purposely, leave somewhat remaining doubtful, to see what Sir POLITICKE WOVLDBEE, and his Companions could pick out of it.
I desired him also, to set down, to what good purposes, this Poem would serve. But his Reply was: How, that would be well enough found out, in the perusing, by all such as had honest understandings: and they who are not so provided; he hopes will not read it. More, I could not get from him.
Whether therefore, this MISTRESSE OF PHIL'ARETE, be really a Woman, shadowed under the name of VIRTVE: or VIRTVE only, whose loveliness is represented by the Beauty of an excellent Woman: Or, whether it mean both together; I cannot tell you. But, thus much I dare promise for your money: that, here, you shall find familiarly expressed, both such Beauties as young men, are most entangled withal; and and the excellency also of such, as are most worthy their affection. That, seeing both impa • tially set forth, by him that was capable of both, they might the better settle their love on the best.
Heereby also, those Women, who desire to be truly beloved, may know what makes them, so to be. And, seek to acquire those accomplishments of the Mind, which may endear them, when the sweetest Features of a beautiful Face, shall be converted into Deformities. And, here is described, that Louelinesse of theirs, which is the principal object of wanton affection, to no worse end: but, that those, who would never have looked on this Poem (if Virtue and Goodness, had been therein, no otherwise represented, then as they are objects of the Soul) might, where they expected the satisfaction of their sensuality only; meet with that also, which would insinaute into them, an apprehension of more reasonable, and most excellent perfections. Yea, whereas, the common opinion of Youth hath been; that, only old men, and such as are unable, or past delighting in a bodily loveliness, are those who are best capable of the Minds perfections: And, that they do therefore so much prefer them before the other; because their Age, or stupidity hath deprived them of being sensible what pleasures they yield. Though, this be the vulger error; yet, here it shall appear, that he, who was able to conceive the most excellent pleasingnesse, which could be apprehended in a Corporal Beauty; found it (even when he was most enamored with it) far short of that vnexpressible sweetness, which he discovered in a virtuous and well-tempered Disposition. And if this be not worth your money, keep it.
JOHN MARRIOT.
PHIL'ARETE TO HIS MISTRESSE.
HAile,
thou fairest of all Creatures,
Upon whom the Sun doth shine:
Model
of all rarest Features,
And perfections most divine.
Thrice
All-hail:
And blessed be,
Those, that love, and honor thee.
Of thy worth, this rural Story,
Thy unworthy Swain hath pend:
And, to thy never-ending glory,
These plain
Numbers
doth commend.
Which, ensuing Times shall warble,
When 'tis lost, that's writ in Marble.
Though thy praise, and high deservings
Cannot all, be here expressed:
Yet, my love, and true-obseruings,
Someway, ought to be professed.
And, where greatest love we see,
Highest things attempted be.
By thy
Beauty,
I have gained,
To behold, the best perfections:
By thy
Love,
I have obtained,
To enjoy the best affections.
And my tongue, to sing thy praise;
Love,
and
Beauty,
thus doth raise.
What, although in rustic shadows,
I, a Shepherds breeding had?
And, confined to these Meadowes;
So, in home-spunn Russet clad?
Such as I, have now and then,
Dar'd as much, as greater men.
Though a stranger to the
Muses,
Young, obscured, and despised:
Yet, such
Art,
thy Love infuses,
That, I thus, have Poetiz'd.
Read; and be content to see,
Thy admyred Pour in me.
And, oh grant, thou
Sweetest Beauty,
(Wherewith ever Earth was gracit)
That this Trophy of my Duty,
May with Favor be imbracit:
And disdain not, in these
Rymes,
To be sung, to after-Times.
Let those doters on
Apollo,
That adore the
Muses,
so,
(And, like Geese, each other follow)
See, what Love alone, can do.
For, in
Love-lays;
Groue, and Field;
Nor to Schools, nor Courts will yield.
On this Glass, of thy perfection,
If that any
Women
pry;
Let them thereby take direction,
To adorn themselves thereby.
And, if ought amiss they view,
Let them dress themselves anew.
Young-men,
shall by this, acquainted
With the truest
Beauties
grow:
So, the Counterfeit, or painted,
They may shun, whē them they know.
But, the
Way,
all will not find:
For, some eyes have, yet are blind.
Thee, entirely, I have loved,
So, thy
Sweetness,
on me wrought;
Yet, thy
Beauty
never moved,
Ill temptations, in my thought.
But, still did thy
Beauties
Ray;
Sun-like, drive those Foggs away.
Those, that MISTRESSES are named,
And for that, suspected be;
Shall not need to be ashamed,
If they pattern take by thee.
Neither shall their SERVANTS fear,
Fauours, openly to wear.
Thou, to no man favor dainest,
But whats fitting to bestow;
Neither, Servants entertainest,
That can ever wanton grow.
For, the more they look on thee;
Their
Desires
still bettered be.
This, thy
Picture,
therefore, show I
Naked unto every eye.
Yet, no fear of
Rival
know I,
Neither touch of
Jealousy.
For, the more make love to thee;
I, the more shall pleased be.
I, am no
Italian
Lover,
That will mewe thee in a Jail;
But, thy Beauty I discover,
English
-like, without a veil.
If, thou mayst be won away;
Winne and wear thee, he that may.
Yet, in this, thou mayst believe me;
(So indifferent though I seem)
Death with tortures, would not grieve me,
More, then loss of thy esteem.
For, if VIRTVE me forsake;
All, a scorn of me will make.
Then, as I on Thee relying,
Do no changing, fear in Thee:
So, by my defects supplying,
From all changing, keep thou me.
That, vnmatched we may prove
Thou, for
Beauty;
I, for
Love.
Then, while their Loves, are forgotten,
Who to Pride, and Lust were slaves;
And, their
Mistresses
quite rotten,
Lye vnthought on, in their graves.
Kings and Queens (in their despite)
Shall, to mind us, take delight.
FAIRE-VIRTVE: OR, THE MISTRESSE OF PHIL'ARETE.
TWo pretty
Rills
do meet, and meeting make
Within one valley, a large silver lake:
About whose banks the fertile mountains stood,
In ages passed bravely crowned with wood;
Which lending Cold-sweet-shadows, gave it grace,
To be accounted
Cynthia's
Bathing place.
And from her father
Neptunes
brackish Court,
Faire
Thetis
thither often would resort,
Attended by the Fishes of the
Sea,
Which in those sweeter waters came to plea.
There, would the daughter of the
Sea-God
dive;
And thither came the
Land-Nymphs
every Eve,
To wait upon her: bringing for her brows,
Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and Beechy boughs.
For, pleasant was that
Poole;
and near it, then,
Was neither rotten Mersh, nor boggy Fen.
It was nor overgrown with boystrou
•
Sedge,
Nor grew there rudely then along the edge,
A bending Willow, nor a pricky Bush,
Nor broadleafd Flag, nor Reed, nor knotty Rush.
But here, well ordered was a grove with Bowers:
There grassy plots set round about with Flowers.
Here, you might (through the water) see the land,
Appeare, strowd over with white or yellow sand.
•
onn, deeper was it; and the wind by whiffes.
Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffes,
On which, oft pluming sat (vnfrighted than)
The gagling Wild goose, and the snow-white Swan:
With all those flocks of Fowls, which to this day,
Upon those quiet waters breed, and play.
For, though those excellences wanting be,
Which once it had; it is the same, that we
By Transposition name the
Ford
of
Arle.
And out of which along a Chalky Marle)
That
River
trils, whose waters wash the
Fort,
In which brave
Arthur
kept his royal Court.
North-east (not far frō this great
Poole)
there lies
A tract of Beechy mountains, that arise
With leisurely-ascending to such height,
As from their tops the warlike
I will of Wight.
You in the
Oceans
bosom may espy,
Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie.
The pleasant way, as up those hills you clime,
Is strewed over, with
Mariarome,
and
Thyme.
Which grows vnset. The hedge-rouse do not want
The Cowslip, violet, Primrose, nor a plant,
That freshly sents: as Birch both green and tall;
Low Sallowes, on whose bloomings Bees do fall.
Faire Woodbinds which, about the hedges twine;
Smooth
Priuet,
and the sharpesweete
Eglantine.
With many moe, whose lea
•
es and blossoms fair,
The Earth addorne, and oft perfumes the air.
When you unto the highest do attain;
An intermixture both of Wood and Plain,
You shall behold: which (though aloft it lie)
Hath downes for sheep, and fields for husbandry▪
So much (at least) as little needeth more,
If not enough to merchandise their store.
In every Rowe hath Nature planted there,
Some banquet, for the hungry passenger.
For here, the Haste-nut and Filbird grows;
There Bulloes, and little further Sloes.
On this hand, standeth a fair weilding-tree;
On that, large thickets of black Cherries be.
The shrubbie fields, are Raspice Orchards there,
The new fell'd woods, like Strabery-gardens are:
And, had the
King of Rivers
blest those hills
With some small number of such pretty
Rills
As flow elsewhere,
Arcadia
had not seen
A sweeter plot of Earth then this had been.
For what offense this Place was scanted so
Of springing waters, no record doth show:
Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;
But till this day, at fifty fathom
Wels
The Shepherds drink. And strange it was to hear
Of any Swain that ever lived there,
Who either in a
Pastoral-Ode
had skill,
Or knew to set his fingers to a quill.
For, rude they were who there inhabited,
And to a dull contentment being bred,
They no such art esteemed, nor took much heed
Of anything, the world without them did.
Even there; and in the least frequented place
Of all these mountains, is a little space
Of pleasant ground hemd in with dropping trees,
And those so thick, that
Phoebus
scarcely sees
The earth they grow on once in all the year,
Nor what is done among the shadows there.
Along those lovely paths (where never came
Report of
Pan,
or of
Apollo's
name,
Nor rumour of the
Muses
till of late)
Some
Nymphs
were wandering: and by chance, or Fate
Upon a Laund ariued, where they met
The little flock of Pastor
Philaret.
They, were a troupe of Beauties known well nigh
Through all the Plaines of happy
Britany.
A Shepherds lad was he, obscure and young,
Who (being first that ever there had sung)
In homely Verse, expressed Country loves;
And only told them to the Beechy groves:
As if to sound his name he never meant,
Beyond the compass that his Sheep-walk went.
They saw not him; nor them perceived he:
For, in the branches of a Maple-tree
He shrouded sat, and taught the hollow hill
To
Echo
forth the Musique of his quill:
Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,
That where he was conceald, they quickly found.
And there, they heard him sing a Mad
•
igall;
That soon betrayd his cunning to them all.
Full rude it was no doubt, but such a Song,
Those rustic, and obscured shades among,
Was never heard (they say) by any care;
Until his
Muses
had inspired him there.
Though mean and plain, his Country habit seemed,
Yet by his Song the Ladies rightly deemd,
That either he had travailed abroad,
Where Swaines of better knowledge make abode.
Or else, that some brave
Nimph
who us'd that
Groue,
Had dained to enrich him, with her love.
Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,
They him saluted; and he, them again:
In such good fashion, as well seemed to be
According to their state and his degree.
Which greetings, being passed; and much chat,
Concerning him, the place, with this and that;
He, to an Arbor doth those beauties bring;
Where, he them prays to sit, they him to sing:
And to express that untaught Country Art,
In setting forth the
Mistress
of his heart;
Which they ore
•
eard him practice, when unseen,
He thought no ear had witness of it been.
At first (as much unable) he refusd;
And seemed willing to have been excusde,
From such a task. For, tr
•
st me
Nimphs
(quoth he)
I would not purposely uncivil be,
Nor churlish in denying what you crave;
But, as I hope Great
Pan
my flock will save,
I rather wish, that I might heard of none,
Enioy my Music, by myself alone:
Or, that the murmers of some little Flood
(Ioynd with the friendly
Ecchoes
of the wood)
Might be th'impartial
•
Vmpires of my wit,
Then vent it, where the worla might hear of it.
And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,
Had I but thought of any such so near.
Not that I either wish obscurifide,
Her matchless Beanty; or desire to hide
Her sweet perfections. For, by
Love
I swear,
The utmost happiness I aim at here,
It but to compass worth enough to raise
A high-built
Trophy
equal with her praise.
Which (
fairest Ladies)
I shall hope in vain:
For, I was meanly bred on yonder Plain.
And, though I can well prove my Blood to be
Deriu'd from no ignoble
Stems
to me:
Yet
Fate
and
Time
them so obscured and crossed,
That with their Fortunes their esteem is lost.
And whatsoever repute I strive to win,
Now, from myself alone, it must begin.
For, I have nor estate, nor friends, nor fame,
To purchase either credit to my name,
Or gain a good
Opinion;
though I do
Ascend the height I shall aspire unto.
If any of those virtues yet I have,
Which honor to my Predecessors gave,
Ther's all that's left me. And though some contemn
•
Such needy Jewels; yet it was for them,
My
Faire-one
did my humble suit affect,
And dayned my aduenturous love respect.
And by their help, I passage hope to make
Through such poor things as I dare undertake.
But, you may say; what goodly thing alas!
Can my despised meanness bring to pass?
Or what great Monument of honor raise
To
Virtue,
in these
Vice
abounding days?
In which (a thousand times) more honor finds,
Ignoble gotten means, then noble minds?
Indeed, the world affordeth small reward
For honest minds; and therefore her regard
I seek not after: neither do I care,
If I have bliss, how others think I fare.
For, so my thoughts have rest, it yrkes not me,
Though none but I, do know how blest they be.
Here therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,
I pleased sit alone; and many strains
I carroll to myself, these hills among:
Where no man comes to interrupt my Song.
Whereas, if my rude lays make known I should,
Beyond their home; perhaps, some Carpers would
(Because they have not heard from whence we be)
Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me.
For, if our great and learned Shepherds (who
Are gracit with wit, and fame, and favors to,)
With much ado, escape vncensurd may;
What hopes have I to pass vnscoft I pray,
Who yet unto the
Muses
am unknown?
And live vnhonoured, here among mine own?
A gadding humor seldom taketh me,
To range out further then yonn mountains be:
Nor hath applausiue Rumour borne my name
Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame.
Nor can I think (fair
Nymphs
) that you resort
For other purpose, then to make a sport
At that simplicity which shall appear
Among the rude vntutor'd Shepherds here.
I know that you my Noble
Mistress
ween
At best, a homely Milk-maid on the Green;
Or some such Country Lasse, as tasked stays
At servile labor until Holy days.
For, poor men's virtues so neglected grow,
And are now prized at a rate so low,
As tis impossible,
You
should be brought,
To let it with belief possess your thought,
That any
Nymph
whose love might worthy be;
Would deign to cast respective eyes on me.
You see I live, possessing none of those
Gay things, with which the world enamor'd grows.
To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither
Rings, Bracelets, Jewels, nor a Scarfe, nor Feather.
I use no double died Cloth to wear;
No Scrip embroidered richly do I bear:
No silken Belt, nor Sheephooke laid with pearls,
To win me favor from the Shepherds Girls.
No place of office, or Command I keep,
But this my little Flock of homely sheep.
And in a word; the sum of all my pelf
Is this;
I am the Master of myself.
No doubt; in Courts of Princes you have been,
And all the pleasures of the Palace seen.
There, you beheld brave Courtly passages,
Between
Heroës
and their
Mistresses.
You, there perhaps (in presence of the King)
Have heard his learned
Bards
and
Poets
sing.
And what contentment then, can wood, or field,
To please your curious understandings yield?
I know, you walked hither, but to prove,
What silly Shepherds do conceive of love:
Or to make trial how our simplenesse
Can passions force, or Beauties power express:
And when you are departed, you will joy,
To laugh, or descant on the Shepherds boy.
But yet (I vow) if all the Art I had
Could anymore esteem, or glory add
To her vnmatched worth; I would not weigh
What you intended. Prethee lad, quoth they,
Distrustfull of our Courtsie do not seem.
Her Noblenesse can never want esteem;
Nor thy concealed
Measures
be disgracit,
Though in a meaner person they were placit:
If thy too-modestly reserved Quill,
But reach that height, which we suppose it will.
Thy meanness or obscurenesse cannot wrong,
The
Nymph
thou shalt eternize in thy Song.
For, as it higher rears thy glory, that
A noble
Mistress
thou hast aimed at:
So, more unto her honor it will prove,
That whilst deceauing shadows others move,
Her constant eyes, could pass vnmoued by,
The subtle times bewitching bravery;
And those obscured virtues love in thee,
That with despised meanness clouded be.
Now then, for her sweet sake, whose Beautious eye,
Hath filled thy soul with heavenly Poesie,
Sing in her praise some new inspired strain:
And, if within our power there shall remain,
A favor to be done may pleasure thee:
A
•
ke, and obtain it whatsoever it be.
Faire
Ladies
quoth the lad, such words as those,
Compel me can
•
and, therewithal he rose;
Return'd them thanks, obeisance made, and than,
Down sat again, and thus to sing began.
YOU,
that at a blush can tell,
Where the best perfections dwell;
And the substance can conjecture,
By a shadow, or a Picture:
Come, and try, if you by this;
Know my
Mistress,
who she is.
For, though I am far unable
Here to match
Apelles
table,
Or draw
Zeuxes,
cunning Lines,
Who, so painted
Bacchus
Vines,
That the hungry Byrds did muster,
Round the counterfeited Cluster.
Though, I vaunt not to inherit,
Petrarchs,
yet unequal'd spirit;
Nor to quaffe the sacred
Well,
Halfe so deep as
Astrophill:
Though, the much commended
Celi
•
,
Louely
Laura, Stella, Delia,
(Who in former times excel'd)
Live in Lines vnparaled;
Making us believe 'twere much,
Earth should yield another such.
Yet, assisted but by Nature,
I assay to paint a Creatnre
Whose rare worth, in future years,
Shall be praysd, as much as theirs.
Nor let any think amiss,
That I have presumed this:
For, a gentle
Nimph
is she,
And hath often honored me.
Shees, a noble spark of light,
In each part so exquisite,
Had she in times passed been,
They had made her, beauties Queen.
Then, shall cowardly despair,
Let the most vnblemisht
fair,
For default of some poor Art
(Which her favor may impart)
And the sweetest Beauty fade,
That was ever borne or made?
Shall, of all the
fair ones,
she
Only so unhappy be;
As to live in such a Time,
In so rude, so dull a Clime,
Where no spirit can ascend
High enough, to apprehend
Her vnprized excellence,
Which lies hid from common sense?
Never shall a stain so vile,
Blemish this, our
Peets I will.
I myself, will rather run,
And seek out for
Helicon.
I, will wash, and make me clean,
In the waves of
Hyppocrene:
And in spite of Fortunes bars,
Climbe the
Hill
that braves the stars.
Where, if I can get no
Muse
That will any skill infuse,
(Or my just attempt prefer)
I will make a
Muse
of
Her:
Whose kind heat shall soon distill,
Art,
into my ruder quill.
By her favor, I will gain
Help, to reach so rare a
Straine:
That the learned
Hills
shall wonder,
How the untaught valleys under,
Met with Raptures so divine,
Without knowledge of the NINE.
I, that am a Shepherds
Swain,
Piping on the lowly plain,
And no other Musique can,
Then what learned I have of
Pan.
I, who never sung the
Lays,
That deserve
Apollo's
bayes,
Hope not only, here to frame,
Measures,
which shall keep
Her
name,
From the spite of wasting Times;
But (enshrin'd in sacred Rimes)
Place her, where her form divine,
Shall to after ages shine:
And without respect of Odds,
Vye renown with
Demy-God's.
Then, whilst of her praise I sing,
Hearken
Vally, Groue
and
Spring;
Listen to me sacred
Fountaines,
Solitarie
Rocks,
and
Mountains:
Satires,
and you wanton
Elues,
That do nightly sport yourselves.
Shepherds,
you that on the Reede,
Whistle while your lambes do feed:
Aged
Woods,
and
Floods,
that know,
What hath been long times ago.
Your more serious
Notes
among,
Hear, how I can in my
Song,
Set a
N
•
mphs
perfection forth:
And, when you have heard her worth;
Say, if such another
Lasse,
Euer known to mortal was.
Listen
Lordlings;
you that most,
Of your outward honors boast.
And you
Gallants;
that think scorn,
We to lowly fortunes borne,
Should attain to any graces,
Where, you look for sweet embraces.
See, if all those vanities,
Whereon your affection lies.
Or the Titles, or the power,
By your Fathers virtues your,
Can your
Mistresses
enshrine,
In such state, as I will mine:
Who am forced, to importune
Fauours, in despite of
Fortune.
Beauties
listen; chiefly you,
That yet know not
Virtues
due.
You,
that think there are no sports,
Nor no honors but in
Courts.
(Though of thousands there lives not
Two, but die and are forgot:)
See, if any
Palace
yields
Ought more glorious, then the
Fields.
And consider well, if we
May not as high-flying be
In our thoughts, as you that sing
In the Chambers of a King.
See; if our contented minds,
Whom
Ambition
never blinds:
(We, that clad in home-spun gray,
On our own sweet Meadowes play)
Cannot honor (if we please)
Where we list as well as these.
Or as well of worth approve;
Or with equal passions love.
See, if beauties may not touch
Our soon-loving hearts as much:
Or our services effect
Fauours, with as true respect
In your good conceits to rise,
As our painted Butterflies.
And you
Fairest
give her room,
When your Sexes pride doth come:
For that Subject of my song,
I inuoke these Groues among,
To be witness of the Lays,
Which I carroll in her praise.
And because she soon will see,
If my
Measures
faulty be;
Whilst I chaunt them, let each
Rime
Keep a well proportioned time:
And with strains that are divine,
Meet her thoughts in every line.
Let each accent there, present
To her Soul a new content;
And, with rauishings so ceaze her,
She may feel the height of pleasure.
You enchanting
spells,
that lie,
Lurking in sweet
Poesie:
(And to none else will appear,
But to those that worthy are)
Make
Her
know there is a power
Ruling in these
Charmes
of your;
That transcends (a thousand heights)
Ordinary men's delights:
And can leave within her breast,
Pleasures, not to be expressed.
Let her linger, on each strain,
As if she would heareit again;
And were loath to part from thence,
Till she had the quintessence,
Out of each conceit she meets,
And had stord her, with those sweets.
Make her, by your Art to see:
I, that am her Swain, was he,
Unto whom all beauties here,
Were alike, and equal dear.
That I could of freedom boast,
And of favors with the most:
Yet, now (nothing more affecting)
Sing of
Her,
the rest neglecting.
Make her heart, with full Compassion,
Judge the merit of true passion;
And, as much my love prefer,
As I strive to honor
Her.
Lastly; you, that will (I know)
Hear me, wh'ere you should or no.
You,
that seek to turn all Flowers,
By your breathes infectious powers,
Into such rank loathsome weeds,
As your dunghill nature breeds.
Let your hearts be chaste, or here
Come not, till you purge them clear.
Mark; and mark then, what is worst:
For, what ere it seem at first;
If you bring a modest mind,
You shall naught immodest find.
But, if any too severe,
Happ to lend a partial ear;
Or, out of his blindness yawne,
Such a word, as
Oh profane:
Let him know thus much from me,
If here's ought profane, tis he;
Who applies these excellences,
Only to the touch of senses:
And, dim sighted, cannot see,
Where the soul of this, may be.
Yet, that no offense may grow,
It is their choice, to stay, or go.
Or, if any for despite,
Rather comes, then for delight:
For his presence I will not pray,
Nor his absence: come he may.
Critticks
shall admitted be,
Though I know theile carpe at me.
For I neither fear nor care,
What in this, their censures are.
If the
Verse
here used, be
Their dislike; it liketh me.
If my Method they deride,
Let them know,
Love is not tide
In his free Discourse, to choose
Such strict rules-as
Arts-men
use.
These may prate of Love; but they,
Know him not: for He will play
From the matter, now and then,
Off and on, and off agen.
If this Prologue tedious seem,
Or the rest too long they deem:
Let them know, my love they win,
Though they go ere I begin,
Just as if they should attend me,
Till the last, and there commend me.
For, I will for no man's pleasure
Change a Syllable or measure:
Neither for their praises add
Ought to mend what they think bad:
Since it never was my fashion,
To make work of Recreation.
Pedants
shall not tie my strains,
To our Antique
Poets
veins;
As if we, in latter days,
Knew to love, but not to praise.
Being borne as free as these,
I will sing, as I shall please;
Who, as well new paths may run,
As the best before have done.
I disdain to make my Song,
For their pleasures short or long.
If I please I will end it here:
If I list I will sing this year.
And, though none regard of it,
By myself I pleased can sit,
And, with that contentment cheare me▪
As if half the world did hear me.
But because I am assured,
All are either so conjured,
As they will my Song attend,
With the patience of a friend;
Or (at least) take note, that I
Care not much: now willingly
I these goodly Colours lay,
Wind, nor Rain, shall we are away.
But retain their purest glass,
When the Statues made of brass,
For some Princes more renown,
Shall be wholly overthrown:
Or (consumed with cankered rust)
Lie neglected in the dust.
And my Reason gives direction,
(When I sing of such perfection)
First, those beauties to declare,
Which (though hers) without her are.
To advance her fame, I find,
Those are of a triple kind.
Privileges she hath store,
At her birth, since, and before.
From before her birth, the fame,
She of high discents may claim;
(Whose well-gotten honors, may
Her deserving more display)
For, from heavenly race she springs,
And from high and mighty Kings.
At her birth; she was by
Fate
In those
Parents
fortunate,
Whose estates and virtues stood,
Answerable to their Blood.
Then, the
Nation, Time,
and
Place,
To the rest may add some grace.
For the
People,
with the
Clime,
And the fashions of the time;
(In all which she hath been blest,
By enjoying them at best)
Do not only mend the features,
But oft times make better natures.
Whereas, those who hap not so,
Both deformed, and ruder grow.
In these Climes, and latter days,
To deserve sweet Beauties praise,
(Where so many females dwell,
That each seemeth to excel)
In more glory twenty fold,
Then it was in days of old,
When our ordinary
Faire ones
Might have been esteemed rare ones;
And have made a subject fit,
For their brauest
Poets
wit.
Little P
•
ush-lights, or a spark,
Shineth fairly in the dark:
And, to him occasion gives
That from sight of lesser lives
To adore it: yet the Ray
Of one Torch will take away
All the light of twenty more,
That shined very well before.
So, those petty Beauties, which
Made the times before us rich;
Though but sparkles seemed a flame,
Which hath been increased by Fame,
And their true affections, who
Better never lived to know.
Whereas, her if they had seen,
She had sure adored been,
And ta
•
ght Ages past, to sing
Sweeter in their Sonneting.
Such a
Ray,
so clear, so bright,
Had out-shined all the light,
Of a thousand such as theirs,
Who were then esteemed Stars;
And would have enlightened, near
Halfe the worlds wide
Hemisphere.
She is fairest, that may pass
For a fair one, where the Lasse
Trips it on the Country green,
That may equal
Spartas
Queen.
Where (in every street you see)
Throngs of
Nymphs
and Ladies be,
That a
•
fair enough to move
Angels;
and enamour
love.
She must matchless features bring
That now moves a
Muse
to sing,
When as one small
Province
may
Shew more Beauties in a day,
Then the half of
Europe
could,
Breed them in an age of old.
Such is she, and such a lot
Hath her rare perfection got.
Since her birth; to make the color
Of so true a Beauty fuller;
And to give a better grace
To that sweetness in the face:
She, hath all the furthrance had,
Noble educations add.
And not only knoweth all,
Which our Ladies, Courtship call,
With those knowledges, that do
Grace her sex, and suit thereto:
But she hath attained to find,
(What is rare with womankind)
Excellencies, whereby she
May in soul delighted be;
And reap more contentment, than
One of twenty thousand can.
By this means, hath bettered been,
All without her, and within.
For, it hath by adding Arts,
To addorne her native parts,
Raised to a noble flame,
(Which shall lighten forth her fame)
Those dear sparks of sacred fire,
Which the
Muses
did inspire
At her birth: that she complete,
Might with them befit a seat.
But, perhaps I do amise,
To insist so long on this.
These, are superficial things;
And but slender shaddowings,
To the work I have in hand.
Neither can you understand,
What her excellence may be,
Till
her self
desrib'd you see.
Nor can mine, or any pen,
Paint her half so lovely then,
As she is indeed. For, here
Might those
Deities
appear,
Which young
Paris
viewed, at will,
Naked, upon
Ida
hill;
That I from those three might take,
All their beauties One to make
(Those, no question well compact,
Would have made up one exact)
Something yet, we miss of might,
To express her sweetness right,
Juno's
majesty would fit;
Venus
beauty,
Pallas
wit:
Might have brought to pattern hers,
In some showed particulars.
But, they never can express,
Her whole frame or worthiness:
With those excellences, which
Make both soul, and body rich.
Pallas
sometimes was untoward,
Venus
wanton,
Juno
froward:
Yea, all three infected were,
With such faults as women are.
And, though falsely
Deifi'd,
Fraileties had, which she'le deride.
By
herself,
must therefore she,
Or by nothing pattern'd, be.
And I hope to paint her so,
By
her self;
that you shall know,
I have seru'd no common
Dame,
Of mean worth, or vulger fame,
But a
Nimph
that's fairer than,
Pen, or Pencill, portrait can.
And tomorrow if you stray,
Back again this vncoth way:
I my simple art will show:
But, the time prevents me now.
For, except at yonder glade,
All the Laund is under shade.
That, before these Ewes be told,
Those my Weathers in the fold,
Ten young Wainlings driven down
To the well beneath the Town;
And my Lambkins changed from
Brome leaze, to the Mead at home:
Twill be far in night: and so,
I shall make my father woe
For my stay, and be in fear
Some what is mischanced here.
On your way, I will therefore bring you,
And a Song or two I will sing you,
Such as I (half in despair)
Made when first I wooed my
Faire:
Whereunto my Boy shall play,
That my voice assist, it may.
COme my
Muse,
if thou disdain,
All my comforts are bereft me;
No delight doth now remain,
I nor friend, nor flock have left me,
They are fcattered on the plain.
(Men, alas) are too severe,
And make scoffs at Lovers Fortunes;
Women, hearted like the Bear,
That regards not who importunes,
But, doth all in pieces tear.
If I should my sorrows show
Unto Rivers, Springs, or Fountaines,
They are senseless of my woe;
So are groves, and rocks, and mountains.
Then, oh whither shall I go?
Means of harbor me to shield
From despair; Ah, know you any?
For, nor City, Grange, nor Field
(Though they lend content to many)
Unto me, can comfort yield.
I have wept and sighed to.
For compassion to make trial:
Yea, done all that words can do,
Yet hane nothing but denial.
What way is there then to woo?
Shall I swear, protest, and vow?
So have I done most extremely.
Should I die? I know not how.
For, from all attempts unseemly,
Love,
and
Virtue,
keeps me now.
I have heard that
Time
prevails;
But I fear me tis a fable.
Time,
and all endeavor fails;
To bear more, my heart's unable,
Yet none careth what it ayles.
Lines,
to some have opit the door,
And got entrance for affection.
Words
well spoken, much implore
By the
Gestures
good direction:
But a
Look
doth ten times more.
It is the
Eye
that only reads,
To the heart, loves deepest Lectures.
By a moving look it pleads,
More then common sense conjectures:
And, a way to pity leads.
This, I knowing did observe,
(both by
Words,
&
Looks
complaing)
Yet, for pity I may starve:
There's no hope of my obtaining;
Till I better can deserve.
Yea, and he that thinks to win
By desert, may be deceived.
For, they who have worthiest been,
Of their right have been bereaved,
And a Groome admitted in.
Wherefore
Muse,
to thee I call;
Thou (since nothing else avails me)
Must redeem me from my thrall.
If thy sweet enchauntment fails me,
Then adue, love, life, and all.
2.
TEll me my heart, what
Thoughts
these pantings move?
My
Thoughts
of LOVE.
What
Flames
are these, that set thee so on fire?
Flames
of DESIRE.
What
Means
hast thou, contentments flour to crop?
No
Means
but HOPE.
Yet let us feed on
Hope,
and
Hope
the best.
For, they amid their griefs are something blest;
Whose
Thoughts,
&
Flames,
&
Means,
have such free scope,
They may at once, both LOVE, DESIRE, and HOPE.
But say; what
Fruit
will love at last obtain?
Fruitlesse
DISDAINE.
What will those
Hopes
prove, which yet seem so fair?
Hopelesse
DESPAIRE.
What
End
shall run those passions out of breath?
An
endless
DEATH.
Oh can there be such cruelty in
Love?
And doth my
Fortune
so ungentle prove,
She will no
Fruit,
nor
Hope,
nor
End
bequeath,
But cruellest DISDAIN, DISPAIRE, and DEATH?
Then what new
Study
shall I now apply?
Study
to DIE.
How might I end my
Care,
and die content?
Care
to REPENT.
And what good
Thoughts
may make my end more holy?
Think
on thy FOLLY.
Yes, so I will; and since my
Fate
can give
No
Hope,
but ever without
Hope
to live.
My
Studies, Cares,
and
Thoughts,
ile all apply.
To weigh my FOLLY well, REPENT and DIE.
3.
SAD
Eyes
what do you ail
To be thus ill disposed?
Why doth your sleeping fail,
Now all men's else are closed?
Wast I, that nere did bow
In any servile duty;
And will you make me, now,
A slave to Love and Beauty?
What though thy
Mistress
smile,
And in her love affects thee?
Let not her eye beguile,
I fear she disrespects thee.
Do not poor heart depend
On those vain thoughts that fill thee;
Theyle fail thee in the end,
So must thy passions kill thee.
What hopes have I, that she
will hold her favors ever;
When so few women be,
That constant can persevere?
What ere she do protest,
When Fortunes do deceive me;
Then she, with all the rest,
I fear, alas! will leave me.
Whilst youth, & strength remains,
With art that may commend her;
Perhaps, she naught disdains,
Her servant should attend her.
But, it is one to ten,
If crosses overtake me;
She will not know me, then,
But scorn, and so forsake me.
Shall then in earnest truth,
My careful eyes observe her?
Shall I consurne my youth,
And short my time to serve her?
Shall I, beyond my strength,
Let passions torments prove me,
To hear her say, at length,
Away, I cannot love thee?
Oh, rather let me die,
Whilst I thus gentle find her;
Twere worse then death, if I,
Should find she proves vnkinder.
One frown (though but in jest)
Or one unkindness, feigned,
Would rob me of more rest,
Then ere could be regained.
But, in her eyes I find,
Such signs of pity moving;
She cannot be unkind:
Nor err, nor fail in loving.
And, on her forehead, this,
Seemes written to relieve me;
My heart no joy shall miss,
That
Love,
or
She,
can give me.
Which if I find, I vow,
My service shall persevere:
The same that I am now,
I will continue ever.
No others high degree,
Nor beauteous look shall change me.
My Love shall constant be,
And no estate estrange me.
When other noble
Dames
By greater men attended;
Shall with their Liues, and Names,
Have all their glories ended;
With fairest
Queens
shall she,
Sit sharing equal glory:
And
Times
to come, shall be,
Delighted with our Story.
In spite of others hates,
More honor I will do her,
Then those, that with Estates,
And helps of Fortune woo her.
Yea, that true worth I spy,
Though Monarchs strove to grace it,
They should not reach more hie,
Then I dare hope to place it.
And though I never vaunt,
What favors are possessed,
Much less content I wan,
Then if they were expressed.
Let others make their mirth,
To blab each kiss, or toying;
I know no bliss on earth,
Like, seeret Love enjoying.
And this shall be the worst,
Of all that can betide me;
If I, like some accurst,
Should find my hopes deride me:
My Cares will not be long,
I know which way to mend them;
I will think who did the wrong,
Sigh, break my heart, and end them.
HAile fair
Beauties,
and again,
Hail to all your goodly train.
What I promisd yesterday,
If it please you, hear ye may:
For, now once begun have I,
Sing I will, though none were by.
And, though freely on I run,
Yet confused paths to shun,
First, that part shall be disclos'd,
That's of
Elements
composed.
There, the two unequal pair,
Water, Fire, Earth
and
Air.
(Each one suiting a Complexion,)
Have so cunning a Commixtion;
As they, in proportion sweet,
With the rarest temper meet.
Either, in as much as needeth,
So as neither, ought exceedeth.
This pure substance, is the same,
Which the
Body
we do name.
Were that, of immortal stuff;
It is resin'd and pure enough,
To be called a
Soul:
for sure,
Many
Souls
are not so pure.
I (that with a serious look
Note of this rare
Moddel
took)
Find, that Nature in their places,
So well couched all the
Graces,
As the Curioust eyes that be,
Can nor blot, nor blemish see.
Like a Pine it groweth straight,
Reaching an approved height:
And hath all the choice perfections,
That inflame the best affections.
In the motion of each part,
Nature
seems to strive with
Art,
Which her gestures most shall bless,
With the gifts of Pleasingnesse.
When she sits; me, thinks, I see,
How all virtues fixed be,
In a frame; whose constant mould,
Will the same unchanged hold.
If you note her when she moves,
Cytherea
drawn with doves:
May come learn such winning motions,
As will gain to loves devotions,
More then all her painted wiles;
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.
Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet features in their faces:
Others, that do miss them there,
Louely are some other where,
And to our desires do fit,
In behavior, or in wit:
Or some inward worth appearing,
To the soul, the soul endearing:
But, in her your eye may find,
All thats good in
Womankind.
What in others we prefer,
Are but sundry parts of her:
Who, most perfect, doth present,
What might one, and all content.
Yea, he that in love still ranges,
And each day, or howrly changes;
(Had he judgment but to know,
What perfection in her grow)
There would find the spring of store,
Swear a faith, and change no more.
Neither in the total frame,
Is she only void of blame;
But, each part suruei'd a sunder,
Might beget both love and wonder.
If you dare to look so high,
Or behold such majesty;
Lift your wondering eyes, and see,
Whether ought can bettered be.
Ther's her
Haire,
with which Love angles,
And beholds eyes intangles.
For, in those fair curled snares,
They are hampred unawares:
And compelled to swear a duty,
To her sweet inthrauling beauty.
In my mind, tis the most fair,
That was ever called hair,
Somewhat brighter then a brown,
And her
Tresses
wauing down,
At full length, and so dispread:
Mantles her from foot to head.
If you saw her Arched Brow,
Tell me pray, what Art knows how
To have made it in a line,
More exact, or more divine.
Beauty there may be diseri'd,
In the height of all her pride,
It is a meanly rising plain,
Whose pure white hath many a vain,
Interlacing like the springs,
In the earths enamilings.
If the tale be not a toy,
Of the little winged
Boy;
When he means to strike a heart,
Thence, he throws the fatal dart:
Which of wounds still makes a pair,
One of Love, one of Dispaire.
Round her visage: or so near,
To a roundnes doth appear,
That no more of length it takes,
Then what best proportion makes.
Short her
Chinne
is; and yet so,
As it is just long enow:
Louelines, doth seem to glory,
In that Cyrcling
Promontory.
Pretty moving features skip,
Twixt that hillocke and the lip:
If you note her, but the while
She is pleased to speak, o
•
smile.
And her Lips (that show no dullness)
Full are, in the meanest fullness:
Those, the leaves be, whose unfolding,
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding:
For, such pearls they do disclose,
Both the
Indies
match not those:
Yet, are so in order placed,
As their whiteness is more graced.
Each part is so well disposed,
And her dainty mouth composed,
So, as there is no distortion,
Misbeseemes that sweet proportion.
When her Iuorie Teeth she buries,
Twixt her two enticing cherries,
There appears such pleasures hidden,
As might tempt what were forbidden.
If you look again the whiles,
She doth part those lips in smiles:
It is as when a flash of light,
Breakes from heaven to glad the night.
Other parts my pencil crave,
But those lips I cannot leave;
For (me thinks) I should go,
And forsake those Cherries so.
Ther's a kind of excellence,
Holds me from departing hence.
I would tell you what it were,
But my cunning fails me there.
They are like in their discloses,
To the mornings dewie roses:
That beside the name of fair,
Cast perfumes that sweet the
Air.
Melting-soft her kisses be,
And had I, now, two or three;
(More inspired, by their touch)
I had praisd them twice as much.
But sweet
Muses
mark ye how,
Her fair eyes do check me now,
That I seemed to pass them so:
And their praises over go:
And yet blame me not, that I
Would so fain have past them by.
For, I feared to have seen them,
Least there were some danger in them.
Yet, such gentle looks they lend,
As might make her foe, a friend;
And by their allurings move,
All beholders, unto love.
Such a power is also there,
As will keep those thoughts in fear;
And command enough I saw,
To hold impudence in awe.
There, may he that knows to love,
Read contents, which are above,
Their ignoble aims, who know
Nothing, that so high doth grow.
Whilst she me beholding is,
My heart dares not think amiss:
For, her sight most piercing clear,
Seemes to see, whats written there.
Those bright
Eies,
that with their light,
Often times have blest my sight,
And in turning thence their shining,
Left me in sad darkness pining:
Are the rarest, loueliest gray.
And do cast forth such a ray;
As the man, that black prefers,
More would like this gray of hers.
When their matchles beams she shrouds,
It is like
Cynthia
hid in Clouds.
If again she show them light,
It is like morning after night.
And, tis worthy well beholding,
With how many a pretty folding,
Her sweet eye lids grace that fair,
Meanly fring'd with beaming hair:
Whereby, neatly overspread,
Those bright lamps are shadowed.
Twixt the
Eyes,
no hollow place,
Wrinkle nor indecent space,
Disproportions her in ought;
Though by
Envy,
faults were sought.
On those
Eye-brows
never yet,
Did disdainful scowling sit.
Love
and
Goodness
gotten thither,
Sit on equal thrones together;
And do throw just scorn on them,
That their government contemn.
Then (almost obscured) appears
Those her Jewel-gracing
Ears,
Whose own Beauties more adome,
Then the richest
Pearl
that's worn
By the proudest
Persian
Dames,
Or the best that
Nature
frames.
There, the voice (in loves
Meanders
Those their pretty cirklings, wanders:
Whose rare turnings will admit,
No rude speech to enter it.
Stretching from mount
Forhead
lies,
Beauties Cape
betwixt her eyes.
Which two Crystal-passing lakes,
Loves
delightful
Isthmus
makes;
Neither more nor less extending,
Then most meriteth commending.
Those, in whom that part hath been,
Best deserving praises seen:
Or, (surueid without affection)
Came the nearest to perfection.
Would scarce handsome ones appear,
If with her compared they were.
For, it is so much excelling,
That it passeth means of telling.
On the either side of this,
Loves
most lovely Prospect is.
Those her smiling
Cheekes,
whose color
Comprehends true Beauty fuller,
Then the curioust mixtures can,
That are made by art of Man.
It is Beauties
Garden plot,
Where, as in a
True-love-knot,
So, the Snowy Lily grows,
Mixed with the Crimson Rose,
That, as friends they joined be.
Yet, they seem to disagree,
Whether of the two shall reign;
And the Lilies oft obtain
Greatest sway, unless a blush
Help the Roses at a push.
Hollow fallings, none there are;
Ther's no wrinkle, there's no scar:
Only there's a little
Mole,
Which from
Venus
cheek was stole.
If it were a thing in Nature,
Possible, that any Creature,
Might decaying life repair
Only by the help of Air:
There were no such Salue for death,
As the balm of her sweet breath.
Or, if any human power,
Might detain the Soul an hour,
From the flesh to dust bequeathing,
It would linger on her breathing:
And be half in mind, that there;
More then mortal pleasures were.
And whose fortune were so fair,
As to draw so sweet an air,
Would no doubt, let slighted lie,
The perfumes of
Arabie.
For the
English
Eglantine,
Doth through envy of her, pine.
Violets, and Roses to;
Feares that she will them undo.
And, it seems that in her breast,
Is composed the
Ph
•
nix
nest.
But, descend a while mine eye.
See, if polished Ivory,
Or the finest sleeced flocks,
Or the whitest
Albi
•
n
Rocks;
For comparisons may stand,
To express that snowy hand.
When she draws it from her gloue,
It hath virtue to remove,
Or dispersed; if there be ought,
Cloudeth the beholders thought.
If that palm but toucheth your,
You shall feel a secret power
Cheare your heart; and glad it more,
Though it droopt with grief before.
Through the veins, disposed true
Crimson, yields a Sapphire hue:
Which adds grace, and more delight,
By embracing with the white.
Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender,
Are her palms; the fingers slender;
Tipt with mollified Pearl.
And if that transformed Girle,
Whose much cunning, made her dare,
With
loves
daughter to compare,
Had that hand worn; maugre spite,
She had shamed the
Goddess
quite.
For, there is in every part,
Nature perfecter then Art.
These, were joined to those Arms,
That were never made for harms:
But, possess the sweetest graces,
That may apt them for embraces.
Like the Silver streams they be,
Which from some high hill we see
Clipping in a goodly
Vale,
That grows proud of such a thrall.
Neither
Alabaster
Rocks,
Pearl strowd-shores, nor
Cotswold
flocks,
Nor the Mountains tipped with Snow,
Nor the Milk-white Swannes of
Po,
Can appear so fair to me,
As her spotless shoulders be.
They are like some work of state,
Couer'd with the richest plate:
And a presence have, that strike
With devotions,
God's-like.
Twixt those shoulders (meanly spread)
To support that Globe-like head,
Riseth up her
Necke;
wherein,
Beauty seemeth to begin
To disclose it self, in more
Tempting manner then before.
How, therein she doth excel,
(Though I would) I cannot tell:
For, I naught on earth espy,
That I may express it by.
There, should Lovers as in duty,
Hange rich
Trophes
up to Beauty.
It is proportioned to a height,
That is even with delight.
Yet, it is a great deal higher,
Then to answer base desire.
Where the
Necke
hath end, begins
That smooth path, where loves close ginns
Are thick placed to enthrall,
Such, as that way straggle shall.
There, a pleasing passage lies,
Far beyond the sight of eyes:
And much more delight contains,
Then the old
Elizian
plains.
Whatsoever others say,
There's alone the
Milkie-way;
That to beauties walks doth go,
Which, if others came to know;
In possessing their delight,
They should never reach the height,
Of the pleasures which I share,
Whilst that those debarred are.
Yet (unspoken of) there rests,
Her two twinlike lovely
Breasts,
Whose round-rising, pretty panting
I would tell, but art is wanting.
Words can never well declare,
Her fair sweet perfections there:
For, would measures give me leave,
To express what I conceive,
I do know I should go near,
Halfe to ravish all that hear.
And, but that I learn to season,
What I apprehend with
Reason,
It had made my
Passions
weight,
Sincke me through my own conceit,
There I find so large a measure,
Of an vnexpressed pleasure;
That my heart, through strong surmise,
In a pleasing fainting lies.
He that there may rest to prove,
Softer finds those beds of love,
Then the Cotton ripest grown;
Or fine pillows of such down,
As in time of Molting, fanns,
From the breasts of silver
Swannes.
Those two sisters are a pair
Smoth alike, like soft, like fair;
If together they be vewed.
Yet if they a part be shown,
That you touch, or see, seems smother;
Softer, fairer, then the other.
That the Colour may delight,
So much red as makes the white,
Purer seem, is shed among:
And then, here, and there, along,
Runnes a
Sapphire-Mine,
whose blew
Shaddowd, makes so brave a show
On those lily mounts, as though,
Beauties simples there did grow.
In the vale, twixt either hill,
Lies Desire in ambush still;
And surpriseth every eye,
Which doth that way dare to pry.
There, is sure the twy-top
Hill,
Where the
Poets,
learn their skill.
That's
Parnassus
where the
Muses,
Chast, and wise
Minerva
uses.
Her two Cherrilets are those,
Whence the pleasantst
Nectar
flows:
And no fruits ere equal'd these,
Fetcht from the
Hesperides.
Once, as
Cynthir's
games she Chased,
And for Air, left half vn
•
ased,
Her light summer-robe of green,
(Beauties safe, but slender skreene)
Vnawares, I partly spide,
That fair Lily field vnhid,
Which you may her Belly name;
Yet, nor she, nor I, to blame.
For, it was but what mine eye,
Might behold with modesty.
It is a fair and matchless Plain,
Where unknown Delights remain,
It is the storehouse wherein, Pleasure,
Hides the richest of her treasure.
Which, true Modestie (in ward)
Keepes with a continual guard,
Of such
Virtues;
as she's sure,
No corruption can allure.
There they say (for mind it well)
I do this by hearsay, tell,
Growes her
Nauell
which doth seem,
Like some
Jewel
of esteem:
With so wondrous cunning wrought,
That an injury tis thought:
Such a beauty, with the rest,
(Should unknown) be vnexprest.
Some what else there is, thats hidden;
Which to name I am forbidden:
Neither have I ever pried,
After that should be vnspied.
Never shall my
Maiden-Muse,
So her self, and me abuse,
As to sing what I may fear,
Will offend the Choisest ear.
Though I know, if none be by,
But true friends to Modestie;
I might name each part at will,
And yet no man's thought be ill.
Yet, for fear loose hearers may,
Judge amiss, if more I say:
I will descend to shunn all blame,
To the Pillers of this Frame.
Where, though I nere aimd so high,
As her dainty youthful Thigh;
(Whose rare softness, smothnes, fullness,
Being known, would teach my dullness
Such a strain, as might be fit,
Some brave
Tuscan Poets
wit)
Once a saucy bush I spide,
Plucke her silken skirts aside;
So discovered unto me,
All those beauties to the knee.
And, before the thorns entanglings,
Had let go the Silver spanglings,
I perceiud the curious knitting,
Of those joints were well be fitting;
Such a Noble piece of work:
Mongst whose turnings, seemed to lurk,
Much to entertain the sight,
With new objects of delight.
Then the Legge for shape as rare,
Will admit of no compare.
Streight it is; the Anckle lean,
Full the Calf, but in the mean:
And the slender Foot doth fit,
So each way to suit with it,
As she nothing less excels
Therein, then in all things else.
Yea from Head to Foot, her feature,
Shewes her an vnblemisht Creature:
In whom love with reason, might,
Finds so matchless a
Delight.
That more cannot be acquired,
Nor, a greater bliss desired.
Yet if you will rest an hour,
Under yonder shady bowre:
I, anon my
Muse
will raise
To a higher pitch of praise.
But a while with Raspice-berries,
Strawberries, ripe Peares, and Cherries,
(Such as these our Groues do bear)
We will cool our palates there.
And those homely Cates among,
Now and then, a Past' rall Song,
Shall my
Lad,
here, sing, and play:
Such, as you had yesterday.
1
A Lad whose faith will constant prove,
And never know an end:
Late by an over sight in love,
Displeas'd his dearest friend.
For which, incensed she did retake,
The favors which he wore;
And said, he never for her sake,
Should wear, or see them more.
The grief whereof, how near i
•
•
ent,
And how unkindly took;
Was figured by the discontent,
Appearing in his look.
At first, he could not silence break,
(So heavy sorrow lay)
But when his sighs gave way to speak,
Thus, sadly did he say.
My only Deare;
and with that speech,
Not able to sustain,
The floods of grief at sorrows breach;
He paus'd awhile again.
At length (nigh fainting) did express,
These words, with much ado;
Oh dear! let not my loves excess.
Me, and my love undo.
She, little moved with his pain,
His much distraction eyde;
And changing love, into disdain,
Thus (still unkind) replide:
Forebear to urge one kindness more,
Unless you long to see,
The good respect you had before,
At once all lost in me.
With that, dismayed, his suit he ceased,
And, down his head he hung:
And, as his Reasons strength decreast,
His passion grew more strong.
But, seeing she did flight his mone
(With Willow Garlands wreath'd)
He sat him down, and all alone,
This sad complaint he breahb'd.
Oh Heavens! Quoth he, Why do we spend,
Endeauours thus in vain;
Since what the
Fates
do fore-intend,
They never change again?
Nor
Faith,
nor
Love,
nor true
Desert,
Nor all that man can do,
Can win him place within her heart,
That is not borne theret
•
.
Why do I fondly waste my youth,
In secret sighs, and tears?
Why to preserve a spotless truth,
Taste I, so many cares?
For, women that no worth respect,
Do so ungentle prove;
That some shall wi
•
ne by their neglect,
What others lose with love.
Those, that have set the best at naught,
And no man could enjoy;
At last, by some base Gull are caught,
And gotten with a toy.
Yea, they that spend an ages light,
Their favors to obtain;
For one unwilling over sight,
May loose them all again.
How glad, and fain, alas would I,
For her have underwent,
The greatest care, ere she should try,
The smallest discontent?
Yet she, that may my life command,
And doth those passions know,
Denieth me a poor demand,
In height of all my woe
•
.
Oh, if the Noblest of her time,
And best beloved of me;
Could for so poor, so slight a crime,
So void of pity be.
Sure, had it been some common one,
Whose patience I had tried;
No wonder I had been undone,
Or vnforgiuen di'de.
A thousand lives I would have laid,
So well I once believed,
She would have dain'd to lend me aid,
If she had seen me gree
•
'd.
But now, I live to see the day,
Where I presumed so;
I neither dare for pity pray,
Nor tell her of my woe.
Yet, let not poor despised heart,
Her worth ought questioned be;
Hadst thou not failed in desert,
She had not failed thee.
But least perhaps, they flout thy mone,
That should esteem thee dear;
Go, make it by thyself alone,
Where none may come to hear.
Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles,
What passion ere thou try;
That none may laugh at thee the whiles,
Thou discontented lie.
And let no wrong, by change distaine
A Love so truly fair:
But rather, never hope again,
And thou shalt never despair.
2
ORetyr'd by cruel passions that oppress me,
With heart nigh broken,
Time
no hope would give me
Upon my bed I laid me down to rest me;
And gentle sleep, I woe
•
ed to relieve me.
But oh alas! I found that on the morrow
My sleeping
Ioyes,
brought forth my waking
Sorrow.
For loe, a dream I had so full of pleasure,
That to possess, what to embrace I seemed,
Could not effect my Joy in higher measure,
Then now it grieves me, that I have but dreamed.
Oh let my dreams be sighs and tears hereafter:
So, I that sleeping weep, may wake in laughter.
Faine would I tell, how much that shadow pleasd me;
But tongue and pen, want words, and art in telling.
Yet, this lle say, to show what horror seazd me;
(When I was robbed of bliss, so much excelling)
Might all my dreams be suchj; oh let me never
Awake again: but sleep, and dream forever.
For, when I waking saw myself deceived,
And what an inward Hell it had procured,
To find myself of all my hopes bereaved,
It brought on passions not to be endured:
And, knew I; next night had such dreams in keeping,
I'd make my eyes, forswear, forever sleeping.
3
YOu wooddy
Hills,
you
Dales,
you
Groues,
You
Floods,
and every
Spring,
You
Creatures
come, whom nothing moves,
And hear a
Shepherd
sing.
For, to
Heroës, Nymphes,
and
Swaines,
I long have made
•
y mone:
Yet, what my mournful
Verse
contains,
Is understood of none.
In Song,
APOLLO
gave me skill;
Their love, his
Sisters
daine.
With those, that haunt
Pernassus
hill,
I friendship entertain.
Yet, this is all in vain to me,
So haplessely I fare,
As those things which my glory be,
My cause of ruin, are.
For,
Love
hath kindled in my breast,
His never quenched fire:
And I, who often have expressed,
What other men desire,
(Because I could so dive into,
The depth of others mone)
Now, I my own affliction show,
I heeded am, of none.
Oft have the
Nymphs
of greatest worth,
Made suit my
Songs
to hear.
As oft (when I have sighed forth,
Such notes as saddest were)
Alas! said they, poor gentle heart,
Who ere that Shepherd be:
But, none of them suspects my smart,
nor thinks, it meaneth me.
When I have reached so high a strain,
Of passion in my Song;
That they, have seen the tears toraine
And trill my cheek along:
Insteed of sigh, or weeping eye,
To sympathize with me;
Oh, were he once in love, they cry,
How moving would he be?
Oh pity me, you Powers above,
And take my skill away:
Or, let my hearers think I love,
And fain not what I say.
For, if I could disclose the smart,
Which I unknown do bear;
Each line would make them sighs impart,
And every word, a tear.
Had I a
Mistress,
some do think,
She should revealed be;
And I would favors wear, or drink
Her Health upon my Knee.
Alas poor fools! they aim awry,
Their fancy flags too low:
Could they my loves rare course espy,
They would amazed grow.
But, let nor
Nymph
nor
Swain
conceive,
My tongue shall ever tell,
Who of this rest, doth me bereave;
Or where I am not well.
But, if you sighing me espy,
Where rarest features be;
Mark, where I fixe a weeping eye,
And swear you,
There is she.
Yet, ere my eyes betray me shall,
I will swell, and burst with pain:
And, for each drop they would let fall,
My heart shall bleed me twain.
For, since my soul more sorrow bears,
Then common Lovers know;
I scorn, my passions should like theirs,
A common humor show.
Eare, never heard of, heretofore,
Of any Love like mine.
Nor shall there be for evermore,
Affection so divine.
And, that to fain it, none may try,
When I dissolu'd must be;
The first I am, it lived by,
And die it shall, with me.
BOY, h'a done; for now my brain
Is inspired afresh again,
And new Raptures pressing are,
To be sung in praise of her:
Whose fair
Picture
lieth nigh,
Quite vnuail'd to every eye.
No small favor hath it been,
That such Beauty might be seen:
Therefore, ever may they rue it,
Who with evil eyes shall view it.
Yea, what ancient stories tell,
Once to rude
Acteon
fell,
(When with evil thoughts, he stood
Eyeing
Cynthia
in the Flood)
May that fatal horned curse,
Light upon them; or a worse.
But (what ever others be)
Lest some fault be found in me,
If imperfect this remain;
I will over-trymit again.
Therefore, turn where we begun:
And now all is overrun.
Mark, if everything expressed,
Sute not so unto the rest,
As if
Nature
would prefer,
All perfections, unto her.
Wherefore seems it strange to any,
That they daily see so many,
Who were else most perfect Creatures,
In someone part, want true features?
Since, from all the fair'st that live,
Nature
took the best, to give
Her pefection in each part.
I, alone, except her heart;
For, among all woman-kind.
Such as hers, is hard to find.
If you truly note her Face,
You shall find it hath a grace,
Neither wanton, nor ore serious;
Nor too yielding, nor imperious:
But, with such a feature blest,
It is that, which pleaseth best:
And delight's each seu'rall eye,
That affects with modesty.
Lowlinesse, hath in her look,
Equall place with Greatness took.
And, if
Beauty
(anywhere)
Claimes Prerogatiues, tis there.
For, at once, thus much twill do;
Threat, command, persuade, and woo.
In her
Speech
there is not found,
Any harsh, unpleasing sound.
But a well beseeming power;
Neither higher, neither lower,
Then will suit with her perfection,
It is the Loadstone of Affection.
And, that man, whose judging eyes,
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love, make her, his choice;
Though he did but hear her voice.
For, such accents, breath not, whence
Beauty keeps
Non-residence.
Never word of hers, I hear,
But tis Music to mine ear:
And, much mor
•
contentment brings,
Then the sweetly-touched strings,
Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains,
Rauish hearers when it plains.
Rais'd by her Discourse, I fly,
In contented thoughts so high,
That I pass the common measures,
Of the dulled Senses pleasures:
And, leave far below my flight,
Vulger pitches of delight.
If She smile, and merry be;
All about her, are as she.
For, each looker on, takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.
If She grieve, or you but spy,
Sadness peeping through her eye;
Such a grace it seems to borrow,
That you will fall in love with sorrow:
And abhor the name of Mirth,
As the hatefulst thing on earth.
Should I see her shed a tear,
My poor eyes would melt, I fear.
For, much more in Hers appears,
Then in other women's tears:
And her look, did never fain
Sorrow, where there was no pain.
Seldom hath she been espide
So impatient as to chi
•
e:
For, if any see her so,
They'l in love with anger grow.
Sigh, or speak, o
•
smile, or talk,
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk,
Every thing that she doth do,
Decent is, and lovely too.
Each part that you shall behold,
Hath within it self inrold,
What you could desire to see,
(Or your heart conceive to be)
Yet if from that part your eye,
Mouing shall another spy:
There you see as much or more,
Then you thought to praise before.
While the eye surueyes it, you
Will imagine that her
Brow
Hath all beauty; when her
Cheeke,
You behold, it is as like
To be deemed fairest too.
(So much there can Beauty do)
Look but thence upon her eye,
And you wonder by and by,
How there may be anywhere,
So much worthy praise as there.
Yet, if you survey her Brest,
Then as freely you will protest,
That in them perfection is;
Though (I know) that one poor kiss,
From her tempting Lips, would then,
Make all that forsworn agen.
For, the self same moving grace,
Is at once in every place.
She, her Beauty never foils,
With your ointments, waters, oils,
Nor no loathsome
Fucus
settles,
Mixt with
Jewish
fasting spetles.
Faire by
Nature,
being borne,
She doth borrowed beauty seorne.
Who so kisses her, needs fear
No unwholesome varnish there.
For, from thence he only sips,
The pure
Nectar,
of her lips.
And at once with these he closes,
Melting Rubies, Cherries, Roses.
Then, in her behavior, she
Striueth but her self to be.
Keeping such a decent state,
As (indeed) she seems to hate
Precious leisure should be spent,
In abused Complement.
Though she knows what other do,
(And can all their Courtship toe)
She, is not in so ill case,
As to need their borrowed grace.
Her Discourses sweetened are,
With a kind of artless care,
That expresseth greater Art,
Then affected words imp
•
rt.
So, her gestures (being none,
But that freeness which alone,
Suits the brauenesse of her mind)
Make, her, of her self, to find,
Postures more becoming far,
Then the mere acquired, are.
If you mark, when for her pleasure,
She vouchsafes to foot a
Measure,
Though, with others skill, she pace,
Ther's a sweet delightful grace,
In her self; which doth prefer,
Art, beyond that Art, in her.
Neither needs she beat her wit,
To devise what dressings fit.
Her complexion, and her feature,
So beholding are to Nature;
If she in the Fashions go,
All the reason she doth so,
Is; because she would not err,
In appearing singular.
Doubtless, not for any thought,
That 'twill perfect her, in ought.
Many a dainty-seeming
Dame,
Is in native Beauties lame.
Some, are graced by their Tyres,
As their Quoifs, their Hats, their Wyres.
One, a Ruffe doth best become;
Falling-Bands much altreth some.
And their favors, oft, we see,
Changed as their dressings be.
Which, her Beauty never fears:
For, it graceth all she wears.
If ye note her Tyre today,
That, doth suit her best, you will say.
Mark, what she next morne doth wear;
That, becomes her best, you will swear.
Yea, as oft as her you see;
Such new graces, still there be:
As, she ever seemeth gracit,
Most by that, she weareth last.
Though, it be the same wore,
But the very day before.
When she takes her Tyers about her,
(Never half so rich without her)
At the putting on of them,
You may liken every Iem,
To those lamps, which at a play,
Are set up to light the day.
For, their l
•
sture adds no more,
To what
Titan
gave before;
Neither doth their pretty gleamings,
Hinder ought, his greater beamings.
And yet (which is strange to me)
When those costly deckings be,
Laid away; there seems descrid,
Beauties, which those Vailes did hide.
And, she look
•
, as doth the Moon,
Past some Clowd through which she shone:
O
•
, some
Jewel Watch,
whose Case,
Set with
Diamonds,
seems to grace
What it doth contain within
〈◊〉
Till the curious work be seen,
Then; tis found, that costly shrining;
Did but hinder tothers shining.
If you chance to be in place,
When her Mantle she doth grace;
You would presently protest,
Irish
dressings were the best.
If again she lay it down,
While you view her in a gown:
And how those her dainty limbs,
That close-bodied garment trims.
You would swear, and swear agen:
She appeared loueliest then.
But, if she so truly fair,
Should untie her shining hair,
And at length, that treasure shed;
Ioues
endured
Gammed,
Neither
Cythereas
Joy,
Nor the sweet self-loving
Boy,
(Who in beauty did surpass)
Nor the fair'st that ever was:
Could, to take you prisoner bring,
Lookes so sweetly conquering.
She, excels her, whom
Appollo,
Once with weeping eyes did follow.
Or that
Nimph,
who shut in Towers,
Was beguild with golden showers;
Yea, and She, whose love was wont,
To swime ore the
Hellispont.
For her sake (though in attire,
Fittest to enflame desire)
Seem'd not half so fair to be,
Nor so lovely, as is she.
For, the man whose happy eye,
Viewes her in full Majesty:
Knowes, she hath a power that moves,
More then doth the Queen of Loves,
When she useth all her power,
To inflame her Paramour.
And, sometime I do admire,
All men burn not with desire.
Nay, I muse her servants are not
Pleading love; but oh they dare not.
And, I therefore wonder, why
They do not grow sick, and die.
Sure they would do so, but that
By the ordinance of
Fate,
There is some concealed thing,
So, each gazer limiting;
He can see no more of merit,
Then beseems his worth, and spirit.
For, in her a
Grace
there shines,
That over-daring thoughts confines;
Making worthless men despair,
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the
Destinies
agree,
Some good judgments blind should be,
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare Beauties in her growing.
Reason
doth as much imply:
For, if every judging eye,
(Which beholdeth her) should there,
Find what excellencies are:
All, orecome by those perfections,
Would be captive to affections.
So, in happiness vnblest;
She, for Lovers, should not rest.
This, well heeding, think upon:
And, if there be any one,
Who alloweth not the worth,
Which my
Muse
hath painted forth;
Hold it no defect in her;
But, that he's ordained to err.
Or, if any female wight,
Should detract from this I write,
She, I yield, may show her wit,
But disparage her no whit.
For, on earth few women be,
That from Enuies touch are free.
And, whoever,
Envy
knew,
Yield those honors that were due?
Though sometime my
Song
I raise,
To unused heights of praise,
(And break forth as I shall please.
Into strange
Hyperboles
)
It is to show, Conceit hath found,
Worth, beyond expressions bound.
Though, her breath I do compare,
To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
Or, her Eies that are so bright,
To the mornings cheerful light.
Yet, I do it not so much,
To infer that she is such;
As to show, that being blest,
With what merrits name of best,
She appears more fair to me,
Then all Creatures else that be.
Her true beauty leaves behind,
Apprehensions in my mind,
Of more sweetness then all Art,
Or inventions can impart.
Thoughts, too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed.
Which, oft raiseth my conceits,
To so vnbeleeued heights;
That (I fear) some shallow brain,
Thinkes my
Muses
do but fain.
Sure, he wrongs them if he do:
For, could I have reached to
So like Straines, as these you see;
Had there been no such as
She?
Is it possible that I,
Who scarce heard of
Poesie;
Should a mere
Idea
raise,
To as true a pitch of praise,
As the learned
Poets
could,
Now, or in the times of old;
All those real-beauties bring,
Honord by their
Sonneting?
(Having Arts, and favors to,
More t' encourage what they do)
No; if I had never seen,
Such a beauty; I had been
Piping
in the Country shades,
To the homely
Dary-maids:
For a Country Fiddlers fees;
Clouted cream, & bread and cheese.
I no skill in
Numbers
had,
More then every Shepherds
Lad,
Till
She
taught me,
Straines
that were,
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendor, and her worth,
From obscurenes, drew me forth.
And, because I had no
Muse,
She her self daignd to infuse
All the skill, by which I clime,
To these praises in my
Ryme.
Which, if she had pleasd to add,
To that Art sweet
Drayton
had,
Or that happy Swain that shall
Sing
Britanias Pastoral;
Or to theirs, whose
Verse
set forth
Rosalind,
and
Stella's
worth;
They had doubled all their skill,
Gained on
Apollos
Hill:
And, as much more set her forth,
As I' me short of them in worth.
They, had unto heights aspired,
Might have justly been admired;
And, in such brave Straines had moved,
As of all had been approved.
I, must praise her as I may;
Which I do mine own rude way:
Sometime setting forth her glories,
By unheard of
Allegories.
Think not, though, my
Muse
now sings,
Mere absurd, or feigned things.
If to gold I like her Haire,
Or, to Stars, her Eyes so fair:
Though I praise her Skin by snow,
Or, by Pearls, her double-Row:
It is, that you might gather thence,
Her vnmatched excellence.
Eyes, as fair (for eyes) hath she
As stars fair, for stars may be.
And, each part as fair doth show,
In it kind, as white in Snow.
It is no grace to her at all,
If her Haire I
Sun-beams
call:
For, were there a power in Art,
So to portrait every part,
All men might those beauties see,
As they do appear to me.
I would scorn to make compare
With the glorioust things that are.
Nought I ere saw, fair enow,
But the Haire, the hair to show.
Yet, some think him ouerbold,
That compares it but to Gold.
He, from Reason seems to err,
Who commending of his Deare,
Giues her Lips the Rubies hue,
Or by Pearls her Teeth doth show.
But what Pearls, what Rubies can,
Seeme so lovely fair, to man,
As her Lipps whom he doth love,
When in sweet discourse they move?
Or her louelier Teeth the while,
She doth bless him with a smile.
Stars indeed, fair Creatures be:
Yet, amongst us, where is he,
Ioyes not more the while he lies,
Sunning in his
Mistress
Eies,
Then in all the glimmering light,
Of a starry winters night?
Him to flatter, most suppose,
That prefers before the Rose
Or the Lilies (while they grow)
Or the flakes of new-fallen suow;
Her complextion whom he loveth:
And yet, this my
Muse
approveth.
For, in such a beauty, meets
Vnexpressed moving sweets;
That, (the like unto them) no man,
Euer saw but in a
Woman.
Look on
Moon,
on
Starrs,
on
Sun,
All God's Creatures over-run.
See, if all of them presents,
To your mind, such sweet contents:
Or, if you from them can take,
Ought that may a beauty make,
Shall one half so pleasing prove,
As is
Hers,
whom you do love.
For indeed, if there had been
Other mortal Beauties seen,
Obiects for the love of man,
Vain was their creation than.
Yea, if this could well be granted,
Adam
might his
Eve
have wanted.
But a woman is the Creature,
Whose proportion with our nature
Best agrees; and whose perfections,
Sympathize with our affections:
And not only finds our Senses,
Pleasure in their excellencies.
But our Reason also knows,
Sweetness in them, that outgoes
Human wit to comprehend,
Much more, truly, to commend.
Note, the Beauty of any Eye;
And, if ought you praise it by,
Leave such passion in your mind,
Let my
Reasons
eye be blind.
Mark, if ever red or white,
Any where, gave such delight,
As when they have taken place,
In a worthy woman's sace.
He that so much hath not noted,
Will not: or is grown besotted.
Such as Lovers are, conceive,
What impressions Beauty leave;
And those Hearts, that fire have took,
By a love-enflaming look:
Those, believe, what here I say;
And, suppose not that I stray,
In a word, by setting forth
Any praise beyond true worth.
And yet, wherefore should I care,
What another's Censures are,
Since I know her to be such,
As no praise can be too much?
All that see her, will agree,
In the self same mind with me;
If their wit be worth the having,
Or their Judgment merit craving.
And the man that kens her not,
Speaks, at best, he knows not what:
So, his Envy, or good will.
Neither doth her good, nor ill.
Then, Fools cavils I disdain,
And, call back my
Muse
again,
To decipher out the rest.
For, I have too long digrest.
This is
She,
in whom there meets,
All variety of sweets.
An
Epitomie,
of all,
That on earth we Faire may call.
Nay, yet more I dare auer:
He that is possessed of her,
Shall at once all pleasure find,
That is reaped from
Woman-kind.
Oh, what man would further range,
That in one might find such change?
What dull eye such worth can see,
And not sworn a Lover be?
Or, from whence was he, could prove,
Such a Monster in his love;
As, in thought, to use amiss,
Such vnequald worth as this?
Pitie 'twere that such a Creature,
Phenix
-like, for matchless feature,
Should so suffer; or be blamed,
With what now the Times are shamed.
Beauty (unto me divine)
Makes my honest thoughts incline,
Unto better things, then that,
Which the Vulgar aimeth at.
And, I vow, I grieve to see,
Any Faire, and false to be:
Or, when I sweet pleasures find,
Matcht with a defiled mind.
But (above all others)
Her,
So much doth my soul prefer;
That to Him whose ill desire,
Should so nurse a lawless Fire,
As to tempt, to that, which might
Dimme her sacred Virtues light;
I could wish that he might die
Ere he did it; though 't were I.
For, if
She
should hap to stray,
All this Beauty would away:
And not her alone undo,
But kill him, that praised her to.
But, I know her
Maker
will
Keep her vnd
••
tained still:
That ensuing Ages may
Pattern out, by her the way
To all goodness. And if
Fate
That appoints all things a Date
Hear me would; I'd wish that She
Might for aye preserved be.
And that neither wasting Cares,
Neither all-consuming Yeares,
Might, from what she is, estrange her,
Or in mind, or body change her.
For, oh why should envious
Time,
Perpetrate so vile a Crime,
As to waste, or wrong, or stain,
What shall never be matched again?
Much I
Hope,
it shall not be:
For, if Love deceive not me,
To that height of Faire she grows,
Age, or Sickness (Beauties foes)
Cannot so much wrong it there,
But enough there will appear,
Euer worthy to be loved:
And, that heart shall more be moved,
(Where there is a judging eye)
With those prints it doth espy,
Of her beauty wronged by
Time,
Then by others, in their prime.
One advantage she hath more,
That adds grace to all before.
It is this; her Beauties fame,
Hath not done her honor shame.
For, where Beauty we do find,
Envy
still is so unkind,
That, although their
Virtues
are
Such, as pass their Beauies far;
Yet on
Slanders
rocks they be
Shipwrackt oftentimes, we see:
And are subject to the wrongs,
Of a thousand spiteful tongues,
When the greatest fault they had,
Was, that some would make them bad;
And not finding them for action,
Sought for vengeance, by detraction.
But her beauty sure no tongue,
Is so villanous to wrong.
Never did the Iealoust ear,
Any muttering rumor hear,
That might cause the least suspects,
Of indifferent defects.
And (which somewhat stranger is)
They, whose slanders few can miss,
(Though set on by evil will,
And habituated ill)
Nothing can of her invent,
Whence to frame disparagement.
Which, if we respect the Crimes,
Of these loose injurious times;
Doth not only truly prove,
Great discretion in her love:
And, that she hath lived upright,
In each iealouse tongues dispight.
But, it must be understood,
That her private thoughts are good.
Yea, tis an apparent sign,
That her beauty is Divine:
And, that
Angels
have a care,
Men's polluting tongues should spare
To defile, what God hath given,
To be dear to Earth, and Heaven.
Tell me you that hear me now;
Is there any one of you,
Wanteth feeling of affection?
Or that loves not such perfection?
Can there be so dull an ear,
As of so much worth to hear;
And not seriously incline,
To this Saint-like friend of mine?
If there be; the fault doth lie,
In my artless
Poesy.
For, If I could reach the Straine,
Which me thinks I might obtain;
Or, but make my Measures fly,
Equall with my fantasie;
I would not permit an ear,
To attend vnrauisht here;
If, but so much fence it knew,
As the blocks, that
Orphe
•
s
drew.
Think on this description, well,
And, your noblest
Ladies
tell;
Which of you (that worth can see)
This my
Mistress
would not be?
You brave
English,
who have run,
From the rising of the
Sun:
Till in traveling you found,
Where he doth conclude his Round.
You, that have the beauties seen,
Which in farthest Lands have been;
And sur
•
eid the fair resorts,
Of the
French
and
Spanish
Courts:
(With the best that
Fame
renowns,
In the rich
Trans-Alpine
Towns)
Do not with our brainless Fry,
(That admire each novelty)
Wrong your Countries fame in ought.
But, here freely speak your thought;
And I durst presume youle swear,
She's not matched anywhere.
Gallants, you that would so fain,
Nymphs
and
Ladies
loves obtain.
You, that strive to serve and please,
Fairest
Queens
and
Empresses.
Tell me this, and tell me right;
If you would not (so you might)
Leave them all dispis'd to prove,
What contents are in her love?
Could your Fathers ever tell,
Of a
Nymph
did more excel?
Or hath any story told,
Of the like, in times of old?
Dido
was not such a one.
Nor the
Troians
Paragone.
Though they so much favor found,
As to have their honors crowned,
By the best of
Poets
penns,
Euer known before, or since.
For, had
Dido
been so fair,
Old
Anchises
noble heir;
Ioues
command had disobaid:
And with her in
Carthage
staid:
Where, he would have quite forswore,
Seeing the
Lauinian
Shore.
Or, had
Laedas
Daughter been,
(When she was the
Spartan
Queen)
Equall with this lovely-one,
Menelaus
had never gone,
From her sight so far away,
As to leave her for a pray;
And his room, to be possessed,
By her wanton
Phrigian
guest.
But, least yet among you, some,
Think she may behind these, come:
Stay a little more, and here me:
In another strain I will rear me.
I will vnmasque a beauty, now,
Which to kiss, the God's may bow.
And so feelingly did move,
That your souls shall fall in love.
I have yet, the best behind;
Her most fair, vnequald,
Mind.
This, that I have here expressed,
Is but that, which veils the rest.
An incomparable shrine,
Of a Beauty more divine.
Whereof, ere I farther speak,
Off again, my
Song
I will break.
And, if you among the Roses,
(Which, yo
•
quickset hedge incloses)
Will with plucking flowers, beguile
Tedious-seeming Time awhile;
Till I step to yonder Green,
(Whence the sheep so plain are seen)
I, will be returned, ere
You an hour have stayed there.
And, excuse me now, I pray,
Though I rudely go away.
For, Affaires I have to do:
Which, unless I look into;
I may sing out Summer here,
Like the idle Grasshopper,
And at Winter, hide my head,
Or else fast, till I am dead.
Yet if Rusticke
Past'rall Measures,
Can ought add unto your pleasures;
I will leave you some of those,
Which, it pleasd me to compose,
When despairing fits were over;
And I made a happy
Lover,
Exercisd my loving passion,
In another kind of fashion,
Then to utter, I devised,
When I feared to be despised.
Those; shall lie in gage for me,
Till I back returned be.
And, in writing; here, you have them:
Either Sing, or Read, or leave them.
Sonnet 1.
ADmire not Shepherds
Boy,
Why I my Pipe forbear;
My sorrows, and my joy,
Beyond expression are.
Though others may,
In Songs display
Their passions, when they woo:
Yet, mine do fly,
A pitch too high,
For words to reach unto.
If such weak thoughts as those,
With others fancies move;
Or, if my breast did close,
But common Straines of
Love:
Or passions store,
Learnd me no more,
To feel then others do:
I'd paint my cares,
As black as theirs,
And teach my Lynes to woo.
But oh! thrice happy ye,
Whose mean conceit is dull;
You from those thoughts are free,
That stuff my breast so full:
My loves excess,
Lets to express,
What Songs are used to:
And my delights,
Take such high flights,
My Ioyes will me undo.
I have a
Love
that's fair,
Rich, Wise, and Nobly borne;
She's true Perfections heir,
Holds naught but Vice in scorn.
A heart to find,
More chaste, more kind,
Our Plaines afford no moe.
Of her degree,
No blab I will be,
For doubt, some Prince should woo.
And yet I do not fear,
(Though she my meanness knows)
The Willow Branch to wear,
No, nor the yellow hose.
For, if great
Jove,
Should sue for love,
She would not me forgo
Resort I may,
By night or day.
Which brauer, dare not do.
You
Gallants,
borne to pelf,
To Lands, to Titles store;
Ime borne but to my
Self,
Nor do I care for more.
Add to your earth,
Wealth, Honors, Birth,
And all you can thereto;
You cannot prove,
That height of Love,
Which, I in meanness do.
Great Men have helps to gain,
Those favors they implore;
Which, though I win with pain,
I find my joys the more.
Each Clowne may rise,
And climb the Skies,
When he hath found a Staire:
But joy to him,
That dares to climb,
And hath no help, but air.
Some say, that
Love
repents,
Where Fortunes disagree;
I know the high'st contents,
From low beginnings be.
My love's vnfain'd,
To her that daignd,
From
Greatness,
stoop thereto.
She
loves, cause I,
So mean, dar'dtrie,
Her better worth to woo.
And yet although much joy,
My Fortune seems to bless;
It is mixed with more annoy,
Then I shall ere express:
For, with much pain
Did I obtain,
The
Iem
I will nere forgo:
Which, yet I dare
Nor show, nor wear;
And that breeds all my woe.
But fie, my foolish tongue,
How loosely now it goes!
First, let my Knell be rung,
Ere I do more disclose.
Mounts thoughts on high;
Cease words, for why:
My meaning to divine:
To those I leave,
That can conceive,
So brave a Love as mine.
And now, no more I will sing,
Among my fellow Swaines:
Nor Groues, nor Hilles shall ring,
With Ecchoes of my plains.
My
Measures
be,
Confus'd (you see)
And will not suit thereto:
Cause, I have more,
Brave thoughts in flour,
Then words can reach unto.
Sonnet. 2.
HEnce away, you
Sirens,
leave me,
And vnclaspe your wanton Arms;
Sugred words shall never deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand Charmes)
Fie, fie, forbear;
No common snare,
Could ever my affection chain:
Your painted baits,
And poor deceits,
Are all bestowed on me, in vain.
I am no flaue, to such as you be;
Neither shall a snowy Brest,
Wanton Eye, or Lip of Ruby,
Euer robb me, of my rest.
Go, go, display,
Your Beauties ray,
To some ore-soon enamored
Swain.
Those common wiles,
Of sighs and smiles;
Are all bestowed on me, in vain.
I have elsewhere, vowed a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eyes.
Shew not me, a naked Beauty,
Those Impostures, I despise.
My Spirit loathes,
Where gaudy clothes,
And feigned Othes, may love obtain.
I love
Her
so,
Whose look, swears
No;
That, all your labors will be vain.
Can he prize the tainted
Posies,
Which on every breast are worn;
That may pluck the spotless Roses,
From their never-touched Thorn?
I can go rest,
On her sweet Brest;
That is the pride of
Cynthia's
train.
Then hold your tongues,
Your
Mermaid
Songs,
Are all bestowed on me in vain.
He's a fool, that basely dallies,
Where each Peasant mates with him.
Shall I haunt the thronged
Valleys,
Whilst there's noble
Hills
to climb?
No, no; though Clownes
Are skar'd with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I will prove;
So shall your Love
Be all bestowed, on me in vain.
Yet, I would not deign embraces,
With the greatest-fairest
She,
If another shar'd those graces,
Which had been bestowed on
Me.
I gave that
One,
My Love, where none,
Shall come to robb me of my gain.
Your fickle
Hearts
Makes Tears, and Arts,
And all, bestowed on me in vain.
I do scorn, to vow a Duty,
Where each lustful Lad may woo.
Give me
Her,
whose Sun-like Beauty,
Buzzards
dare not soar unto.
She,
she it is,
Affoords that Bliss,
For which, I would refuse no pain.
But such as you,
Fond fools adue;
You seek to captive me in vain.
Prowd she seemed in the beginning,
And disdaind my looking on:
But, that coy one in the winning,
Proues a true one being won.
What ere betide,
She'l nere divide,
The favor she to me shall deign.
But, your fond love,
Will fickle prove:
And all that trust in you, are vain.
Therefore know, when I enjoy One,
(And for love employ my breath)
She I Court shall be a Coy one,
Though I win her with my death.
A favor there,
Few aim at dare.
And if perhaps, some Lover plain,
She is not won,
Nor I undone,
By placing of my love in vain.
Leave me then, you
Sirens
leave me;
Seek no more to work my harms:
Craftie wiles cannot deceive me;
Who am proof against your Charmes.
You labor may,
To lead astray,
The heart, that constant shall remain:
And I the while,
Will sit and smile,
To see you spend your time in vain.
Sonnet 3.
WHen
Philomela
with her strains,
The Spring had welcomed in;
And
Flora,
to bestrow the Plaines,
With
Daysies
did begin:
My Love, and I (on whom suspicious eyes,
Had set a thousand spies)
To cosen
Argos
strove;
And seen of none,
We got alone,
Into a shady Gr
••
e.
On every Bush, the
Eglantine,
with leaves perfumed hung.
The
Primrose,
made the
•
edge-rouse fine,
The woods, of Music rung.
The
Earth,
the
Air,
& all things did conspire
To raise contentment higher.
That, had I come to woo:
Nor means of grace,
Nor time, nor place;
Were wanting thereunto.
With hand in hand, alone we walked,
And oft each other
•
y
•
e:
Of Love, and passions past, we
〈◊〉
,
Which our poor hearts had tried.
Our souls, infused into each other were:
And, what may be her care,
Did my more sorrow breed.
One mind we bore;
One Faith we swore:
And both in one agreed.
Her dainty Palme, I gently pressed,
And with her Lips I plaid.
My Cheeke, upon her panting Brest,
And on her Necke I laid.
And yet, we had no sense of wanton lust:
Nor, did we then mistrust,
The poison in the sweet.
Our
Bodies
wrought
So close, we thought,
Because our
Souls
should meet.
With pleasant toil, we breathles grew;
And kist in warmer blood:
Upon her Lips, the
〈◊〉
,
Like drops on Roses stood;
And on those
〈…〉
;
Whose sweets; were such to me,
Them could I not
〈◊〉
No, not to feast,
On
Venus
〈◊〉
;
Whence Streames of sweetness flow.
But, kissing and embracing, we
So long together lay;
Her touches all inflamed me,
And I began to stray.
My hands, presumed so far, they were too bold.
My tongue, unwisely told
How much my heart was changed.
And
Virtue
quite,
Was put to flight,
Or, for the time estrang'd.
Oh! what are we, if in our strength,
We over boldly trust?
The strongest forts, will yield at length,
And so our
Virtues
must.
In
Me,
no force of Reason had preuaild;
If she had also faild.
But ere I further straid,
She sighing kist,
My naked wrist;
And thus, in tears she said.
Sweet heart
(quoth she) if in thy breast,
Those
Virtues
real be,
Which hitherto thou hast professed,
And I believed in thee:
Thy Self, and Me, oh seek not to abuse.
Whilst Thee I thus refuse,
In hotter flames I fry:
Yet, let us not,
Our true love spot,
Oh, rather let me die.
For, if thy heart should fall from good,
What would become of mine?
As strong a passion, stirs my blood,
As can distemper thine.
Yet, in my breast this rage I smoother would,
Though it consume me should;
And, my desires contain:
For, where we see,
Such breaches be,
They seldom stop again.
Are we the two, that have so long,
Each others loves imbracit?
And never did Affection wrong,
Nor think a thought unchaste?
And shall, oh, shall we now, our matchless Iay,
For one poor touch destroy?
And all content forgo?
Oh no, my Deare,
Sweet heart, forbear;
I will not loose thee so.
For, should we do a deed so base,
(As it can never be)
I could no more have seen thy face,
Nor wouldst thou look on me.
I should of all our passions gr
•
w ashamed;
And blush when thou art named,
Yea (though thou constant wert)
I being naught,
A jealous thought,
Would still torment my heart.
What goodly thing do we obtain,
If I consent to thee?
Rare joys we loose, and what we gain,
But common pleasures be:
Yea, those (some say) who are to lust enclind,
Driue Love out of the mind;
And so much Reason miss:
That they admire,
What kind of fire,
A chaste affection is.
No vulgar bliss, I aimed at,
When first I heard thee woo:
I will never prize a man for that,
Which every Groome can do.
If that be love; the basest men that be,
Do love as well as we.
Who, if we bear us well,
Do pass them then,
As
Angels,
men,
In glory do excel.
Whilst thus she spake, a cruel Band
Of Passions ceazd my Soul:
And, what one seemed to command,
Another did control.
Twixt
Good,
and
Ill,
I did divided lie,
But, as I raised mine eye,
In her me thought I saw,
Those virtues shine,
Whose rays divine,
First gave Desire, a Law.
With that, I felt the blush of shame,
Into my cheek return,
And
Love,
did with a chaster flame,
Within my Bosom burn.
My Soul, her light of Reason had renewed;
And by those Beams I viewed,
How slily Lust ensnares:
And all the fires,
Of ill Desires,
I quenched with my Tears.
Go
Wantons
now, and flout at this,
My coldness, if you list;
Vain fools, you never knew the bliss,
That doth in Love consist.
You sigh, and weep, and labor to enjoy;
A Shade, a Dream, a Toy.
Poor Folly you pursue,
And are vnblest,
Since every beast,
In pleasure equals you.
You never took so rich content,
In all your wanton play,
As this to me hath pleasure lent,,
That Chast she went away.
For as some sins, which me committed have;
Sharpe stings behind them leeue.
Whereby we vexed are:
So, ill suppressed,
Begetteth rest,
And peace, without compare.
But least this Conquest slight you make,
Which on myself I won;
Twelue labors, I will undertake,
With
Ioues
victorious
Son,
Er'e I, will such another brunt endure.
For, had
Diana
pure,
Thus tempted been to sin;
That
Queen
of Night,
(With her chaste light,)
Had scarce, a Maiden binne.
OH! how honored are my
Songs,
Gracit by your melodious tongues?
And how pleasing do they seem,
Now your voices Carroll them?
Were not, yet, that task to do,
Which my word enjoins me to,
I should beg of you, to hear,
What your own inventions were.
But, (before I ought will crave)
What I promisd, you shall have.
And, as I on mortal Creatures,
Cald, to view her bodies features;
Showing how, to make the Senses,
Apprehend her excellences.
Now; I speak of no worse subject,
Then a Souls, and Reasons object:
(And relate a Beauties glories,
Fitting heavenly
Auditories
)
Therefore, whilst I sit and sing,
Hemme me
Angels,
in a Ring.
Come ye
Spirits,
which have eyes,
That can gaze on Deityes:
And vnclog'd, with brutish senses,
Comprehend such excellences.
Or, if any mortal ear,
Would be granted leave to hear,
(And find profit with delight,
In what now, I shall indite)
Let him first be sure, to season
A prepared heart with reason:
And, with Judgment, drawing nigh,
Lay all fond affections by.
So, through all her vailings, He
Shall the Soul of beauty see.
But, avoid you earth-bred Wights,
Cloid with sensual appetites.
On bafe objects glut your eyes,
Till your starueling pleasure dies.
Feede your ears, with such delights,
As may match you gross conceits;
For, within your muddy brain,
These, you never can contain.
Think not, you, who by the sense,
Only judge of excellence;
(Or do all contentment place,
In the beauty of a face)
That these higher thoughts of our,
Soare so base a pitch as your.
I can give, as well as you,
Outward Beauties all their due:
I can most contentments see,
That in love, or women be.
Though I dote not on the features,
Of our daintiest female creatures;
(Nor, was ere so void of shames,
As to play their lawless games)
I more prize a snowye Hand,
Then the gold on
Tagus
strand:
And a dainty Lippe before,
All the greatest Monarcks store.
Yea, from these I reap as true,
And as large contents as you.
Yet, to them I am not tide.
I have rarer sweets espide;
(Wider prospects of true pleasure)
Then your curbed thoughts can measure.
In her Soul, my Soul descries,
Obiects, that may feed her eyes.
And the beauty of her mind,
Shewes my Reason where to find,
All my former pleasure doubled.
Neither with such passion troubled;
As wherewith it oft was crossed:
Nor so easy to be lost.
I, that rauisht lay, well-nigh,
By the luster of her eye:
And, had almost sworn affection,
To the fore expressed perfection;
As if nothing had been higher,
Whereunto I might aspire.
Now, have found, by seeking nearer,
Inward worth; that shining clearer;
(By a sweet and secret moving)
Drawes me to a dearer loving.
And, whilst I that love conceive,
Such impressions it doth leave,
In the Intellectiue part;
As, defaceth from my heart,
Eu'rie thought of those delights,
Which allure base appetits.
And, my mind so much employs,
In contemplating, those joys,
Which, a purer sight, doth find,
In the beauty of her Mind:
That, I so thereon am set,
As (me thinks) I could forget,
All her sweetest outward graces:
Though I lay in her embraces.
But, some thinking with a smile,
What, they would have done the while:
Now suppose my words are such,
As exceed my power too much.
For, all those, our Wantons hold,
Void of Vigor, dull, and cold:
Or (at best) but fools, whose flame,
Makes not way unto their shame.
Though at length with grief they see
They the fools do prove to be.
These, the body so much minded,
That their Reason over-blinded,
By the pleasures of the Sence,
Hides from them that excellence;
And that sweetness, whose true worth,
I am here to blazon forth.
It is not; tis not, those rare graces,
That do lurk in women's faces.
It is not, a displayd perfection,
Youthfull eyes, nor clear complexion;
Nor a skin, smooth-satten like,
Nor a dainty Rosie cheek,
That to wantonness can move,
Such as virtuously do love.
Beauty,
rather gently draws
Wild Desires, to Reasons Laws;
And oft frights men from that sin,
They had else transgressed in:
Through a sweet amazement, stroke,
From an over-ruling look.
Beauty,
never tempteth men
To lasciviousness; but when
Carelesse Idleness hath brought
Wicked longings into thought.
Nor doth youth, or heat of blood,
Make men prove what is not good.
Nor the strength, of which they vaunt.
It is the strength, and power they want,
And the baseness of the Mind,
Makes their brute desires enclind,
To persue those vain delights,
Which affect their Appetites.
And so blinded do they grow,
(Who are overtaken so)
As their dullness cannot see,
Nor believe that better be.
Some, have blood as hot as their,
Whose affections loosest are;
Bodies that require no art,
To supply weak
Natures
part.
Youth they have; and, sure, might to,
Boast of what, some (shameless do)
Yet, their Minds that aim more high,
(Then those baser pleasures lie)
Taught by
Virtue
can suppress,
All attempts of wantonness.
And such powerful motives frame,
To extinguish
Passions
flame;
That (by Reasons good direction)
Quallifying loose affection;
Theile in midst of Beauties fires,
Walk vnscorcht of ill Desires.
Yet, no such, as stupid shame,
Keeps from actions worthy blame.
But, in all so truly Man,
That their apprehensions can,
Prize the bodies utmost worth:
And, find many pleasures forth,
In those Beauties; more then You,
That abuse them, ever knew.
But, perhaps her outward grace,
Here discrib'd, hath tane such place,
In some ore-enamourd breast,
And so much his heart possessed,
As He thinks it passeth telling,
How she may be more excelling:
Or what worth, I can prefer,
To be more admired in Her.
Therefore, now I will be brief,
To prevent that misbelief.
And, if there be present here,
Any one, whose nicer ear:
Taskes my
Measures,
as offending,
In too seriously commending
What affects the Sense; or may,
Iniure Virtue any way.
Let them know; tis understood,
That if they were truly good,
It could never breed offense,
That I showed the excellence,
With the power of
God
and
Nature,
In the beauty of his Creature.
They from thence would rather raise,
Cause, to meditate his praise:
And thus think;
How fair must He,
That hath made this Faire-one be!
That; was my proposed End.
And, to make them more attend
Unto this; so much excelling,
As it passeth means of telling.
But at worst; if any Straine,
Makes your
Memories
retain,
Sparks of such a baneful fire,
As may kindle ill desire:
This, that follows after, shall
Not alone extinguish all;
But, eu'n make you blush with shame,
That your thoughts were so to blame.
Yet, I know when I have done,
(In respect of that bright
Sun,
Whose inestimable light
I would blazon to your sight)
These, ensuing flashes, are,
As to
Cynthia's
beams a Star;
Or, a petty Comets ray,
To the glorious Eye of Day.
For, what power of words or Art,
Can her worth at full impart?
Or, what is there, may be found,
Plac'd within the Senses bound;
That can paint those sweets to me,
Which the Eyes of Love do see?
Or the Beauties of that Mind,
Which her body hath enshrin'd.
Can I think, the
Guide of Heaven,
Hath so bountifully given,
Outward features, cause he meant,
To have made less excellent,
Her divine part? Or suppose,
Beauty, Goodness
doth oppose;
Like those fools, who do despair,
To find any Good and Faire?
Rather; There I seek a mind,
Most excelling, where I find
God hath to the body lent,
Most-beseeming Ornament.
But, though he that did inspire
First, the true
Promethean
fire,
In each several soul did place
Equall Excellence and Grace,
As some think; yet have not they
Equall Beauties every way.
For, they more or less appear,
As the outward
Organs
are:
Following much the temp'rature,
Of the Body, gross or pure.
And I do believe it true,
That, as we the Body view:
Nearer to perfection grow;
So, the
Soul
her self doth show:
Others more, and more excelling,
In her pour; as in her dwelling.
For, that pureness giveth way,
Better to disclose each Ray,
To the Dull conceit of man,
Then a grosser substance can.
Thus, through spotless
Crystal,
we
May the
Days
full glory see;
When, if clearest Sunbeames pass,
Through a foul polluted glass:
So discollerd, theil appear;
As those Staines they shone through, were.
Let no
Critticke
cavil then,
If I dare affirm agen;
That her Minds perfections are,
Fairer then her Body's far;
And, I need not prove it by,
Axioms
of
Philosophy,
Since no proof can better be,
Then their rare effect in me.
For, while other men complaining,
Tell their
Mistresses
disdaining:
Free from care, I write a story,
Only of her worth and glory.
While most Lovers pining sit,
(Rob'd of liberty and wit)
Vassaling themselves with shame,
To some proud imperious
Dame:
Or, in Songs their Fate bewailing,
Shew the world their faithless failing.
I, enwreath'd with boughs of
Myrtle,
Fare like the beloved
Turtle.
Yea while most, are most untoward,
Peeuish, vain, inconstant, froward.
While their best contentments bring,
Nought but after-sorrowing.
She, those childish humors slighting,
Hath conditions so delighting,
And doth so my bliss endeavor,
As my joy increaseth ever.
By her actions I can see,
That her
Passions
so agree,
Unto
Reason;
as they err,
Seldom, to distemper her.
Lone
she can (and doth) but so,
As she will not overthrow,
Loves content by any folly,
Or, by deeds that are unholy.
Dotingly, she nere affects;
Neither willingly neglects
Honest love: But means doth find,
With discretion to be kind.
It is nor thundering
Phrase,
nor
Othes,
Honors, wealth, nor painted Clothes,
That can her good liking gain,
If no other worth remain.
Never took her heart, delight
In your
Court-Hermaphrodite,
Or such frothy
Gallants,
as
For the Times
Heroes
pass.
Such; who (still in love) do all
Faire,
and
Sweet,
and
Lady
call.
And where e're they hap to stray,
Either prate the rest away;
Or, of all discourse to seek,
Shuffle in at
Cent,
or
Gleek.
Goodness
more delights her, than
All their Maske of Folly can.
Fond, she hateth to appear;
Though she hold her friend as dear,
As her part of life unspent:
Or, the best of her content.
If the heat of youthful fires,
Warme her blood with those desires,
Which are by the course of Nature,
Stird in every perfect Creature:
As those
Passions
kindle, so
Doth
Heavens
grace, and
Reason
grow
Abler, to suppress in her
Those rebellions; and they stir,
Never more affection, then
One good thought allays agen.
I could say, so chaste is she,
As the new-blown Roses be.
Or, the drifts of Snow, that none
Euer touched, or looked upon.
But, that were not worth a Fly,
Seeing so much Chastity,
Old
Pygmalion
Picture had:
Yea, those
Eunuchs
borne or made,
Ne're to know Desire; might say,
She deseru'd no more then they.
Whereas, whilst their worth proceeds
From such wants, as they must needs,
Be vnmou'd (cause Nature framed
No affections to be tamed)
Through her dainty Limbs, are spread,
Vigour, heat, and freely shed,
Life blood into every vain;
Till they fill, and swell again:
And no doubt they strive to force,
Way, in some forbidden Course.
Which, by
Grace
she still resists;
And so Courbs within their lists,
Those Desires: that she is chaster,
Then if she had none to master.
Malice,
never lets she in:
Neither hates she ought, but sin.
Envy,
if she could admit,
Ther's no means to nourish it:
For, her gentle heart is pleased,
When she knows another's eased.
And there's none, whoever got
That perfection, she hath not.
So, that no cause is there, why
She should any one envy.
Mildly angry sheele appear,
That the baser Rout may fear;
Through presumption to misdoe.
Yet, she often faines that to.
But let wrong be whatsoever,
She gives way to
Choller,
never.
If she e're of
Vengeante
thought,
Twas nor life, nor blood was sought;
But (at most) some prayer to move,
Justice for abused Love:
Or, that
Fate
would pay again,
Loves
neglectors with disdain.
If she ever crau'd of
Fate,
To obtain a higher State;
(Or ambitiously were given)
Sure, twas but to climb to heaven.
Pride,
is from her heart as far,
As the
Poles
in distance are.
For, her worth, nor all this praise,
Can her humble spirit raise,
Less to prize me, then before;
Or her self, to value more.
Were she
Vain;
she might allege,
Twere her Sexes privilege.
But, she's such; as (doubtless) no man
Knowes less folly, in a woman.
To prevent a being
Idle,
Sometime, with her curious Needle,
(Though it be her meanest glory)
She so limnes an Antique Story,
As
Minerva
(would she take it)
Might her richest
Sample
make it.
Other while, again, she rather
Labors, with delight to gather
Knowledge from such learned Writs,
As are left by famous Wits.
Where, She chiefly seeks to know,
God; Her self;
and what we owe,
To our
Neighbor:
since with these,
Come all needful Knowledges.
She, with
Adam,
never will
Long to learn both
Good
and
Ill;
But, her state well vndestood,
Rests her self, content with
Good.
Avarice,
abhorreth she,
As the lothsom'st things that be:
Since she knows it is an ill,
That doth ripest virtue kill.
And, where ere it comes to rest,
(Though in some strict Matrons breast)
Be she never so seeming just,
I will no shows of Goodness trust.
For, if you but gold can bring;
Such, are hir'd to anything.
If you think she Iealous be;
You are wide: For, credit me,
Her strong'st Iealousies, naught are,
Other then an honest care,
Of her friends. And, most can tell,
Who so wants that, loves not well.
Though some little fear she shows,
It is no more then love allows:
So the passion do not move her,
Till she grieve, or wrong her lover.
She may think He may do ill;
Though, she'l not believe he will.
Nor, can such a harmless thought,
Blemish true affection ought:
Rather, when as else it would,
Through security grow cold.
This her Passion, keeping measure,
Strengthens Love, and sweetens Pleasure.
Crueltie,
her soul detests;
For, within her Bosom rests,
Noblest
Pitty;
vsherd by,
An unequal'd Courtesie.
And, is grieu'd at good men's moan,
As the grief were all her own.
Just she is; so just, that I
Know she would not wrong a Flye;
Or, oppress the meanest thing,
To be Mistress to a King.
If our
Painters
would include,
Temperance,
and
Fortitude,
In one Picture; She would fit,
For the nonce to pattern it.
Patient, as the
Lamb
is she.
Harmelesse, as the
Turtles
be.
Yea, so largely stored, with all
Which we Mortals
Goodness
call;
That, if ever
Virtue
were,
Or may be, incarnate here;
This is she, whose praises, I
Offer to Eternity.
She's no Image trimd about,
Faire within, and foul without:
But a
Iemm
that doth appear,
Like the
Diamond,
everywhere,
Sparkling rays of Beauty forth;
All of such vnblemisht worth,
That wert possible, your eye
Might her inmost thoughts espy,
And behold the dimmest part,
Of the luster in her heart.
It would find that
Center
pass,
What the
Superficies
was.
And, that every angle there,
Like a
Diamonds
inside were.
For, although that Excellence
Passe the piercingst Eye of Sence;
By their operations we,
Guesse at things that hidden be.
So (beyond our common reach)
Wise men can by Reason teach,
What the influences been,
Of a
Planet,
when unseen;
Or the Beauty of a Star,
That doth shine above us far.
So, by that wide-beaming Light,
Wherewith
Titan
Courts our sight,
By his clothing of the Earth;
By the wondrous, various Birth,
Of new Creatures, yearly bred
Through his heat; and nourished:
And by many Virtues moe
(Which our Senses reach unto)
We conclude; they are not all,
Which make fair that goodly
Ball.
Though she prize her honor more,
Then the far-fetched precious store
Of the rich
Molucchi,
or
All the wealth was traffickt for,
Since our
Vessels,
passage knew
Unto
Mexico, Peru:
Or those spacious Kingdoms, which
Make the proud
Iberians
rich.
It is not that uncertain blast,
Keepes my
Mistress
Good, or Chast.
She, that but for honors sake,
Doth of ill a Conscience make;
(More in fear what Rumour says,
Then in love to virtuous ways)
Though she seemed more civil than,
You have seen a Courtesan,
For an honor: And cries
Oh fie,
At each show of vanity.
Though she censure all that be,
Not so foolish coy as she.
Though she with the
Roman Dame
Kill her self, to purchase fame.
She would prostitute become,
To the meanest basest Groome;
If so closely they may do it,
As the world should never know it.
So at best those women prove,
That for honor; virtue love.
Give me her, that Goodness chooseth
For it own sake: And refuseth
To have greatest honors gained,
With her secret conscience stained.
Give me her, that would be poor;
Die disgracit; nay, thought a whore;
And each Times reproach become,
Till the general day of Doome:
Rather then consent to act
Pleasing Sin, though by the fact,
(With esteem of virtuous) she
Might the
German Empresse
be.
Such my
Mistress
is; and naught
Shall have power to change her thought.
Pleasures cannot tempt her eye,
On their Bayts to glance awry.
For their good she still esteems,
As it is; not as it seems:
And, she takes no comfort in
Sweetest pleasure, sour'd with Sinn.
By her self, she hath such care,
That her actions decent are.
For, were she in secret hid,
None might see her what she did.
She would do, as if for spies,
Every wall were stuck with eyes.
And be chary of her honor,
Cause the heau'ns do look upon her.
And, oh what had power to move,
Flames of Lust, or wanton love,
So far, to disparage us,
If we all, were minded thus?
These, are Beauties that shall last,
When the Crimson blood shall wast;
And the shining Haire wax gray:
Or with age be worn away.
These, yield pleasures, such as might,
Be remembered with delight;
When we gasp our latest breath,
On the loathed bed of death.
Though discreetly speak she can,
Sheele be silent, rather than
Talke while others may be heard.
As if she did hate, or feared,
Their Condition; who will force
All, to wait on their Discourse.
Reason
hath on her bestowed
More of knowledge, then she owed
To that Sex: and
Grace
with it,
Doth aright her Practice fit.
Yet, hath
Fate
so framed her,
As she may at sometime, err:
But, if ere her judgment stray,
It is that other women may,
Those much-pleasing Beauties see,
Which in yielding Natures be.
For, since no perfection can
Here on earth be found in
Man,
Ther's more good in free submissions,
Then there's ill in our transgressions.
Should you hear her, once, contend,
In discoursing, to defend
(As she can) a doubtful Cause:
She such strong Positions draws
From known Truths; and doth apply,
Reasons with such Majesty:
As if she did undertake,
From some
Oracle
to speak.
And you could not think, what might
Breed more love, or more delight.
Yet, if you should mark agen,
Her discreet behavior, when
She finds Reason to repent
Some wrong-pleaded
Argument.
She so temperatly lets all
Her mis-held opinions fall;
And, can with such Mildness bow:
As 'twill more enamour you,
Then her knowledge. For, there are
Pleasing sweets without compare
In such yeeldings; which do prove,
Wit, Humility,
and
Love.
Yea, by those mistakings; you
Her Condition so shall know,
(And the nature of her mind,
So undoubtedly shall find)
As will make her, more endeared,
Then if she had never erred.
Farther; that she naught may miss,
Which worth praise in woman, is:
This, unto the rest I add.
If I wound, or sickness, had;
None should for my curing run.
(No not to
Appollo's
son)
She, so well, the
Virtue
knows,
Of each needful Hearbe that grows;
And so fitly, can apply,
Salues to every Maladie:
That, if she, no succor gave me,
Twere no means of
Art,
could save me.
Should my Soul oppressed lie,
(Sunke with grief and sorrow nigh)
She hath balm for minds distrest;
And could ease my pained breast.
She so well knows how to season,
Passionate
discourse with Reason;
And knows how to sweeten it,
Both with so much love and wit;
That, it shall prepare the Sense.
To give way with less offense.
For, grieved minds, can ill abide,
Counsel churlishly applide:
Which, instead of comfortings;
Desperation, often brings.
But, hark
Nymphs:
me thinks, I hear
Music, sounding in mine ear.
It is a
Lute:
And he's the best
For a Voice, in all the
West,
That doth touch it. And the Swain,
I would have you hear so fain,
That my
Song,
forbear will I,
To attend his melody.
Hither comes he, day by day,
In these Groues to sing, and play,
And, in yonn close Arbor, He
Sitteth now, expecting me.
He, so bashful is; that mute
Will his Tougne be, and his
Lute,
Should he happen to espy
This, vnlookt for Company.
If you, therefore list to hear him,
Let's with silence walk more near him.
Twill be worth your pains (believe me)
(If a Voice, content may give ye)
And, await you shall not long;
For, He now beginns a
Song.
Sonnet. 1.
WHat is the cause, when elsewhere I resort,
I have my Gestures, and Discourse more free?
And (if I please) can any Beauty Court,
Yet stand so dull, and so demure by thee?
Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk?
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?
Why dare I not embrace thee as we walk,
Since, with the greatest
Nymphs
I'ue dared as much?
Ah! know that none of those I e're affected;
And therefore, us'd a careless Courtship there:
Because, I neither their Disdaine respected,
Nor recon'd them, or their embraces dear.
But, loving Thee; my Love hath found content;
And rich delights, in things indifferent.
Sonnet. 2.
WHy Couet I, thy blessed eyes to see;
Whose sweet aspect, may cheer the saddest mind?
Why, when our bodies must divided be,
Can I no hour of rest, or pleasure find?
Why do I sleeping start, and waking mone,
To find, that of my dreamed Hopes I miss?
Why, do I of
•
en contemplate alone,
Of such a thing as thy Perfection is?
And wherefore, when we meet, doth Passion stop
My speechles Tongue, and leave me in a panting?
Why, doth my heart o'rechargd with fear & hope
(In spite of Reason) almost droop to fainting?
Because, in Me thy excellencies moving,
Have drawn me to an Excellence in loving.
Sonnet. 3
FAire,
since thy
Virtues
my affections move,
And I have vowd, my purpose is to join,
(In an eternal Band of chastest Love)
Our Souls, to make a Marriage most divine.
Why (thou mayest think) then, seemeth he to prize,
An outward
Beauties
fading how so much?
Why, doth he read such Lectures in mine eyes?
And often strive my tender palm to touch?
Oh pardon my presuming: For I swear,
My Love is soyled, with no lustful spot:
Thy
Souls
perfections, through those veils appear,
And I half faint, that I embrace them not.
No foul Desires, doth make thy touches sweet:
But, my
Soul
striveth, with thy
Soul
to meet.
Sonnet 4.
SHall I wasting in Dispaire,
Dye because a
Woman's
fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
Cause another's Rosie are?
Be she fairer then the Day,
Or the Flowry Meads in May;
If She be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be.
Should my heart be grieud or pin'd,
Cause I see a
Woman
kind?
Or a well disposed Nature,
Ioyned 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
Virtues move,
Me, to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that Goodness blest,
Which may gain her, 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?
Those that bear a Noble mind,
Where they want of Riches find,
Think, what with them, they would do,
That without them, dare to woo.
And, unless that mind I see,
What care I, though Great she be.
Great,
or
Good,
or
Kind,
or
Faire,
I will never 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.
Sonnet 5.
I Wandred out, awhile agone,
And went I know not whither:
But, there do Beauties many a one,
Resort, and meet together.
And
Cupids
power will there be shown,
If ever you come thither.
For, like two Suns, two Beauties bright,
I shining saw together.
And, tempted by their double light,
My eyes I fixed on either:
Till both at once, so thral'd my sight,
I loved, and knew not whether.
Such equal sweet
Venus
gave,
That I preferred not either.
And when for love, I thought to crave,
I knew not well of whether.
For, one while,
This,
I wisht to have,
And then, I
That,
had leifer.
A Lover of the curioust Eye,
Might have been pleasd in either.
And so, I must confess, might I,
Had they not been together.
Now, both must love, or both deny,
In one, enjoy I neither.
But yet at last I scapt the smart,
I feared, at coming hither.
For, seeing my divided heart,
I choosing, knew not whether.
Love
angry grew, and did depart;
And now, I care for neither.
SEe; these Trees so ill did hide us,
That the Shepherd hath espide us:
And (as jealous of his cunning)
All in hast away is running.
To entreat him back again,
Would be labor spent in vain.
You may therefore, now, betake ye
To the Music I can make ye;
Who, do purpose my Invention,
Shall pursue my first Intention.
For, in
Her
(whose worth I tell)
Many excellences dwell,
Yet vnmention'd: whose perfections
Worthy are of best affections.
That, which is so rare to find,
Both in Man, and Womankind:
That; whose absence
Love
defaceth,
And both Sexes more disgraceth,
Then the spite of furrowed
Age,
Sicknesses,
or
Sorrowes
rage:
That's the Jewel so divine,
Which doth on her Forehead shine.
And, therewith endowed is
She,
In an excellent degree.
CONSTANCY (I mean) the purest
Of all
Beauties;
and the surest.
For, who e're doth that possess,
Hath an endless Louelinesse.
All Afflictions, Labors, Crosses,
All our Dangers, Wounds, and losses,
Games of Pleasure, we can make,
For that matchless
Woman's
sake;
In whose breast that Virtue bideth:
And we joy what e're betideth.
Most dejected
Hearts
it gladdeth:
Twenty thousand glories addeth
Unto
Beauties
brightest
Ray:
And, preserves it from decay.
It is the
Salt,
that's made to season,
Beauty,
for the use of
Reason.
It is the Vernish, and the Oyling,
Keeps her Colours fresh, from spoiling.
It is an Excellence, whereby
Age,
though joined with
Poverty,
Hath more dear Affection won,
Then fresh
Youth,
and
Wealth
have done.
It is a Louelinesse, endearing
Beauties,
scarce worth note, appearing;
Whilst a fairer fickle
Dame,
Nothing gains, but scorn and shame.
Further; tis a
Beauty,
such
As I can nor praise too much,
Nor frame
Measures,
to express.
No; nor any man, unless
He, who (more then all men crossed)
Finds it in that
Woman
lost;
On whose Faith, he would have pawnd
Life, and all he could command.
Such a Man may by that Misse
Make us know how dear it is;
When, over-charged with Griefe, he shall
Sigh, and break his heart withal.
This is that
Perfection,
which
In her favor makes me rich.
All whose
Beauties
(named before)
Else, would but torment me more:
And, in having this, I find,
(What e're haps) a quiet mind:
Yea, tis that, which I do prize,
Far above her Lips, her Eyes:
Or, that general Beauty, whence
Shines each several Excellence.
For, alas! what gaind hath he,
Who may clip the fairest
She
(That the name of
Woman
bears)
If, unhappily, he fears,
Any others Worth, may win,
What he thought his own had been?
Him, Base-minded deem I should,
Who (although he were in Hold,
Wrapt in chains) would not disdain,
Love
with her to entertain
That both daughter to a
Peer,
And most rich and lovely were;
When a brainless
Gull
shall dare,
In her, favors with him share:
Or, the Action of a
Player,
Robb him of a Hope so fair.
This, I dread not: For, I know,
Strained gestures, painted show,
Shamelesse boastings, borrowed Iests,
Female Looks, gay-plumed Crests,
Vowes nor protestations vain,
(Wherwith fools are made so vain)
Moue her can; save to contemn,
Or perhaps, to laugh at them.
Neither can I doubt, or fear,
Time shall either change or wear
This her
Virtue:
Or, impair
That which makes her Soul, so fair.
In which
Trust,
great Comforts are,
Which, the fear of loss, would mar.
Nor hath this my rare
Hope
stood,
So much, in her being good;
(With her love to blessed Things)
As in her acknowledgings,
From a higher Power to have them;
And her love, to
Him,
that gave them.
For, although to have a mind
Naturally to Good inclined,
(And to love it) would assure
Reason,
that it might endure.
Yet (since Man was first unjust)
Ther's no warrant for such
Trust.
Virtues,
that most wonder win,
Would converted be to Sin;
If their flourishings began,
From no better Root, then
Man.
Our best
Virtues,
when they are
Of themselves, we may compare,
To the beauty of a Flower,
That is blasted in an hour:
And, which growing to be fuller,
Turnes into some loathed Colour.
But, those being freely given,
And confirmed in us from Heaven;
Have a promise on them past:
And for evermore shall last;
Diamond
-like, their luster clearing,
More and more, by use and wearing.
But, if this rare
Worth
I praise,
Should by
Fates
permission, raise
Passions in some gentle Brest,
That distemper may his rest;
(And be Author of such Treason,
As might nigh endanger Reason)
Or, enforce his tongue to crave,
What another man must have.
Mark, in such a Streight as this,
How discreet her dealing is.
She,
is nothing of their humors,
Who, their honor build on Rumours,
And, had rather private sporting,
Then allow of open courting:
Nor of theirs, that would seem holy,
By diuulging others folly.
Farther is she from their guise,
That delight to Tyrannize,
Or make boastings, in espying,
Others for their favors dying.
She, a spirit doth possess
So repleat with Noblenesse,
That, if she be there beloved,
Where she ought not to be moved,
Equally, to love again:
She, doth so well entertain
That affection; as there's none
Can suppose it, ill bestowne.
From deluding, she is free:
From disdain, as far is she:
And so feelingly bears part,
Of what pains another heart;
That no curse, of scorned duty,
Shall draw vengeance on her
Beauty.
Rather, with so tender fear,
Of her Honor, and their care,
She is touched; that neither shall,
Wrong unto her self, befall;
(By the favor she doth show)
Nor will she neglect them so;
As may just occafion give,
Any way to make them grieve.
Hope,
she will not let them see,
Least they should presuming be;
And aspire to that, which none,
Euer must enjoy but One.
From
Dispaire,
she keeps them to;
Fearing, they might hap to do,
Either through
Loves
indiscretions,
(Or much over stirred passions)
What, might with their hurt & shame,
Into question call her name.
And a scandal on her bring,
Who is just in everything.
She hath markit how others run;
And by them hath learned to shun,
Both their fault, who (ouerwise)
Err, by being too precise:
And their folly that over kind,
Are to all complaints inclind.
For, her wit hath found the way,
How a while to hold them play;
And, that in conu
•
nience shun,
Whereinto, both seem to run;
By allowing them a scope,
Just betwixt
Dispaire,
and
Hope.
Where confined, and reaching neither▪
They do take a part in either:
Till, long living in suspense,
(Tyr'd by her indifference)
Time, at last, their
Passion
wears;
Passions
wearing,
Reason
clears;
Reason
gives their
Judgment
light;
Judgment
bringeth all to right.
So, their
Hope
appearing vain,
They become themselves again.
And, with high applauses, fit,
For such
Virtue,
with such
Wit;
They, that service, only profer,
She may take, and they may offer.
Yet, this course she never proves;
Save with those, whose virtuous Loves▪
Use the noblest means of gaining,
Fauours, worthy the obtaining.
And, if such should chance to err,
(Either 'gainst themselves, or her)
In some over-sights, when they,
Are through
Passion
led astray.
She, so well man's frailty knows,
With the Darts that
Beauty
throws;
As she will not adding terror,
Break the heart for one poor error.
Rather (if still good they be)
Twentie remedies hath she,
Gently to apply, where
Sense
Hath invaded
Reasons
Fence;
And, without or wound, or scar,
Turnes to Peace, a lawless War.
But, to those whose baser fires,
Breath out smoke of such desires,
As may dim with impure steams,
Any part of
Beauties
beams.
She, will deign no milder way,
Those foul burnings to allay;
Save, with such extreme neglect,
As shall work her wisht effect.
And, to use so sharp a cure,
Shees not oft constrained sure.
Cause, upon her forehead, still
Goodness
sits, so feared of
Ill.
That the scorn, and high disdains,
Where with all she entertains,
Those loath'd glaunces; giveth ending,
To such flamings in the tynding:
That their cooled Hopes, needs must
Freeze Desires, in heat of
Lust.
It is a power that never lies,
In the fair'st immodest eyes.
Wantons;
tis not your sweet eyings,
Forced Passions, feigned Dyings,
Gestures temptings, Tears beguilings,
Dancings, Singings, Kissings, Smilings;
Nor those painted sweets, with which,
You vnwary men bewitch:
(All united, nor asunder)
That can compass such a wonder.
Or, to win you love prevails,
Where her moving
Virtues,
fails.
Beauties,
tis not all those Features,
Placed in the fairest Creatures;
Though their best they should discover,
That can tempt from
Her,
a Lover.
It is not, those soft-snowie Breasts,
Where
Love
rockt in pleasure, rests;
(And by their continual motions,
Draweth hearts to vain devotions)
Nor the
Nectar
that we sip
From a honey-dropping
Lip:
Nor those
Eyes,
whence
Beauties
Launces,
Wound the heart, with wanton glances:
Nor, those sought
Delights,
that lie
In
Loves
hidden Treasury▪
That, can liking gain, where she,
Will the best beloved be.
For, should those who think they may,
Draw my love from her away;
Bring forth all their female Graces,
Wrapt me, in their close embraces;
Practice all the Art they may;
Weep, or sing, or kiss, or pray,
And with sighs and looks come woe me,
When they soonest may undo me:
One poor thought of
Her,
would arm me
So, as
Circe
could not harm me.
Since beside those Excellences,
Wherewith, others please the
Senses;
She,
whom I have prised so,
Yeilds delights, for
Reason
to.
Who could Dote on thing so common,
As mere outward handsome
Woman?
Those half-beauties, only win
Fools, to let affection in.
Vulger wits, from Reason shaken,
Are with such impostures taken:
And, with all their Art in Love,
Wantons,
can but
Wantons
move.
But, when unto those, are Ioind;
Those things which adorn the
Mind:
None, their excellences see,
But they straight enthralled be.
Fools, and wisemen, worst and best,
Subject are to Loves Arrest.
For, when
Virtue
woos a Lover,
She's an vnresisted mover:
That will have no kind of Nay,
And in Love brooks no delay.
She, can make the Sensuall
Wights,
To restrain their Appetites.
And, (her beauty when they see)
Spight of
Vice,
in Love to be:
Yea (although themselves be bad)
Praise the good they never had.
She, hath to her service brought,
Those, that Her, have set at naught;
And can fair enough appear,
To enflame the most seueare.
She, hath oft allured out,
The religiously devout,
From their Cloisters, & their Vowes▪
To embrace what
She
allows:
And, to such contentments come,
As blind zeal had bard them from.
While (her laws mis-understood)
They did ill for love of Good.
Where I find true worth to be,
Sweetest are their lips to me:
And embraces tempt me to,
More then outward
Beauties
do.
That my firm belief is this:
If ever I do amiss;
Seeming-Good, the bayt will lay,
That to ill shall me betray:
Since, where shows of Goodness are,
I am oft emboldened there,
Freedomes so permit, and use;
Which, I else-where do refuse:
For because I think they mean,
To allow no deed unclean.
Yet, where two, love
Virtue
shall,
Both at once, they seldom fall.
For, when one hath thoughts of ill,
Tother helps e
•
ile them still.
My fair
Virtues
pour is this.
And, that pour the Beauty is,
Which doth make
Her,
here expressed,
Equally both
Faire,
and
Blest.
This, was that contenting
Grace,
Which affection made me place,
With so dear respect, that never
Can it fail; but, last forever.
This; a Servant made me sworn,
Who before time, held in scorn,
To yield Vassilage, or Duty,
Though, unto the
Queen
of
Beauty.
Yet, that I her Servant am,
It shall more be to my fame;
Then to own these
Woods
and
Downes:
Or be Lord of fifty Towns.
And my
Mistress
to be deemed,
Shall more honor be esteemed;
Then those Titles to acquire,
Which most women, most desire.
Yea, when you a woman shall,
Countess,
or a
Duchess
call;
That respect it shall not move,
Neither gain her half such love,
As to say,
Loe, this is she,
That supposed is to be,
Mistress
to PHIL
•
ARETE.
And, that louelie Nymph, which he,
In a Pastoral
Poem
famed,
And FAIRE-VIRTVE, there hath named.
Yea, some Ladies (ten to one)
If not many (now unknown)
Will be very well apaid,
When by chance, She hears it said
She, that
Faire-one
is; whom I,
Here have praised, concealedly.
And, though now this Ages pride,
May so brave a
Hope
deride.
Yet, when all their Glories pass
As the thiug that never was;
(And on Monuments appear,
That, they ere had breathing here)
Who envy it: She shall thrive
In her Fame▪ And honored live,
Whilst
Great-Bri
•
taines
Shepherds, sing
English,
in their Sonnetting.
And, who ere in future days,
Shall bestow the utmost praise,
On his
Love;
that any Man,
Attribute to Creature can.
Twill be this; that he hath dared,
His, and Mine to have compared.
Oh! what stars did shine on me,
When her Eyes I first did see?
And how good was their aspect,
When we first did both affect?
For, I never since to changing
Was enclind, or thought of ranging.
Me, so oft my
Fancy
drew,
Here and there, that I nere knew
Where to place
Desire,
before,
So, that range it might no more.
But, as he that passeth by,
Where in all her jollity,
Floras
riches in a row,
Doth in seemly order grow:
And a thousand Flowers stand,
Bending as to kiss his hand;
Out of which delightful store,
One he may take; and no more.
Long he pausing, doubteth whether,
Of those fair ones he should gather.
First, the
Primrose
Courts his eyes;
Then, the
Cowslip
he espies;
Next, the
Pansey
seems to woo him;
Then,
Carnations
bow unto him:
Which, whilst that enamored
Swain
From the stalk intends to strain,
(As half fearing to be seen)
Prettily her leaves between
Peepes the
Violet:
pale, to see,
That her
Virtues
slighted be.
Which, so much his liking wins,
That, to ceaze her, he begins.
Yet, before he stooped so low,
He, his wanton eye did throw
On a
Stemm
that grew more high,
And the
Rose
did there espy:
Who, beside her precious sent
(To procure his eyes content)
Did display her goodly Brest;
Where he found at full expressed,
All the Good, that
Nature
showers
On a thousand other
Flowers.
Wherewith he, affected, takes it;
His beloved Flowre he makes it.
And, without desire of more,
Walkes through all, he saw before.
So, I wandering, but erewhile,
Through the
Garden
of this
I will,
Saw rich
Beauties
(I confess)
And in number, numberless.
Yea, so differing lovely to,
That, I had a world to do,
Ere I could set up my rest,
Where to choose; and choose the best.
One I saw, whose
Haire
excelled,
On another's
Brow
there dwelled,
Such a Majesty: it seemed,
She, was best to be esteemed.
This, had with her Speeches won me,
That, with Silence, had undone me.
On her Lips, the
Graces
hung;
Tother, charmed me with her tongue.
In her
Eyes,
a third did bear,
That, which did anew ensnare.
Then a fourth did fairer show;
Yet, wherein I did not know.
Only this perceived I,
Somewhat pleased my
Fantasie.
Now, the
Wealth
I most esteemed;
Honor
then, I better deemed.
Next, the love of
Beauty
ceazd me,
And, then
Virtue
better pleased me.
Juno's
love, I naught esteemed,
Whilst a
Venus
fairer seemed.
Nay, both could not Me suffice;
Whilst a
Pallas
was more wise.
Though I found enough in One,
To content, if still alone.
Amarillis,
I did woo;
And I courted
Phillis
to.
Daphne,
for her love I chose;
Cloris
for that Damaske Rose,
In her Cheeke, I held as dear;
Yea, a thousand lik
•
, welneere.
And, in love with altogether,
Feared the enjoying either;
Cause, to be of one possessed,
Bar'd the hope of all the rest.
Thus I fondly far'd, till
Fate,
Which (I must confess in that
Did a greater favor to me,
Then the world can malice do me)
Shew'd to me that matchless
Flowre,
Subject for this
Song
of our.
Whose perfection, having eied,
Reason
instantly espied;
That,
Desire
(which rang'd abroad)
There, would find a
Period.
And no marvel, if it might:
For, it there hath all delight;
And in her hath
Nature
placed,
What each several fair one graced.
Nor am I, alone delighted,
With those
Graces
all united;
Which the
Senses
eye, doth find,
Scattered, throughout
Womankind.
But, my
Reason
finds perfections,
To enflame my
Souls
affections.
Yea, such virtues she possesseth,
As with firmest pleasures blesseth:
And keeps sound, that
Beauties
state,
Which would else grow ruinate.
In this
Flowre,
are sweets such store;
I shall never, wish for more.
Nor be tempted out to stray,
For the fairest Budds in
May.
Let who lift (for me) advance,
The admired
Flowres
of
France,
Let who will; praise, and behold,
The reserved
Marigold.
Let the sweet breathit
Violet,
now,
Unto whom she pleaseth, bow.
And the fairest
Lily,
spread
Where she will, her golden head.
I have such a
Flowre
to wear,
That for those I do not care.
Never shall my
Fancie
range,
Nor once think again of change:
Never will I; (never more)
Greeue, or sigh, as heretofore:
Nor within the Lodgings lie,
Of
Dispaire,
or
Jealousy.
Let the young and happy Swaines,
Playing on the
Britain
Plaines:
Court vnblamd, their Sheepherdesses.
And with their gold-curled Tresses;
Toy vncensur'd; until I
Grutch at their prosperity.
Let all
Times;
both
Present, Past,
And the
Age,
that shall be last,
Vaunt the
Beauties
they bring forth.
I have found in One, such worth:
That (content) I neither care,
What the best before me were:
Nor desire to live, and see,
Who shall Faire hereafter be.
For, I know the hand of
Nature,
Will not make a fairer Creature.
Which, because succeeding Days,
Shall confess; and add their praise,
In approving, what my tongue,
Ere they had their being, sung.
Once again, come lend an ear,
And, a
Rapture
you shall hear,
(Though I taste no
Thespian
Spring)
Will amaze you, whilst I sing.
I do feel new
Straines
inspiring,
And to such brave heights aspiring,
That my
Muse
will touch a
Key,
Higher, then you heard today.
I have
Beauties
to unfold,
That deserve a Penn of Gold.
Sweets,
that never dreamed of were.
Things unknown: and such, as Eare
Never heard a
Measure
sound;
Since the
Sun
first ran his
Round.
When
Apelles
limb'd to life,
Loathed
Vulcans
lovely wife.
With such
Beauties,
he did trim,
Each sweet Feature, and each Limbe▪
And, so curiously did place,
Every well-becoming Grace.
That twas said, e're he could draw
Such a
Peece;
he naked saw
Many women in their Prime,
And the fairest of that Time.
From all which, he parts did take,
Which aright disposed, make
Perfect
Beauty.
So, when you
Know, what I have yet to show:
It will seem to pass so far,
Those things which expressed are.
That, you will suppose I'ue been
Priuiledg'd; where I have seen,
All the
Good,
that's spread in parts,
Through a thousand women's hearts.
(With their fair'st conditions lie,
Bare, without
Hypocrisy)
And, that I, have took from thence,
Each dispersed
Excellence.
To express
Her,
who hath gained
More, then ever
One
obtained.
And yet soft, (I fear) in vain,
I have boasted such a
Straine.
Apprehensions
ever are
Greater, then expression far.
And, my stryuing to disclose
What I know; hath made me lose
My
Inuentions
better part:
And, my
Hopes
exceed my
Art.
Speak I can; yet think I more,
Words
compared with
Thoughts,
are poor.
And I find, had I begun,
Such a
Straine;
it would be done,
When we number all the sands,
Washt ore periur'd
Goodwin's
lands.
For, of things, I should indite;
Which, I know, are infinite.
I do yield, my
Thoughts
did clime,
Far above the pour of
Ryme:
And no wonder, it is so;
Since, there is no
Art
can show;
Red in Roses, white in Snow;
Nor express how they do grow.
Yea, since Bird, Beast, Stone, and Tree,
(That inferior Creatures be)
Beauties have, which we confess,
Lines unable to express:
They more hardly can enroule,
Those, that do adorn a
Soul.
But, suppose my
Measures
could,
Reach the height, I thought they would.
Now, relate, I would not though;
What did swell within me so.
For, if I should all discrie,
You would know as much as I:
And those Clownes, the
Muses
hate,
Would of things above them prate.
Or, with their profaning eyes,
Come to view those
Mysteries,
Whereof, (since they disesteem'd them)
Heaven, hath unworthy deemd them.
And beside; It seems to me,
That your ears nigh tired be.
•
perceive; the fire that charmeth,
And inspireth me; scarce warmeth
Your chill harts. Nay sure; were I
Melted into
Poesie,
•
should not a
Measure
hit,
Though
Apollo
promted it)
Which should able be to leave,
That in you, which I conceive.
You are cold; and here I may
Wast my vital heat away,
E're you will be moou'd so much,
As to feel one perfect touch
Of those
Swee
•
s,
which yet concealed
Swell my breast, to be reueal'd.
Now, my
Words,
I therefore cease:
That, my mounting
Thoughts,
in peace,
May alone, those pleasures share,
Whereof,
Lines
unworthy are.
And so, you an end do see
Of my
Song;
though long it be.
NO sooner had the Shepherd
Philaret,
To this
Description
his last period set:
But, instantly, descending from a Wood,
(Which, on a rising ground, adjoining stood)
A troupe of
Satyrs
to the view of all,
Came dancing of a new-devised
Brall.
The
Measures
they did pase, by
Him,
were taught th
•
Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them,
That he, had learned their rudeness an observing,
Of such respect unto the well-deserving,
As they became to no men else a terror,
But such, as did persist in willful error:
And they, the Ladies made no whit affeard,
Though since that time they some great men have scard.
Their Dance, the
W
•
ipping of Abuse
they named;
And, though the
Shepherd
since that, hath been blamed,
Yet, now tis daily seen in every town;
And there's no
Country-Dance
thats better known:
Nor, that hath gained a greater commendation,
•
Mongst those that love an honest recreation.
This
Scene
presented; from a Groue was heard,
A set of Viols; and, there was prepared
A Country Banquet, which this
Shepherd
made,
To entertain the
Ladies,
in the shade.
And tis supposd, his
Song
prolonged was
Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass.
•
o well it was performd, that each one deemed,
The Banquet might the City have beseem'd.
Yet, better was their
Welcome
then their
Fare:
Which they perceived, and the merrier were.
One
Beauty
though, there sat amongst the rest;
That looked as sad, as if her heart oppressed
With Love had been. Whom
Philaret
beholding,
•
it so demurely, and her Arms enfolding.
Lady
(quoth he) am I, or this poor cheer,
•
he cause that you so melancholy are?
•
or, if the Object of your thoughts be higher,
•
t fits nor me to know them; nor inquire.
〈◊〉
if from me it cometh, that offends,
•
seek the Cause, that I may make amends.
Kind
Swain
(said she) it is nor so, nor so.
No fault in you, nor in your Cheere I know.
Nor do I think there is a Thought in me;
That can too worthy of your knowledge be.
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had,
Then here I find; though I have seemed sad.
My heart, is sometime heavy, when I smile;
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.
Nor is it sadness, that doth me possess,
But, rather, musing with much seriousness,
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears;
With those innumerable doubts and fears:
Through which, you passed▪ ere you could acquire▪
A settled
Hope
of gaining your Desire.
For, you dar
•
d love a
Nymph,
so great, and fair,
As might have brought a
Prince
unto
Dispaire.
And sure, the excellency of your
Passions,
Did then produce as excellent expressions.
If therefore, Me, the suit may well become;
And, if to you it be not wearisome:
In name of all these
Ladies,
I entreat,
That, one of those sad
Straines
you would repeat,
Which you composd; when greatest discontent
Vnsought-for help, to your Invention lent.
Fayre
Nymph
(said
Philarer
) I will do so.
For, though your
Shepherd,
doth no Courtship know
He hath Humanity. And, what's in me
To do you Service, may commanded be.
So, taking down a
Lute,
that near him hung,
He gaueit his
Boy,
who plaid; whilst this, he sung.
Ah me!
Am I the Swain,
That late from sorrow free,
Did all the cares on earth disdain?
And still untouched, as at some safer Games,
Plaid with the burning coals of Love, & Beautis flames?
Wast I, could dive, & sound each passions secret depth at will;
And, frō those huge ouerwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason still?
And am I now, oh heavens! for trying this in vain,
So sunk, that I shall never rise again?
Then let Dispaire, set Sorrows string,
For
Strains
that dolefulst be.
And I will sing,
Ah me.
But why,
Oh fatal
Time!
Dost thou contstrain that I,
Should perish, in my youths sweet prime?
I, but a while ago (you cruel Powers)
Inspight of Fortune, cropped contentmēts sweetest flowers.
And yet, vnscorned, serve a gentle
Nymph,
the fairest
She,
That ever was beloved of Man, or Eyes did ever see.
Yea, one, whose tender heart, would rue for my distress;
Yet I, poor I; must perish nay-the less.
And (which much more augmēts my care)
Vnmoaned I must die:
And, no man ere,
Kn
•
w why.
Thy leave,
My dying
Song,
Yet take, ere grief bereave,
The breath which I enjoy too long.
Tel thou that
Fair-one
this; my soul prefers,
Her love above my life, and that I died hers:
And let
Him
be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,
Who loved the very thought of
Her,
whilst he remained here.
And now, farewell thou Place, of my unhappy birth;
Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth.
Since me, my wonted joys forsake;
And all my trust deceive:
Of all, I take
My leave.
Farewell,
Sweet Groues to you:
You Hills, that highest dwell;
And all you humble Vales, adue.
You wanton Brookes, and solitary Rocks,
My dear companions all, and you, my tender flocks.
Forewell my
Pipe,
and all these pleasing
Songs,
whose moving strains
Delighted once the fairest
Nymphes,
that dance upon the Plaines.
You
Discontents
(whose deep, & over deadly smart,
Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)
Sighs, Tears,
and every sad annoy,
That erst did with me dwell,
And all others Joy,
Farewell.
Adue,
Faire
Shepherdesses:
Let Garlands of sad Yewe,
Adorn your dainty golden Tresses.
I, that loud you; and often with my Quill,
Made music that delighted Fountain Groue, & Hill:
I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace,
(Yea, with a thousand rarer favors) would vouchsaf to grace.
I, now must leave you all alone, of
Love
to plain:
And never Pipe, nor never Sing again.
I must, for evermore, be gone;
And therefore, bid I you,
And everyone,
Adue.
I die!
For oh, I feel
Deaths horrors, drawing nigh;
And all this frame of
Nature,
reel.
My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,
Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief.
Which, hath so ruthles torn, so racked, (o torturd' every vain;
All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again.
My swimming head, begins to dance Deaths giddy round.
A shuddering chilnes doth each sense confound:
Benum'd, is my cold-sweating brow;
A dimness shuts my eye;
And now, oh now,
I die.
SO mouingly, these Lines He did express,
And, to a Tune so full of heaviness,
As if indeed, his purpose had been past,
To live no longer then the Song did last.
Which in the
Nymphs,
such tender passion bred.
That some of them, did tears of pity shed.
This, she perceiving, who first craud the Song;
Shepherd
she said; although it be no wrong,
Nor grief to you, those passions to recall,
Which heretofore you have been pained withal,
But Comforts rather; since they now, are over,
And you (it seemeth) an enjoying
Lover.
Yet, some young
Nymphs
among us I do see,
Who so much moved with your passions be:
That if, my aim, I taken have aright,
Their thoughts will hardly, let them sleep to night.
I dare not therefore, beg of you again,
To sing another of the selfsame
Straine:
For fear, it breed within them, more unrest,
Then women's weaknesses, can well digest.
Yet, in your
Measures,
such content you have;
That, one
Song
more I will presume to crave.
And, if your Memory preserves of those,
Which you of your Affections did compose,
Before you saw this
Mistress:
Let us hear,
What kind of passions, then, within you were.
To which request, he instantly obaid;
And, this ensuing
Song,
both sung and plaid.
Sonnet. 2.
YOu gentle Nymphs, that on these meadows play
And oft relate the loves of
Shepherds
young:
Come, sit you down; for, if you please to stay,
Now may you hear an uncouth
Passion
sung.
A
Lad
there is, and I am that poor Groome;
That fallen in love, & cannot tell with whom.
Oh do not smile at sorrow as a Iest;
With others cares good Natures moved be:
And, I should weep, if you had my unrest.
Then, at my grief, how, can you merry be?
Ah, where is tender pity now become?
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
I, that have oft the rarest features viewd,
And
Beauty
in her best perfection seen:
I, that have laughed at them that Love pursude▪
And ever free, from such affections been.
Lo now at last, so cruel is my doom;
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
My heart is full nigh bursting with desire,
Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:
My breast doth burn, but she that lights the fire,
I never saw, nor can I come to know.
So great a bliss my fortune keeps my from.
That though I dearly love; I know not whō.
Ere I had twice four
Springs,
renewed seen,
The force of
Beauty
I began to prove;
And, ere I nine years old, had fully been,
It taught me how to frame a Song of Love.
And, little thought I, this day should have come,
Before that I to love, had found out whom.
For, on my Chinn, the mossy down you see,
And, in my veins, well-heated blood doth glow:
Of
Summers
I have seen twice three times three,
And, fast, my youthful time away doth go.
That much I fear, I aged shall become:
And still complain;
I love I know not whom.
Oh! why had I, a heart bestowed on me,
To cherish dear affections, so enclind?
Since, I am so unhappy borne to be
No Object, for so true a Love to find.
When I am dead, it will be mist of some:
Yet, now I live;
I love, I know not whom.
I, to a thousand beauteous
Nymphs
am known;
A hundred
Ladies
favors do I wear:
I, with as many, half in love am grown;
Yet none of them (I find) can be my
Deare.
Me thinks, I have a
Mistress,
yet to come;
Which makes me sing;
I love I know not whom
There lives no
Swain
doth stronger passion prove,
For her, whom most he couets to possess;
Then doth my heart, that being full of Love,
Knowes not to whom, it may the same profess.
For, he that is despisd, hath sorrow, some:
But he hath more;
that loves, and knows not whom▪
Knew I my
Love,
as many others do,
To someone object might my thoughts be bent:
So, they divided should not wandering go,
Until the Souls united force be spent.
As his, that seeks, and never finds a Home:
Such is my rest;
that love, & know not whom.
Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,
May live to meet, and descant on their woe:
And he, hath gaind a
Lady
for his Bride,
That durst not woe her Mayd, a while ago.
But oh! what end unto my Hopes can come?
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Poor
Collin,
grieves that he was late disdaind:
And
Cloris,
doth for
Willy's
absence pine.
Sad
Thirsis,
weeps, for his sick
Phaebe
pained.
But, all their sorrows cannot equal mine.
A greater care alas, on me is come:
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Narcissus
-like, did I affect my shade;
Some shadow yet, I had, to dote upon.
Or, did I love, some Image of the dead,
Whose substance had not breathed long agone;
I might despair, and so an end would come;
B
•
t, oh, I love! and cannot tell you whom.
Once in a Dream, me thought, my Love I viewed;
But, never waking, could her face behold:
And doubtless, that Resemblance was but showed,
That more, my tired heart torment it should.
For, since that time, more grieu'd I am become;
And more in love;
I cannot tell with whom.
When on my bed at night, to rest I lie,
My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek:
And then, oh would it once were day, I cry;
Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek.
For, who can tell, though all the earth he rome;
Or when, or where, to find he knows not whom?
Oh! if she be among the beauteous trains,
Of all you
Nymphs,
that haunt the silver
•
ills;
Or, if you know her,
Ladies
of the Plaines,
Or you, that have your Bowers, on the Hills.
Tell if you can, who will my love become:
Or I shall die, and never know for whom.
THe
Ladies
smiled oft, when this they heard,
Because the Passion strange to them appeared.
And stranger was it; since, by his expression,
(As well as by his own vnfain'd confession)
It seemed true. But, having sung it out:
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought
To urge him farther, Thus to them he spake.
Faire
Ladies:
for as much as doubt you make
To re-command me: Of mine own accord,
Another
Straine,
I freely will afford.
It shall not be of
Love;
nor any Song,
Which to the praise of
Beauty
doth belong.
But, that hereafter, when you hence are gone,
Your
Shepherd
may be sometime thought upon.
To show you also, what content the
Field,
And lovely
Groue,
to honest Minds may yield.
That you my humble
Fate,
may not despise;
When you return unto your braveries.
And not suppose, that in these homely Bowers,
I hug my Fortune, cause I know not yours.
Such Lines I will sing, as were composd, by me,
When some proud Courtiers, where I hapit to be,
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate;
As in contempt, of my more happy state.
And these they be.—
Sonnet.
LOrdly Gallants, tell me this,
(Though my safe content you weigh not)
In your Greatness what one bliss,
Have you gained, that I enjoy not?
You have Honors, you have Wealth,
I have Peace, and I have Health:
All the day, I merry make,
And, at night, no care I take.
Bound to none, my Fortunes be;
This, or that man's fall, I fear not:
Him I love, that loveth me;
For the rest, a pin I care not.
You are sad, when others chafe,
And grow merry as they laugh;
I, that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me.
You may boast of favors shown,
Where your service is applied▪
But, my pleasures are mine own,
And to no man's humors tied.
You oft flatter, soothe, and fain,
I, such baseness do disdain:
And to none, be slave I would,
Though my fetters might be gold.
By great Titles, some believe,
Highest honors are attained;
And yet Kings have power to give,
To their Fools, what these have gained.
Where they favor, there they may,
All their Names of Honor lay:
But, I look not, raised to be,
Till mine own wing, carry me.
Seek to raise your Titles higher,
They are Toyes not worth my sorrow:
Those that we today admire,
Prooue the Ages scorn tomorrow.
Take your Honors; let me find,
Virtue,
in a free-borne Mind:
This, the greatest Kings that be,
Cannot give, nor take from me.
Though I vainly do not vaunt,
Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure:
I have favors where you want,
That would buy respect with treasure.
You have lands lie here, and there;
But my wealth is everywhere:
And, this, addeth to my store:
Fortune, cannot make me poor.
Say, you purchase with your pelf,
Some respect, where you importune.
Those may love me for myself,
That regard you for your Fortune.
Rich, or borne of high degree,
Fools, as well as you may be:
But, that
•
eace, in which I live,
No Discent, nor Wealth can give.
If you boast, that you may gain,
The respect of high-borne Beauties:
Know, I never wooed in vain,
Nor preferred scorned Duties.
She I love, hath all delight;
Rosie-red, with Lily-white:
And, who ere your
Mistress
be,
Flesh and Blood as good as She.
Note, of
Me,
was never took,
For my Woman-like perfections:
But, so like a man, I look,
It hath gaind me best Affections.
For my love, as many showers
Have been wept, as have for yours.
And, yet none doth me condemn
For Abuse, or scorning them.
Though of Dainties, you have store,
To delight a choyser Pallat:
Yet your taste is pleased no more,
Then is mine in one poor Sallat.
You to please your Senses, feed;
But, I eat, good Blood to breed.
And am most delighted than,
When I spend it like a man.
Though you Lord it over me,
You in vain thereof have braued:
For, those Lusts my Servants be,
Whereunto your minds are slaued.
To yourselves you wise appear:
But alas, deceiu'd you are.
You do foolish me esteem,
And are that, which I do seem.
When your faults I open lay,
You are moou'd, and mad with vexing;
But, you never could do or say,
Ought to drive me to perplexing.
Therefore, my despised power
Greater is, by far, then your.
And, what ere you think of me,
In your minds, you poorer be.
You are pleased, more or less,
As men well or ill report you;
And, show discontentedness,
When the Times forbear to court you.
That, in which my pleasures be,
No man can divide from me.
And, my Care, it adds not to
What-so, others say, or do.
Be not proud, because you view,
You by thousands are attended:
For alas, it is not
You,
But your Fortune, tha's be-friended.
Where I show of love have go
•
,
Such a danger fear I not.
Since, they naught can seek of me;
But, for love, beloved to be.
When your Hearts have everything,
You, are pleasantly disposed:
But, I can both laugh and sing,
Though my Foes have me enclosed.
Yea, when dangers
•
oe do hemm,
I delight in scorning them,
More then you, in your renown;
Or a King can in his Crown.
You do bravely domineer,
Whilst the Sun upon you shineth.
Yet, if any storm appear,
Basely then, your mind declineth.
But, or shine, or rain, or Blow,
I, my Resolutions know.
Living, Dying, Thrall, or Free,
At one height my
Mind
shall be.
When in thralldom, I have lain,
Me, not worth your thought you prized.
But, your malice was in vain,
For, your favors, I despised.
And, how ere you value me,
I, with praise, shall thought on be;
When the world esteems you not,
And your
Names
shall be forgot.
In these thoughts my riches are,
Now, though poor or mean you deem me;
I am pleasd, and do not care,
How the Times, or you esteem me.
For, these Toyes that make you gay,
Are but Play-games for a day.
And, when
Nature
craves her due;
I, as brave shall be, as you,
HEre
Philaret
did give his Song an ending,
To which the
Nymphs,
so seriously attending,
About him sat; as if they had supposed,
He still had somewhat more, to be disclosed.
And, well they knew not; whether did belong,
Most praise unto the
Shepherd,
or his
Song.
For, though (they must confess) they often hear,
Those
Lays,
which much more deeply learned are:
Yet, when they well considerd of the
Place,
With how unlikely (in their thought) it was,
To give them hope of hearing such a
Straine;
Or, that so young, and so obscure a
Swain,
Should, such a matchless
Beauties
favor get,
And know her worth so well, to sing of it.
They wondered at it. And some thus surmizd,
That
He
a greater man was, so disguisd:
Or else, that
She,
whom he so much had praisd
Some
Goddess
was: that those his
Measures
raisd,
Of purpose, to that rare-attained height,
In
Enui's
and presuming
Art's
despite.
But, whilst they musing, with thenselves, bethought
Which way, out of this
Shepherd
to have wrought,
What
Nymph
this
Fair-one
was; and where she lived.
Loe, at that very instant there arriu'd
Three men, that by their
Habits
Courtiers seemed:
For (though obscure) by some he is esteemed
Among the greatest: who do not contemn
In his retired walks, to visit him.
And there they taste those pleasures of the mind,
Which they, can nor in
Court,
nor
City
find.
Some news or message, these new guests had brought him,
And, to make hast away (it seems) besought him.
For, instantly he rose: And that his nurture,
Might not be taxed by a rude departure,
Himself excusing, he those
Nymphs
did pray:
His noble Friends might bring them on their way:
Who, as it seems (he said) were therefore come;
That they might wait upon them to their home.
So, with their favor, he departed thence:
And (as they thought) to meet her
Excellence,
Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this,
But an
Idea
of a MISTRESSE is.
Because to none, he yet had daind the telling,
Her proper
Name;
nor shown her place of
Dwelling.
When he was gone: a
Lady
from among
Those
Nymphs;
took up his Lute, & sung this Song.
The Nymphs Song.
GEntle
Swain,
good speed befall thee;
And in Love still prosper thou:
Fu
•
ure Times shall happy call thee,
Though, thou lie neglected, now.
Virtues
Lovers, shall commend thee;
And perpetual Fame, attend thee.
Happy are these woody Mountains,
In whose shad dowes thou doest hide:
And as happy, are those Fountaines,
By whose murmurs thou doest bide.
For, Contents are here excelling;
More, then in a Princes dwelling.
These thy Flocks do clothing bring thee,
And thy food, out of the Fields:
Pretty Songs, the Birds do sing thee;
Sweet perfumes the Meddowe yields:
And, what more is worth the seeing?
Heaven and Earth thy prospect being?
None comes hither, who denies thee,
Thy Contentments (for despite)
Neither any that envies thee,
That, wherein thou dost delight.
But, all happy things are meant thee?
And what ever may content thee.
Thy Affection
Reason
measures;
And distempers none it feeds:
Still, so harmless are thy pleasures,
That no others grief it breeds.
And, if night, beget thee sorrow;
Seldom stays it, till the morrow.
Why do foolish men so vainly,
Seek contentment in their store?
Since they may perceive so plainly,
Thou art rich, in being poor?
And that they are vext about it;
Whilst thou merry art without it.
Why are idle brains devising,
How high Titles may be gaind?
Since, by those poor toys despising,
Thou hast higher things obtained?
For the man who scorns to crave them,
Greater is, then they that have them.
If all men could taste that sweetness,
Thou dost in thy meanness know;
Kings would be to seek, where Greatness,
And their honors to bestow.
For, it such content would breed them;
As they would not think they need them.
And, if those who so aspiring,
To the Court-preferments be;
Knew how worthy the desiring;
Those things are, enjoyed by thee.
Wealth
and
Titles,
would hereafter:
Subjects be, for scorn and laughter.
He that Courtly stiles affected,
Should a
May-Lord's
honor have.
He that heaps of wealth collected,
Should be counted as a slave.
And the man with few'st things cumbered,
With the Noblest should be numbered.
Thou, their folly hast discerned,
That neglect thy mind, and thee;
And to sight them, thou hast learned,
Of what Title ere they be.
That; no more with thee, obtaineth;
Then with them, thy meannes gaineth.
All their Riches, Honors, Pleasures;
Poor unworthy trifles seem;
(If compared with thy Treasures)
And, do merit no esteem.
For, they true contents provide thee;
And from them can none divide thee.
Whether thralled, or exiled;
Whether poor or rich thou be:
Whether praised, or reviled;
Not a rush, it is to thee.
This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee:
But, the mind, which is within thee.
Then, oh why, so madly dote we,
On those things, that us ore-lode?
Why, no more, their vainnesse note we;
But still make of them a God?
For, alas! they still deceive us;
And, in greatest need they leave us.
Therefore, have the
Fates
provided,
Well (thou happy
Swain
) for thee:
That mayst, here, so far divided,
From the worlds distractions be.
Thee, distemper let them never;
But, in peace continue ever.
In these lonely Groues, enjoy thou,
That contentment here begun:
And, thy hours, so pleasd, employ thou,
Till the latest glass be run.
From a Fortune so assured:
By no temptings be allured.
Much good dooit them with their glories,
Who in Courts of Princes dwell.
We have read in Antique stories,
How some rose, and how they fell.
And tis worthy well the heeding;
Ther's like
End,
where's like proceeding.
Be thou; still, in thy affection,
To thy Noble
Mistress,
true:
Let her (never-matched) perfection,
Be the same, unto thy view.
And, let never other
Beauty,
Make thee fail, in Love, or Duty.
For, if thou shalt not estranged
From thy Course professed,
•
e.
But remain for aye unchanged;
Nothing shall have power on thee.
Those that sleight thee now, shall love thee,
And, in spite of spite, approve thee.
So those
Virtues
now neglected,
To be more esteemed; will come:
Yea, those Toyes so much affected,
Many shall be wooed from.
And, the golden Age (deplored)
Shall, by some, be thought restored.
THus sang the
Nymph:
so rarely-well inspired,
That all the hearers, her brave
Strains
admired.
And, as I heard, by some that there attended,
When this her
Song
was finished, all was ended.
A Postscript.
IF any Carpe, for that, my younger
•
Times,
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight
Rymes,
It is no matter; so they do not swear,
That they, so ill employed, never were.
Whilst their
Desires
(perhaps) they looselier spent;
I gave my heats of Youth, this better vent.
And, oft by writing thus, the blood have tamed;
Which some, with reading wanton
Laye▪
enflam'd.
Nor care I, though their Censure some have past,
Because my
Songs
exceed the Fiddlers Last.
For, do they think, that I will make my
Measures,
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?
Or may me, or Curtolize my free Invention;
Because, Fools weary are, of their attention.
No; let them know, who do their length contemn,
I make to please myself, and not for them.
A Miscelany of Epigrams, Sonnets, Epitaphs, and such other Verses, as were found written, with the Poem, aforegoing.
Of the Invention of the nine Muses.
THe Acts of Ages past, doth
Clio
write.
The Tragoedie's,
Melpomenes
delight.
Thalia,
is with Comedies contented.
E
•
terpe,
first, the Shepherds Pipe invented.
Terpsicore,
doth Song, and Lute apply.
Dauncing
Er
•
to
found Geometry.
Calliop
•
,
on loving Verses dwells.
The secrets of the Stars,
Vrania
tells.
Polymnia,
with choice words, the speech doth trim.
And great
Apollo
shares with all of them.
Those thrice three
Feminines▪
we
Mases
call;
But that one
Masculine
is worth them all.
Of the Labors of Hercules.
FIrst, he the strong
Nemean
Lyon slew:
The many-headed
Hydra
next ore-threw.
The
Eremanthian
Bore he thirdly foils:
Then of his golden Horns the
Stag
he spoils.
The foul
Stymphalian
Birds he fifthly frayd:
Next, he the Queen of
Amazons
ore-swayd▪
Then clensd
Aegeas
Stalls, with filth so full:
And eighthly, tamed the untamed Bull.
He slew proud
Diomedes
with his Horses.
From triple
Gerio
•
his rich Heard he forces.
He slew the
Dragon
for the fruit of gold:
And made black
Cerber
••
the day behold.
These were his twelve stout
Labors.
And they say,
With fifty Virgins in one night he lay.
If true it be, tis thought he labourd more
In that one act, then in the twelve before.
Being 〈◊〉 by a Gentleman in his Dining-room, where was nothing but a Map of England to entertain him, he thus turned it into Verse.
FAire
England
in the bosom of the Seas,
Amid her two and fifty
Provinces,
Sits like a glorious
Empresse;
whose rich Throne,
Great
Nymphes
of honor come to wait upon.
First, in the height of bravery appears
Kent, East
and
South,
and
Middle-Saxon
Shires:
Next,
Surry▪ Barkshire,
and
Southampton
get,
With
Dorcet, Wilton,
and rich
Sommerset.
Then
Deuon,
with the
Cornish
Promontory:
Gloster
and
Worster,
fair
Sabrinas
glory.
Then
Salope, Suffolk, Norfolk
large and fair,
Oxford
and
Cambridge,
that thrice learned pair.
Then
Lincoln, Darby, Yorkshire, Nottingham,
Northamption, Warwick, Stafford, Buckingham.
Chester
and
Lancaster
(with Heards well stord)
Huntingdon, Hartford, Rutland, Hereford.
Then Princely
Durham, Bedford, Leister,
and
Northumber, Cumber
and cold
Westmorland.
Brave English shires; with whom loved equally
Welch
Munmouth, Rad
•
or,
and
Mountgomery,
Add all the glory (to her
T
•
aine
) they can:
So doth
Glamorgan, Breckn
••
, Cardigan,
Caernaruan, Denbigh,
〈◊〉
-
Shire,
With
Anglesey
(which ore the sea doth rear
Her
•
lofty head And with the first, though last,
Flint, Pembroke
and
Carmarthen
might be pla
••
.
For all of these (unto their power) maintain
Their Mistress
England
with a royal Traine.
Yea, for
Supporters
at each hand, hath she
The
Wight
and
Man,
that two brave Islands be.
From these, I to the
Scottish Nymphes
had iorny'd,
But that my Friend was back again returned,
Who having kindly brought me to his home,
Alone did leave me in his
Dining Rome:
Where I was fain (and glad I had the hap)
To beg an entertainment of his Map.
An Epitaph upon the Right Virtuous Lady, the Lady SCOTT.
LEt none suppose this Relique of the
Just,
as here wrapped up, to perish in the dust.
No, like best
〈◊〉
,
her time she fully stood:
Then being grown in
Faith,
and ripe in
Good;
(With steadfast hope, that she another day,
Should rise with
Christ
) with
Dea
•
h
here down she lay.
And, that each part, which
Her,
in life had gracit,
Preseru'd might be, and meet again at last:
The
Poor,
the
Worl
•
,
the
Heavens,
and the
Grave:
Her
Alms,
her
Praise,
her
Soul,
her
Body
have.
An Epitaph upon a Woman, and her Child, buried together in the same Grave.
BEneath this Marble Stone doth lie,
•
he Subject of Deaths Tyranny.
A Mother: who in this close Tomb,
Sleepes with the issue of her womb.
Though cruelly enclinde was he;
And with the fruit shook down the Tree.
Yet was his cruelty in vain.
For, Tree, and Fruit, shall spring again.
A Christmas Carroll.
SO, now is come our ioyfulst
Feast;
Let every man be jolly.
Each Roome, with Yuie leaves is dressed,
And every Post, with Holly.
Though some Churls at our mirth repine,
Round your forheads Garlands twine,
Drowne sorrow in a Cup of Wine.
And let us all be merry.
Now, all our Neighbors Chimneys smoke,
And
Christmas
blocks are burning;
The, Ouens, they with bakt meats choke,
And all their Spits are turning.
Without the door, let sorrow lie:
And, if for cold, it hap to die,
Weele buryit in a
Christmas
Pye.
And evermore be merry.
Now, every
Lad
is wondrous trimm,
And no man minds his Labor.
Our
Lasses
have provided them,
A Bag-pipe, and a Tabor.
Young men, and Mayds, and Girls & Boys,
Ciue life, to one ano
•
hers Ioyes:
And, you anon shall by their noise,
Perceiue that they are merry.
Ranke Misers now, do sparing shun:
Their Hall of Music soundeth:
And, Dogs, thence with whole shoulders run,
So, all things there aboundeth.
The Country-folk, themselves advance;
For
Crowdy-Mutton's
come out of
France:
And
Jack
shall pipe, and
Iyll
shall dance,
And all the Town be merry.
Ned Swash
hath fetched his Bands from pawn,
And all his best Apparel.
Brisk
Nell
hath bought a Ruffe of Lawne,
With droppings of the Barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had Bread to eat, or Raggs to wear,
Will have both Clothes, and dainty fare:
And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the
Justices,
With Capons make their arrants,
And if they hap to fail of these,
They plague them with their Warrants.
But now they feed them with good cheer,
And what they want, they take in Beer:
For,
Christmas
comes but once a year:
And then they shall be merry.
Good
Farmours,
in the Country, nurse
The poor, that else were undone.
Some
Land-lords,
spend their money worse,
On Lust, and Pride at
London.
There, the Roysters they do play;
Drabb and Dice their Landt away,
Which may be ours, another day:
And therefore lets be merry.
The Client now his suit forbears,
The Prisoners heart is eased.
The Debtor drinks away his cares,
And, for the time is pleased.
Though others Purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow, care will kill a Cat.
And therefore lets be merry.
Harke, how the
Wagges,
abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling.
Anon, youle see them in the Hall,
For Nuts, and Apples scambling.
Harke, how the Roofes with laughters sound!
Annon they'll think the house goes round:
For, they the Sellars depth have found.
And, there they will be merry.
The
Wenches
with their
Wassell-Bowles,
About the Streets are singing:
The
Boys
are come to catch the
Owls,
The
Wild-mare,
in is bringing.
Our
Kitchen-Boy
hath broke his
Box,
And, to the dealing of the
Ox,
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And, here, they will be merry.
Now
Kings
and
Queens,
poor Sheep-cotes have,
And mate with everybody:
The honest, now, may play the
knave,
And wise men play at
Noddy.
Some Youths will now a
Mumming
go;
Some others play at
Rowland-hoe,
And, twenty other Gameboyes moe:
Because they will be merry.
Then wherefore in these merry days,
Should we I pray, be duller?
No; let us sing some
Roundelayes,
To make our mirth the fuller.
And, wh
•
lest thus inspired we sing,
Let all the Streets with echoes ring:
Woods, and Hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry.
An Epitaph upon the Porter of a PRISON.
HEre lie the bones of him, that was of late,
A Churlish
Porter
of a Prison gate.
Death
many an evening at his lodging knocked,
But could not take him, for the door was locked:
Yet at a Tavern late one night he found him,
And getting him, into the seller, drownd him.
On which, the world (that still the worst is thinking)
Reports abroad, that he was killed with drinking:
Yet let no Prisoner, whether Thief or Debtor
Rejoice, as if his fortune were the better;
Their sorrows likely to be nere the shorter,
The
Warden
lives, though death hath took the
Porter.
A Sennet upon a stolen Kiss.
NOw gentle sleep, hath closed up those eyes,
Which waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe:
And f
•
eeaccesse unto that sweet lip, lies,
From whence I long the rosie breath to draw.
Me think
•
s no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting Rubies, one poor kiss:
None sees the theft, that would the thief reveal,
Nor rob I her of ought, which she can miss:
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so:
Why then should I this robbery delay?
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow.
Well, if she do, I will back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for lone.
An Epitaph upon Abram Good • fellow, a common Alehouse-hunter.
BEware, thou look not who here under lies,
Unless thou long to weep away thine eyes.
This man (as sorrowful report doth tell us)
Was, when he lived, the Prince of all Goodfellows.
That day he dide, it cannot be belieu'd,
How out of reason, all the
Alewiues
grieu'd,
And what abominable lamentation
They made at
Black-boy,
and at
Salutation;
They hold and cride, and ever more among,
This was the burden of their woeful
Song:
Well, go thy ways, thy like hath never been,
Nor shall thy match again be ever seen:
For out of doubt now thou art dead and gone,
Theres many a Tap house will be quite undone,
And Death by taking thee, did them more skath,
Then yet the Ale-house
protect
done them hath.
Loe, such a one but yesterday was he,
But now he much is alterd, you do see.
Since he came hither, he hath left his riot,
Yea, changed both his company and diet,
And now so civil lies; that to your thinking,
He neither for an Ale-house cares, nor drinking.
An Epitaph upon a Gentlewoman, who had fore-told the Time of her death.
HEr, who beneath this stone, consuming lies,
For many Virtues we might memorize.
But, most of all, the praise deserveth she,
In making of her
Words,
and
Deeds
agree.
For, she so truly kept the
Word
she spake,
As that with Death, she promise would not break.
I shall (quoth she) be dead, before the midd
Of such a Month. And, as she said, she did.
An Epitaph, on a Child, Son to Sir W. H. Knight.
HEre lies, within a Cabinet of stone,
The dear remainder of a
Prety-one.
Who did in wit, his years so far out-pass,
His parents Wonder, and their Joy he was.
And, by his face, you might have deemed him,
To be on earth some heavenly
Cheruh
•
m.
Six years with life he labored. Then deceast,
To keep the
Sabbath
of eternal rest.
So; that, which many thousand able men,
Are lab'ring for, till threescore years and ten.
This blessed
Child
attained to, ere seven;
And, now enjoys it with the Saints of Heaven.
A Song.
NOw
Young-man,
thy days and thy glories appear,
Like Sun-shine and blossoms in Spring of the year.
Thy vigor of body, thy spirits, thy wit,
Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet.
Now then, oh, now then, if safety thou love.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above.
Mispend not a morning, so excellent clear;
Never (forever) was happiness nere.
Thy noon-tide of life hath but little delight,
And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night.
Now then, oh, now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
That
Strength,
& those
Beauties
that grace thee today,
To morrow, may perish, and vanish away.
Thy Wealth, or thy Pleasures, or Friends that now be,
May waste, or deceive, or be traitors to thee.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Thy joints are yet nimble, thy sinews vnslacke.
And marrow vnwasted, doth strengthen thy back.
Thy Youth from diseases preserveth the brain;
And blood with free passage, plumps enury vain.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
But (trust me) it will not forever be so;
Those
Arms
that are mighty, shall feebler grow.
And those
Legs,
so proudly supporting thee, now,
With Age, or Diseases, will stagger and bow.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Then, all those rare
Features,
now graceful in thee;
Shall (plough'd with
Times
furrows) quite ruined be.
And they, who admired, and loved thee so much,
Shall loath, or forget thou hadst ever been such.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Those tresses of
Haire,
which thy youth do adorn,
Will look like the Meads in a Winterly morne.
And, where red and white intermixed did grow,
Dull paleness, a dea
•
lie complexion will show.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
That
Forhead
imperious, whereon we now view,
A smoothness, and whiteness enameld with blew;
Will loose that perfection, which Touth now maintains,
And change it for hollowness, wrinkles, and stains.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou; oh mind thou, &c.
Those
Ears,
thou with Music didst oft entertain,
And charm with so many a delicate Straine;
May miss of those pleasures, wherewith they are fed,
And never hear Song more, when youth is once fled.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Those
Eyes,
which so many, so much did admire,
And with strange affections set thousands on fire:
Shut up in that darkness, which Age will contstrain,
Shall never see mortal; no, never again.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Those
Lips,
whereon
Beauty,
so fully discloses,
The color and sweetness of Rubies, and Roses;
Instead of that hue, will gastlinesse wear,
And none shall believe, what perfection was there.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Thy
Teeth,
that stood firmly, like Pearls in a row,
Shall rotten, and scatterd disorderly grow:
The
Mouth,
whose proportion earths-wonder was thought,
Shall robbed of that sweetness, be prized at naught.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
That
Gate,
and those
Gestures,
that win thee such grace,
Will turn to a feeble and staggering pace.
And thou, that or'e mountains ranst nimbly today;
Shalt stumble at every rubb in the way.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind then, oh mind then, &c.
By these imperfections▪ old age will prevail,
Thy marrow, thy sinews, and spirits will fail.
And nothing is left thee, when those are once spent,
To give▪ or thyself; or another, content.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Those
Fancies
that lull thee, with
Dreams
of delight,
Will trouble thy quiet, the comfortless night,
And thou, that now sleepest thy troubles away,
Shalt hear, how each
Cockrell
gives warning of day.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
Then,
Thou,
that art yet unto thousands so dear,
Of all shall
•
despisd, or neglected appear.
Which, when thou perceiust (though now pleasant it be)
Thy life will be grievous and loathsome to thee.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
That lust, which thy youth can so hardly forgo,
Will leave thee; and leave thee, repentance, and woe.
And then, in thy
•
olly no joy thou canst have,
Nor hope other rest, then a comfortless grau
•
.
Now then, oh now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
For, next shall thy Breath be quite taken away,
Thy Flesh turned to dust, and that dust turned to clay:
And, those thou hast loved, and share of thy store,
Shall leave thee, forget thee, and mind thee no more.
Now then, oh, now then, &c.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, &c.
And yet, if in time thou remember not this,
The slenderest part of thy sorrow it is:
Thy Soul to a torture, more fearful shall wend,
Hath ever, and ever, and never an end.
Now then, oh, now then, if safety thou love.
Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above.
A Dream.
WHen bright
Phaebus
at his rest,
Was reposed in the West,
And the cheerful day-light gone,
Drew unwelcome darkness on;
Night, her blackness, wrapped about me,
And, within, 'twas as without me.
Therefore, on my tumbled bedd,
Down I laid my troubled head:
Where, mine eyes inur'd to care,
Seldom vsd to slumbering were.
Yet, or' etyr'd of late, with weeping;
Then, by chance, they fell a sleeping.
But, such Visions me diseas'd,
As in vain, that sleep I ceaz'd:
For, I sleeping Fancies had,
Which, yet waking, make me sad.
Some, can sleep away their sorrow;
But, mine doubles, every morrow.
Walking to a pleasant Groue,
(Where, I vsd to think of Love)
I, me thought, a place did view,
Wherein
Flora's
riches grew.
Primerose, Hyacinth, and Lilies,
Cowslips, Vy'lets, Daffodillies.
There, a Fountain, close beside,
I, a matchless
Beauty
spide.
So she lay, as if she slept:
But, much grief, her waking kept.
And, she had no softer pillow,
Then the hard root of a Willow.
Down her Cheekes, the tears did flow,
(Which a grieved heart did show)
Her fair eyes, the earth beholding,
And, her arms themselves enfolding;
She, her passion to betoken,
Sigh'd, as if her heart were broken.
So much grief, me thought she showed,
That my sorrow it renewed:
But, when nearer her I went,
It encreast my discontent.
For a gentle
Nymph
she proved,
Who, me (long unknown) had loved.
Streight, on me she fixed her look;
Which, a deep impression took.
And, of all that live (quoth she)
Thou art welcommest o me.
Then (misdoubting to be blamed)
Thus, she spake, as half ashamed.
Thee, unknown, I long affected,
And, as long, in vain expected.
For, I had a hopeful thought,
Thou wouldst crave, what others sought;
And I, for thy sake, have stayed,
Many wanton Springs, a
Maid.
Still, when any wooed me,
They renewd, the thought of thee:
And, in hope thou wouldst have tried
Their Affections, I denide.
But, a
Lover,
forced upon me,
By my Friends, hath now undone me.
What, I waking dared not show,
In a Dream, thou now doest know:
But, to better my estate;
Now, alas, it is too late.
And, I both awake, and sleeping,
Now, consume my Youth in weeping.
Somewhat then, I would have said;
But, replyings were denayd.
For, me thought, when speak I would,
Not a word bring forth I could,
And, as I a kiss was taking;
That I lost to, by awaking.
Certain Verses written to his loving Friend, upon his departure.
SWift
Time,
that will by no entreaty stay,
Is now gone by, and summons me away.
And, what my grief, denies my tongue to do,
My true affection drives my pen unto.
Deare Heart;
that day, and that sad hour is come,
In which, thy face I must be banished from:
And go to live, where (peradventure) we
Hereafter must, for aye, divided be.
For, twixt our bodies, which now close are met,
A thousand Hills and Valleys shall be set:
A thousand Groues, a thousand weeping Springs,
And many thousand other envious things,
Which, when we are departed, keep us may,
From coming nearer, till our dying day.
So these our hands, which thus each other touch,
Shall never after this time do so much.
Nor shall these eyes, which yet themselves delight,
(with mutual gazing on each other light)
Be ever raised up again, so near,
To view each other in their proper sphere.
Nor ere again, through those their Crystal orbs,
Read what sad passion, our poor hearts disturbs.
Which when we think upon, we scarce contain,
Their swelling Flood-gates; but a pearly rain
Drops frō those plenteous Springs: & forth are sent
From those sad dungeons, where our harts are pent,
So many sighs; that, in our parting, now,
A storm of Passions we must venture through.
Whose fury, I would stay to see ore-past
Before I went, in spite of all my hast,
But that, I view some tokens, which fore-tell,
That by delay, the Flouds will high swell;
And, whilst to be divided, we are loath,
With some worse peril, overwhelm us both.
Oh! rather let us wisely undergo
A sorrow, that will daily lesser grow▪
Then venture on a pleasing mischief, which
Will unawares, our honest hearts bewitch:
And bring us to such pass (at last) that we
Shall nere perceive it, till undone we be.
I find your love; and so the same approve,
That I shall ever love you, for that love.
And, am so covetous of such dear pelf,
That, for it, I could give away myself.
And yet, I rather would go pine, and die,
For want thereof; then live till you, or I,
Should give, or take, one dram of that delight
Which is another's; and so, mar out-right
Our most vnstaind affection: which, hath yet
No inclination unto ill, in it.
Nay (though it more unsufferable were)
I would, eu'n that just liberty forbear
Which honest friendship is allowed to take:
If I perceived, it me unapt did make,
To master my affections: or to go
On those affairs, that Reason calls me to.
Those Parents that discreet in loving be,
When on their new-borne child a Wen they see,
Which may (perchance) in aftertime, disgrace
The sweet proportion of a lovely face:
(Although it wound their souls to hear the mone,
And see the tortures of their
pritty one
)
To weep a little, rather are content,
Whilst he endures the Surgeons Instrument;
Then suffer that soul blemish there, to spread;
Until his face be quite disfigured.
So, we betwixt whose souls, there is begot
That sweet Babe, Friendship; must beware, no spot
Through our indulgent indiscretion grow,
That may the beauty of our love ore-throw:
Let's rather bear a little discontent;
And learn of Reason, those things to prevent
Which mar affection. That our friendship may
Wax firmer, and more lovely every Day.
There is, indeed, to gentle hearts, no smarting,
That is more torment to them, then departing
From those they love. And doubtless, if that we
Were so united, as the married be;
Our bodies at our par
••
re, would be so,
As if each of them
〈◊〉
a
•
oule forgo.
But, in our flesh; we are, and must remain
Perpetual strangers: and our selves contain
From that embrace, which marriage love allows:
Or else, I injure virtue; you, your vows.
And, for a short unworthy pleasure, mar
Those rich contentments, which eternal are.
Of which, I am in hope, that, always we
Should in each others presence guiltless be.
But in our absence (sure I am) we shall
Not only still be innocent of all,
That simple folly, and that over-sight,
To which, our many frailties tempt us might:
But, by this means shall also scape the blot,
Wherwith i
•
tongues our names would seek to spot.
Which if you fear, and would avoid the wrongs
That may befall you by malicious tongues,
Then seek my absence: for I have in that
Unto my friends, been too unfortunate:
Yet, as I love
fair-virtue,
there is no man
Ere heard me boast the favors of a woman
To her dishonor; neither (by my soul)
Was I ere guilty of an Act so foul,
As some imagine. Neither do I know
That woman yet, with whom I might be so;
For never kindnesses to me were showed,
Which I dared think, for evil end bestowed.
Nor ever, to this present hour, did I
Turn friendship, favor, opportunity;
(Or ought vouchsafed me) thereby to acquire
Those wicked ends which
〈◊〉
do desire.
For, whensoever lust begun to flame,
It was extinguished, by true love, and shame.
But, what would this my innocence prevail,
When your fair Name,
〈◊〉
should assayle?
And how abhorred should I hereafter be,
If you should suffer infamy by me?
You fear it not one half so much you say,
As you are loath I should depart away:
And hap what will, you think to be content,
Whilst I am here; and you still innocent.
Indeed, those friends approve I not, which may
By every slanderous tongue be talked away:
But yet, I like not him that will not strive,
As much as in him lieth, free to live,
From giving just occasions of offense:
For, else he vainly brags of innocence.
And so do we, unless, that without blame
We purpose with our love, to keep our fame.
Then, let us pleased part; and though the dearenes
Of our affection, couets both a nearenes
In
mind
and
body;
let us willingly
Beget a Virtue of necessity.
And, since we must compelled be to live,
By time and place divided; let us strive
In the despite of time and distance, so
That love of virtue may more perfect grow:
And that this separation, we lament,
May make our meeting fuller of content.
Betwixt our bodies (this I will not deny)
There is a dear respective sympathy;
Which makes us mutually both joy, and grieve
As there is cause. And farther, I believe,
That our contentment is imperfect, till
They have each other in possession still:
But, that which in us two, I
Love,
dare name,
Is twixt our Souls; and such a powerful flame,
As nothing shall extinguish nor obsure,
Whilst their eternal substance, doth endure:
No, not our absence; nor that mighty space,
Betwixt my home, and your abiding place.
For, ere your Eyes, my eyes had ever seen;
When many thousand furlongs lay between,
Our unknown bodies: And before that you
Had seen my face, or thought the same to view,
You most entirely loved me (you say)
Which shows our souls had then found out the way,
To know each other: And unseen of us,
To make our bodies meet vnthought of, thus.
Then; much less now, shall hill, or dale, or grove,
Or, that great tract of ground which must remove
My body from you: there, my soul confine,
To keep it back from yours: or yours from mine.
Nay, being more aquainted then they were,
And active spirits, that can anywhere
Within a moment meet. They to and fro,
Will every minute to each other go
And, we shall love, with that dear love, wherein
Will neither be offense, nor cause of sin.
Yea, whereas carnal love, is ever colder,
As youth decays; and as the flesh grows older:
And, when the body is dissolved, must
Be buried with oblivion in the dust.
We, then shall dearer grow: and this our love,
Which now imperfect is, shall perfect prove.
For, theres no mortal power can rob true Friends,
Of that which noblest Amitie attends.
Nor any separation that is able,
To make the virtuous
Lovers
miserable.
Since, when disasters threaten most dejection,
Their,
Goodness
maketh strongest their affection.
And, that which works in others loves, denial;
In them, more noble makes it, by the trial.
It is true; that whē we part, we know not whether
These bodies shall, forever, meet together;
As you have said. Yet, wherefore should we grieve,
Since, we a better meeting do believe?
If we did also know, that when we die,
This love, should perish everlastingly.
And that we must as brutish creatures do,
Lose with our bodies, all our dearness to:
Our separation, then, a sorrow were,
Which mortal heart had never power to bear.
And we should faint and die, to think upon
The passions would be felt, when I were gone.
But, seeing in the soul, our love is placit;
And (seeing) souls of death shall never taste:
No Death can end our love. Nay; when we die,
Our souls (that now in chains and fettters lie)
Shall meet more freely, to partake that joy,
Compard to which, our friendship's but a toy.
And, for each bitterness, in this our love,
We shall a thousand sweet contentments prove.
Mean while; we, that (together living) may
Through human weaknesses be led astray:
(And unawares, make that affection foul,
Which virtue yet keeps blameless in the soul)
By Absence shall preserved be, as clean,
As to be kept (in our best thoughts) we mean.
And, in our Prayers for each other, shall
Give, and receive more kindnesses, then all
The world can yield us. And, when other men
Whose love is carnal, are tormented, when
Death calls them hence: because they robbed be
Of all their hope (for evermore) to see
The object of their Love: we shall avoid,
That bitter anguish wherewith they are cloyd.
And, whensoer'e it happens, thou, or I,
Shall feel the time approaching us to die;
It shall not grieve us at our latest breath,
To mind each other on the bed of death:
(Because of any oversight, or sin,
Whereof we guilty in our souls have been)
Nor will death fear us, cause we shall perceive
That these contentments, which we had not leave
To take now we are living; shall be gaind,
When our imprisoned souls shall be vnchaind.
Nay rather wish to die, we might possess
The sweet fruition of that happiness,
Which we shall then receive, in the perfection
Of Him, that is the fullness of Affection.
If Time prevented not, I had in store
To comfort thee, so many Reasons more,
That thou wouldst leave to grieve; although we should
Each others persons never more behold.
But, there is hope. And then, that know you may,
True
Friends
can in their absence find the way.
To compass their contentments, whom they love:
You shall ere long, the pour it hath, approve.
Mean while, you still are dear: yea, live or die,
My soul shall love you everlastingly.
And howsoere, there seem such cause of sorrow;
Yet, those that part, and think to meet tomorrow,
Death
may divide to night; And, as before,
Their
Fear
was less, their
Griefe
will be the more.
Since therefore, whether far I live, or nigh,
There is in meeting an uncertainty.
Let us, for that which surest is, provide.
Part like those Friends, whom nothing can divide:
And, since we Lovers first became, that we,
Might to our power each others comfort be:
Let's not the sweetness of our love destroy;
But, turn these weepings into tears of joy.
On which condition, I do give thee, this;
To be both
Mine,
and
Sorrowes
parting-kiss.
PHIL'ARETE.
FINIS.
The Stationers Postscript.
THere be three or four Songs in this Poem aforegoing, which were stolen from the Author, and heretofore impertinently imprinted in an imperfect and erroneous Copy, foolishly entitled His Works; which the Stationer hath there falsely affirmed to be Corrected and Augmented for his own Advantage; and without the said Authors knowledge, or respect to his credit. If therefore you have seen them formerly in those counterfeit Impressions, let it not be offensive that you find them again in their proper places; and in the Poem to which they appertain.
Vale.
I. M.