Part 5
75. THE RETREAT.
Happy those early days, when I Shined in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first Love,
And looking back, at that short space Could see a glimpse of his bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain, Where first I left my glorious train; From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees That shady City of Palm trees! But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way:-- Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.
H. VAUGHAN.
76. TO MR. LAWRENCE.
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
J. MILTON.
77. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that after no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
J. MILTON.
78. HYMN TO DIANA.
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close; Bless us then with wishéd sight, Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.
B. JONSON.
79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.
Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me;
Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth;
Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
--Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty, That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest:
A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night.
Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow:
Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night.
Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."
I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish--no more.
--Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.
'Tis She, and here Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character.
Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions:--but her story.
R. CRASHAW.
80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.
Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest Love will find out the way.
When there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; When there is no space For receipt of a fly; When the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay; If Love come, he will enter And will find out his way.
You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight; But if she whom love doth honour Be conceal'd from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The phoenix of the east; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover: He will find out his way.
ANON.
81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.
Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No happiness or pain! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine; Age from no face takes more away Than youth conceal'd in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, So love as unperceived did fly, And center'd in my breast.
My passion with your beauty grew, While Cupid at my heart Still as his mother favour'd you, Threw a new flaming dart: Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employ'd the utmost of his art-- To make a beauty, she.
SIR C. SEDLEY.
82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer, But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
R. HERRICK.
83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.
COLONEL LOVELACE.
84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.
You meaner beauties of the night, Which poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies, What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year As if the spring were all your own,-- What are you, when the Rose is blown?
You curious chanters of the wood That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise?
So, when my Mistress shall be seen In sweetness of her looks and mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
SIR H. WOTTON.
85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
Daughter to that good earl, once President Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content.
Till the sad breaking of that parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;--
Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
J. MILTON.
86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.
It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds: nay what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there's nought within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Syren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find,--
One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,--
My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonn'd above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
ANON.
87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.
He that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires:-- Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
T. CAREW.
88. TO DIANEME.
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free: Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone, When all your world of beauty's gone.
R. HERRICK.
89.
Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
E. WALLER.
90. TO CELIA.
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!
B. JONSON.
91. CHERRY-RIPE.
There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow: Yet them no peer nor prince can buy Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, --Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
ANON.
92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.
I.
A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:-- A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distractión,-- An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher,-- A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly,-- A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat,-- A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility;-- Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.
R. HERRICK.
93.--II.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!
R. HERRICK.
94.--III.
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.
ANON.
95. ON A GIRDLE.
That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
E. WALLER.
96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see: And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en Death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.
R. HERRICK.
97.
Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for a constant heart,-- For these may fail, or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why-- So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever!
ANON.
98.
Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find-- For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true.
SIR C. SEDLEY.
99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.
When Love with unconfinéd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free-- Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confinéd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
COLONEL LOVELACE.
100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
COLONEL LOVELACE.
101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prythee, why so pale? Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prythee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prythee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The D----l take her!
SIR J. SUCKLING.
102. A SUPPLICATION.
Awake, awake, my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she And I so lowly be Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark! how the strings awake: And, though the moving hand approach not near, Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try; Now all thy charms apply; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie, Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
A. COWLEY.
103. THE MANLY HEART.
Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May-- If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?
Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well disposéd nature Joinéd 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 merit's value known Make me quite forget my 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 Who without them dare to woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
G. WITHER.
104. MELANCHOLY.
Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly There's naught in this life sweet If men were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixéd eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
J. FLETCHER.
105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love.