PART THE SECOND.

How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another’s will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are, 5 Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood 10 How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good: Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 15 Nor ruin make accusers great; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend; 20 —This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all. Sir Henry Wotton.

Away, let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care, Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors 5 With pompous titles grace our blood? We’ll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we’ll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke; 10 And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune’s lavish bounty No mighty treasures we possess, We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 15 And be content without excess. Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason, And that’s the only life to live. 20 Through youth and age in love excelling, We’ll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures, 25 While round my knees they fondly clung; To see them look their mother’s features, To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue. And when with envy time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys, 30 You’ll in your girls again be courted, And I’ll go wooing in my boys. Anon.

Stand still, and I will read to thee A lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy. These three hours that we have spent Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we ourselves produced: 5 But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduced. So whilst our infant loves did grow, Disguises did and shadows flow 10 From us and from our cares; but now it is not so. That love hath not attained the highest degree, Which is still diligent lest others see; Except our loves at this noon stay, We shall new shadows make the other way. 15 As the first were made to blind Others, these which come behind Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, If our loves faint, and westwardly decline, To me thou falsely thine, 20 And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. The morning shadows wear away, But these grow longer all the day; But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay. Love is a growing or full constant light, 25 And his short minute, after noon, is night. John Donne.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties, orient deep. These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more, whither do stray 5 The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; 10 For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there 15 Fixèd become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, The phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20 Thomas Carew.

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearled with dew? I will whisper to your ears, 5 The sweets of love are mixt with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break? 10 I will answer, these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. Robert Herrick.

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, 5 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, 10 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, 15 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? 20 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, 25 They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren’s hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of beauty’s bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, 30 Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never linked with error find,— One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly 35 That hides his murmurs in the rose,— My earthly comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonned above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 40 Anon.

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. 5 Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had’st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 10 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. 15 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! 20 Edmund Waller.

Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee.

Sir Richard Fanshawe.

We saw and wooed each other’s eyes, My soul contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice, By which our marriage grew divine. Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 5 Profane the temple of delight, And purchase endless penitence With the stol’n pleasure of one night. Time’s ever ours, while we despise The sensual idol of our clay, 10 For though the suns do set and rise, We joy one everlasting day; Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent; The troubled stream is still impure; 15 With virtue flies away content. And though opinions often err, We’ll court the modest smile of fame, For sin’s black danger circles her Who hath infection in her name. 20 Thus when to one dark silent room Death shall our loving coffins thrust, Fame will build columns on our tomb, And add a perfume to our dust. William Habington.

Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour In which I first by marriage, sacred power, Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame; Which had increased, but that by love’s decree 5 ’Twas such at first, it ne’er could greater be. But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness? I since that have seen The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10 And wither, and the beauty of the field With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher; But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire. William Habington.

My once dear Love! hapless that I no more Must call thee so—the rich affection’s store That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent, Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent. We, that did nothing study but the way 5 To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us, and with them set, Must learn the hateful art, how to forget. We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give, Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live 10 Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must, As if not writ in faith, but words and dust. Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make, Witness the chaste desires that never brake Into unruly heats; witness that breast, 15 Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest, ’Tis no default in us, I dare acquit Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy Us to each other, and Heaven did untie 20 Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars, When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars! Since then some higher destinies command, Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand What is past help. The longest date of grief 25 Can never yield a hope of our relief; And though we waste ourselves in moist laments, Tears may drown us, but not our discontents. Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves, That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves 30 Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years. In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself,—so thou again art free; Thou in another, sad as that, resend 35 The truest heart that lover e’er did lend. Now turn from each. So fare our severed hearts, As the divorced soul from her body parts. Henry King.

O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, 5 I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak’, Sae my true Love did lichtly me. O waly, waly, but love be bonnie, A little time while it is new, 10 But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. Oh! wherefore should I busk my head, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, 15 And says he’ll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me, Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink, Since my true Love’s forsaken me. 20 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle Death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie. ’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 Nor blawing snaw’s inclemency; ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; 30 My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel’ in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, I’d locked my heart in a case of gowd, 35 And pinned it with a siller pin. And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee, And I mysel’ were dead and gane, With the green grass growing over me! 40 Anon.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; Oh that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5 And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! Oh think na but my heart was sair, When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! 10 I laid her down wi’ meikle care On fair Kirconnell lea. As I went down the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, 15 On fair Kirconnell lea; I lighted down my sword to draw, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, For her sake that died for me. 20 O Helen fair, beyond compare! I’ll make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die. Oh that I were where Helen lies! 25 Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’ O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen’s arms lying, 35 On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies: Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me. 40 Anon.

Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, 5 Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glowworm to lie; 10 Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If Love come, he will enter 15 And find out the way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight; 20 But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him 25 By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne’er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may, 30 Blind Love, if so you call him, Will find out his way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle 35 The phœnix of the east; The lioness, you may move her To give o’er her prey; But you’ll ne’er Stop a lover: He will find out the way. 40 If the earth should part him, He would gallop it o’er; If the seas should o’erthwart him, He would swim to the shore. Should his Love become a swallow, 45 Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way. There is no striving To cross his intent, 50 There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him, That his true-love doth stay, If death should come and meet him, 55 Love will find out the way. Anon.

There were twa brothers at the scule, And when they got awa’— ‘Its will ye play at the stane-chucking, Or will ye play at the ba’, Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 5 And there we’ll warsell a fa’.’ ‘I winna play at the stane-chucking, Nor will I play at the ba’, But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, And there we’ll warsel a fa’.’ 10 They warsled up, they warsled down, Till John fell to the ground; A dirk fell out of Willie’s pouch, And gave him a deadly wound. ‘Oh, Billie, lift me on your back, 15 Take me to yon well fair, And wash the bluid frae aff my wound, And it will bleed nae mair.’ He’s lifted his brother upon his back, Ta’en him to yon well fair; 20 He’s washed the bluid frae aff his wound, But ay it bled mair and mair. ‘Tak ye aff my Holland sark, And rive it gair by gair, And stap it in my bluidy wound, 25 And syne ’twill bleed nae mair.’ He’s taken aff his Holland sark, And torn it gair by gair; He’s stappit it in his bluidy wound, But ay it bled mair and mair. 30 ‘Tak now aff my green sleiding, And row me saftly in; And tak me up to yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green.’ He’s taken aff the green sleiding, 35 And rowed him saftly in; He’s laid him down by yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green. ‘What will ye say to your father dear When ye gae hame at e’en?’ 40 ‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green. ‘O no, O no, my brother dear, O you must not say so; But say that I’m gane to a foreign land, 45 Where nae man does me know. When he sat in his father’s chair He grew baith pale and wan. ‘O what blude’s that upon your brow? O dear son, tell to me.’ 50 ‘It is the blude o’ my gude gray steed, He wadna ride wi’ me.’ ‘O thy steed’s blude was ne’er sae red, Nor e’er sae dear to me: 55 O what blude’s this upon your cheek? O dear son, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my greyhound, He wadna hunt for me.’ ‘O thy hound’s blude was ne’er sae red, 60 Nor e’er sae dear to me: O what blude’s this upon your hand? O dear son, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my gay gosshawk, He wadna flee for me.’ 65 ‘O thy hawk’s blude was ne’er sae red, Nor e’er sae dear to me: O what blude’s this upon your dirk? Dear Willie, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my ae brother, 70 O dule and wae is me!’ ‘O what will ye say to your father, Dear Willie, tell to me?’ ‘I’ll saddle my steed, and awa’ I’ll ride To dwell in some far countrie.’ 75 ‘O when will ye come hame again, Dear Willie, tell to me?’ ‘When the sun and mune dance on yon green, And that will never be.’ She turned hersel’ right round about, 80 And her heart burst into three: ‘My ae best son is deid and gane, And my tother ane I’ll ne’er see.’ Anon.

There were twa sisters lived in a bouir; Binnorie, O Binnorie; The youngest o’ them, oh, she was a flouir! By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Binnorie. There came a squire frae the west; 5 He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best; He gied the eldest a gay gowd ring; But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing. He courted the eldest wi’ broach and knife; But he lo’ed the youngest as his life. 10 The eldest she was vexèd sair, And sore envied her sister fair. And it fell once upon a day, The eldest to the youngest did say: ‘Oh, sister, come to the sea-strand, 15 And see our father’s ships come to land. She’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand, And led her down to the sea-strand. The youngest sat upon a stane; The eldest came and pushed her in. 20 ‘Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand, And you shall be heir of half my land.’ ‘Oh, sister, I’ll not reach my hand, And I’ll be heir of all your land. ‘Shame fa’ the hand that I should take! 25 It twinned me and my world’s maik.’ ‘Oh, sister, reach me but your glove, And you shall be sweet William’s love.’ ‘Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove, And sweet William shall better be my love. 30 ‘Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair Had gar’d me gang maiden evermair.’ First she sank, and syne she swam, Until she cam to Tweed mill-dam. The miller’s dauchter was baking breid, 35 And gaed for water as she had need. ‘Oh, father, father, in our mill-dam There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’ The miller quickly drew his dam; And there he fand a drowned woman. 40 You couldna see her yellow hair, For gowd and pearls that were sae rare. You couldna see her middle sma’, Her gowden girdle was sae braw. You couldna see her lilie feet, 45 Her gowden fringes were sae deep. You couldna see her fingers sma’, Wi’ diamond rings they were covered a’. ‘Sair will they be, whae’er they be, The hearts that live to weep for thee!’ 50 Then by there cam a harper fine, That harpèd to the king at dine. And, when he looked that lady on, He sighed, and made a heavy moan. He has ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, 55 And wi’ them strung his harp sae fair. And he brought the harp to her father’s hall, And there the court was assembled all. He laid his harp upon a stone, And straight it began to play alone. 60 ‘O yonder sits my father, the king! And yonder sits my mother, the queen! ‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William sweet and true!’ But the last tune that the harp played then, 65 Binnorie, O Binnorie, Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helen!’ By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie. Anon.

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth 5 Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity’ and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 10 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. John Milton.

How wisely Nature did decree, With the same eyes to weep and see! That, having viewed the object vain, They might be ready to complain. And, since the self-deluding sight 5 In a false angle takes each height, These tears, which better measure all, Like watery lines and plummets fall. Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh Within the scales of either eye, 10 And then paid out in equal poise, Are the true price of all my joys. What in the world most fair appears, Yea, even laughter, turns to tears: And all the jewels which we prize, 15 Melt in these pendants of the eyes. I have through every garden been, Amongst the red, the white, the green; And yet from all those flowers I saw, No honey but these tears could draw. 20 So the all-seeing sun each day Distils the world with chymic ray; But finds the essence only showers, Which straight in pity back he pours. Yet happy they whom grief doth bless, 25 That weep the more, and see the less; And, to preserve their sight more true, Bathe still their eyes in their own dew. So Magdalen in tears more wise Dissolved those captivating eyes, 30 Whose liquid chains could flowing meet, To fetter her Redeemer’s feet. Nor full sails hasting laden home, Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb, Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair 35 As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are. The sparkling glance that shoots desire, Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire. Yea, oft the Thunderer pity takes, And here the hissing lightning slakes. 40 The incense was to Heaven dear, Not as a perfume, but a tear; And stars show lovely in the night, But as they seem the tears of light. Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice, 45 And practise so your noblest use; For others too can see, or sleep; But only human eyes can weep. Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop, And at each tear in distance stop: 50 Now, like two fountains, trickle down: Now, like two floods o’er-run and drown: Thus let your streams o’erflow your springs, Till eyes and tears be the same things; And each the other’s difference bears; 55 These weeping eyes, those seeing tears. Andrew Marvell.

I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet The holy place with my unhallowed feet; My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine, Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine; Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, 5 And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays. So, devout penitents of old were wont, Some without door, and some beneath the font, To stand and hear the Church’s liturgies, Yet not assist the solemn exercise: 10 Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain, To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train; Though not in tune nor wing she reach thy lark, Her lyric feet may dance before the ark. Who knows, but that her wandering eyes that run, 15 Now hunting glowworms, may adore the sun: A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power Into her breast, the earthly flame devour: My eyes in penitential dew may steep That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. 20 So (though ’gainst nature’s course) fire may be quenched With fire, and water be with water drenched; Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed, 25 Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed, Weary of her vain search below, above In the first Fair may find the immortal Love. Prompted by thy example, then no more In moulds of clay will I my God adore; 30 But tear those idols from my heart, and write What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite; Then I no more shall court the verdant bay, But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha; And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, 35 Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn. Thomas Carew.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away, 5 Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone Quite under ground; as flowers depart 10 To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 15 Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, This or that is: 20 Thy word is all, if we could spell. Oh, that I once past changing were, Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither! Many a spring I shoot up fair, Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither: 25 Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together. But while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, 30 Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn, When Thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown? 35 And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only Light, It cannot be 40 That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell at night. These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide: Which when we once can find and prove, 45 Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. George Herbert.

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find A way to measure out the wind; Distinguish all those floods that are Mixt in that watery theatre; And taste thou them as saltless there 5 As in their channel first they were; Tell me the people that do keep Within the kingdoms of the deep; Or fetch me back that cloud again, Beshivered into seeds of rain; 10 Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears Of corn when summer shakes his ears; Show me that world of stars, and whence They noiseless spill their influence: This if thou canst, then show me Him 15 That rides the glorious Cherubim. Robert Herrick.

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy, Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ, Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce; And to our high-raised phantasy present 5 That undisturbèd song of pure concent, Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne To Him that sits thereon, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 10 Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow; And the Cherubic host in thousand quires Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms 15 Singing everlastingly: That we on earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportioned sin Jarred against Nature’s chime, and with harsh din 20 Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason, whilst they stood, In first obedience and their state of good. Oh may we soon again renew that song, 25 And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long To his celestial consort us unite, To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light! John Milton.

Still young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou, when Shem’s admiring eye Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 5 The youthful world’s gray fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: 10 Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord’s hand, the object of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 15 Distant and low, I can in thine see Him, Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant betwixt all and One. Henry Vaughan.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, 5 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, 15 To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-maying, 20 There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25 Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; 30 Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free; 40 To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin; 50 And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, From the side of some hoar hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometimes walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures; 70 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two agèd oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, 95 Dancing in the chequered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets eat; She was pinched, and pulled, she said; And he, by friar’s lantern led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, 105 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar-fiend, 110 And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear 125 In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learnèd sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares 135 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse; Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out, 140 With wanton heed and giddy cunning; The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus’ self may heave his head 145 From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. 150 These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. John Milton.

Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bested, Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, 5 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams; Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train. 10 But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view 15 O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty’s praise above 20 The sea-nymphs’, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign 25 Such mixture was not held a stain: Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypres lawn, 35 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait; And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40 There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove’s altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: 50 But first and chiefest with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 55 ’Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke Gently o’er the accustomed oak: 60 Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven’s wide pathless way; 70 And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removèd place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 80 Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour 85 Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those demons that are found, In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent 95 With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line, Or the tale of Troy divine; 100 Or what, though rare, of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek! Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, 110 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride: 115 And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, 125 While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. 130 And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To archèd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, 140 Hide me from day’s garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, 145 Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in aery stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid. 150 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail 155 To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high-embowèd roof With antique pillars massy-proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: 160 There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit, and rightly spell 170 Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 175 And I with thee will choose to live. John Milton.

Heaven, what an age is this! what race Of giants are sprung up, that dare Thus fly in the Almighty’s face, And with his Providence make war! I can go nowhere but I meet 5 With malcontents and mutineers, As if in life was nothing sweet, And we must blessings reap in tears. O senseless man! that murmurs still For happiness, and does not know, 10 Even though he might enjoy his will, What he would have to make him so. Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning Fortune placed In the most eminent degree, 15 Where few arrive, and none stand fast? Titles and wealth are Fortune’s toils, Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare: The great are proud of borrowed spoils, The miser’s plenty breeds his care. 20 The one supinely yawns at rest, The other eternally doth toil; Each of them equally a beast, A pampered horse, or labouring moil: The titulados oft disgraced 25 By public hate or private frown, And he whose hand the creature raised, Has yet a foot to kick him down. The drudge who wold all get, all save, Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; 30 Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labour dies. Excess of ill-got, ill-kept, pelf Does only death and danger breed; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself 35 With what would thousand others feed. By which we see that wealth and power, Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. 40 Nor is he happier than these, Who in a moderate estate, Where he might safely live at ease, Has lusts that are immoderate. For he, by those desires misled, 45 Quits his own vine’s securing shade, To’ expose his naked, empty head To all the storms man’s peace invade. Nor is he happy who is trim, Tricked up in favours of the fair, 50 Mirrors, with every breath made dim. Birds, caught in every wanton snare. Woman, man’s greatest woe or bliss, Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the magic of a kiss 55 Destroys whom she was made to save. Oh! fruitful grief, the world’s disease! And vainer man, to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase By cultivating his own woe. 60 There are no ills but what we make By giving shapes and names to things; Which is the dangerous mistake That causes all our sufferings. We call that sickness, which is health; 65 That persecution, which is grace; That poverty, which is true wealth; And that dishonour, which is praise. Alas! our time is here so short, That in what state soe’er ’tis spent, 70 Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent. But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, And not what Heaven has done, undo 75 By an unruly appetite. The world is full of beaten roads, But yet so slippery withal, That where one walks secure, ’tis odds A hundred and a hundred fall. 80 Untrodden paths are then the best, Where the frequented are unsure; And he comes soonest to his rest, Whose journey has been most secure. It is content alone that makes 85 Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes An ill commodity too dear. Charles Cotton.

Hope, of all ills that men endure The only cheap and universal cure! Thou captive’s freedom, and thou sick man’s health! Thou loser’s victory, and thou beggar’s wealth! Thou manna, which from heaven we eat, 5 To every taste a several meat! Thou strong retreat, thou sure entailed estate, Which nought has power to alienate! Thou pleasant, honest flatterer, for none Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone! 10 Hope, thou first-fruits of happiness! Thou gentle dawning of a bright success! Thou good preparative, without which our joy Does work too strong, and whilst it cures, destroy; Who out of fortune’s reach dost stand, 15 And art a blessing still in hand! Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain, We certain are to gain, Whether she her bargain break, or else fulfil; Thou only good, not worse for ending ill! 20 Brother of Faith, ’twixt whom and thee The joys of Heaven and earth divided be! Though Faith be heir, and have the fixed estate, Thy portion yet in moveables is great. Happiness itself’s all one 25 In thee, or in possession! Only the future’s thine, the present his! Thine’s the more hard and noble bliss; Best apprehender of our joys, which hast So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast! 30 Hope, thou sad lover’s only friend! Thou way, that may’st dispute it with the end! For love, I fear, ’s a fruit that does delight The taste itself less than the smell and sight. Fruition more deceitful is 35 Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss; Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee Some other way again to thee: And that’s a pleasant country, without doubt, To which all soon return that travel out. 40 Abraham Cowley.

What Greece, when learning flourished, only knew, Athenian judges, you this day renew. Here too are annual rites to Pallas done, And here poetic prizes lost or won. Methinks I see you, crowned with olives, sit, 5 And strike a sacred horror from the pit. A day of doom is this of your decree, Where even the best are but by mercy free: A day, which none but Jonson durst have wished to see, Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10 Come to be taught themselves to teach the age. As your commissioners our poets go, To cultivate the virtue which you sow; In your Lycæum first themselves refined, And delegated thence to human-kind. 15 But as ambassadors, when long from home, For new instructions to their princes come, So poets, who your precepts have forgot, Return, and beg they may be better taught: Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20 But by your manners they correct their own. The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies To minds diseased, unsafe, chance remedies: The learned in schools, where knowledge first began, Studies with care the anatomy of man; 25 Sees virtue, vice, and passions, in their cause, And fame from science, not from fortune, draws. So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade. There haughty dunces, whose unlearnèd pen 30 Could ne’er spell grammar, would be reading men. Such build their poems the Lucretian way; So many huddled atoms make a play; And if they hit in order by some chance, They call that nature which is ignorance. 35 To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire, And their gay nonsense their own cits admire. Our poet, could he find forgiveness here, Would wish it rather than a plaudit there. He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40 But knows that right is in the senate’s hands, Not impudent enough to hope your praise, Low at the Muses’ feet his wreath he lays, And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. 45 Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit, But ’tis your suffrage makes authentic wit. John Dryden.

Though actors cannot much of learning boast, Of all who want it, we admire it most: We love the praises of a learnèd pit, As we remotely are allied to wit. We speak our poet’s wit; and trade in ore, 5 Like those who touch upon the golden shore; Betwixt our judges can distinction make, Discern how much, and why, our poems take: Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; Whether the applause be only sound or voice. 10 When our fop-gallants, or our city-folly, Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. Judge then, if we who act, and they who write, 15 Should not be proud of giving you delight. London likes grossly; but this nicer pit Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit; The ready finger lays on every blot; Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20 Nature herself lies open to your view; You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint, Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint. But, by the sacred genius of this place, 25 By every Muse, by each domestic grace, Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. Our poets hither for adoption come, As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the suffragating tribes to stand, But in your utmost, last, provincial band. If his ambition may those hopes pursue, Who with religion loves your arts and you, Oxford to him a dearer name shall be 35 Than his own mother University. Thebes did his green unknowing youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age. John Dryden.

River is time in water; as it came, Still so it flows; yet never is the same. I wake, and so new live; a night’s protection Is a new wonder, whiles a resurrection. The sun’s up; yet myself and God most bright 5 I can’t see; I’m too dark, and He’s too light. Let devout prayér cast me to the ground, So shall I yet to heaven be nearer found. Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth; So men; some stiff, some loose, some firm; all earth! 10 By red, green, blue, which sometimes paint the air, Guilt, pardon, Heaven, the rainbow does declare. The world’s a prison; no man can get out; Let the atheist storm then; Heaven is round about. The rose is but the flower of a briar; 15 The good man has an Adam to his sire. The dying mole, some say, opens his eyes; The rich, till ’tis too late, will not be wise. The sick hart eats a snake, and so grows well; Repentance digests sin, and man ’scapes hell. 20 Flies, oft removed, return. Do they want fear, Or shame, or memory? Flies are everywhere. Pride cannot see itself by mid-day light; The peacock’s tail is farthest from his sight. The swallow’s a quick arrow, that may show 25 With what an instant swiftness life doth flow. The nightingale’s a quire, no single note; O various power of God in one small throat! The silkworm’s its own wonder; without loom It does provide itself a silken room. 30 The moon is the world’s glass; in which ’twere strange If we saw her’s and saw not our own change. Herodotus is history’s fresh youth; Thucydides is judgment, age, and truth. In sadness, Machiavel, thou didst not well, 35 To help the world to run faster to hell. The Italian’s the world’s gentleman, the Court To which thrift, wit, lust, and revenge resort. Bogs, purgatory, wolves, and ease, by fame Are counted Ireland’s earth, mistake, curse, shame. 40 The Indies, Philip, spread not like thy robe; Art thou the new horizon to the globe? Down, pickaxe; to the depths for gold let’s go; We’ll undermine Peru. Is’nt heaven below? Who gripes too much casts all upon the ground; 45 Too great a greatness greatness doth confound. All things are wonder since the world began; The world’s a riddle, and the meaning’s man. Barten Holyday.

There’s none should places have in Fame’s high court But those that first do win Invention’s fort; Not messengers, that only make report. To messengers rewards of thanks are due For their great pains, telling their message true, 5 But not the honour to invention new. Many there are that suits will make to wear Of several patches, stoln both here and there, That to the world they gallants may appear: And the poor vulgar, who but little know, 10 And reverence all that makes a glistering show, Examine not the same how they came to. Then do they call their friends and all their kin; They factions make the ignorant to win, And with their help into Fame’s court get in. 15 Duchess of Newcastle.

Methought his royal person did foretell A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear; His look majestic seemèd to compel All men to love him, rather than to fear. And yet though he were every good man’s joy, 5 And the alonely comfort of his own, His very name with terror did annoy His foreign foes so far as he was known. Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale; Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea, (Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale, 10 Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea) Was swoln with rage, for fear he’d stop the tide Of her o’er-daring and insulting pride. George Wither.

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? 5 You 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? 10 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? 15 So when my Mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind? 20 Sir Henry Wotton.

Go, empty joys, With all your noise, And leave me here alone, In sweet sad silence to bemoan The fickle worldly height, 5 Whose danger none can see aright, Whilst your false splendours dim his sight. Go, and ensnare With your trim ware Some other easy wight, 10 And cheat him with your flattering light; Rain on his head a shower Of honours, favour, wealth, and power; Then snatch it from him in an hour. Fill his big mind 15 With gallant wind Of insolent applause; Let him not fear all-curbing laws, Nor king, nor people’s frown; But dream of something like a crown, 20 Then, climbing towards it, tumble down. Let him appear In his bright sphere Like Cynthia in her pride, With starlike troops on every side; 25 For number and clear light Such as may soon o’erwhelm him quite, And blend them both in one dead night. Welcome, sad night, Grief’s sole delight, 30 Thy mourning best agrees With honour’s funeral obsequies! In Thetis’ lap he lies, Mantled with soft securities, Whose too much sunshine dims his eyes. 35 Was he too bold, Who needs would hold With curbing reins the Day, And make Sol’s fiery steeds obey? Then, sure, as rash was I, 40 Who with ambitious wings did fly In Charles’s Wain too loftily. I fall, I fall! Whom shall I call? Alas can he be heard, 45 Who now is neither loved nor feared? You who have vowed the ground To kiss, where my blest steps were found, Come, catch me at my last rebound. How each admires 50 Heaven’s twinkling fires, Whilst from their glorious seat Their influence gives light and heat; But oh! how few there are, Though danger from the act be far, 55 Will run to catch a falling star. Now ’tis too late To imitate Those lights whose pallidness Argues no inward guiltiness; 60 Their course one way is bent; Which is the cause there’s no dissent In Heaven’s High Court of Parliament. Anon.

My dear and only Love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy: For if confusion have a part, 5 Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a Synod in thy heart, I’ll never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; 10 My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, 15 To gain or lose it all. But I will reign and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe: 20 But ’gainst my batteries if I find Thou storm, or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind, I’ll never love thee more. And in the empire of thy heart, 25 Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to share with me: Or committees if thou erect, Or go on such a score, 30 I’ll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more. But if no faithless action stain Thy love and constant word, I’ll make thee famous by my pen, 35 And glorious by my sword. I’ll serve thee in such noble ways As ne’er was known before; I’ll deck and crown thy head with bays, And love thee more and more. 40 Marquis of Montrose.

When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, 5 And fettered to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, 10 Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 15 Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; 20 When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, 25 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, 30 Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace.

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 5 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: 10 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, 15 If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. Richard Lovelace.

A steed, a steed, of matchless speed, A sword of metal keen; All else to noble hearts is dross, All else on earth is mean. The neighing of the war-horse proud, 5 The rolling of the drum, The clangour of the trumpet loud, Be sounds from heaven that come. And oh! the thundering press of knights, Whenas their war-cries swell, 10 May toll from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mount, then mount, brave gallants all, And don your helms amain; Death’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call 15 Us to the field again. No shrewish tears shall fill our eye, When the sword-hilt’s in our hand; Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sigh For the fairest in the land. 20 Let piping swain and craven wight Thus weep and puling cry; Our business is like men to fight, And, like to heroes, die! Anon.

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, To purify the air; Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, 5 And wakes the louder drum; Expense of grief gains no remorse, When sorrow should be dumb: For I must go, where lazy peace Will hide her drowsy head; 10 And, for the sport of kings, increase The number of the dead. But first I’ll chide thy cruel theft; Can I in war delight, Who, being of my heart bereft, Can have no heart to fight? 15 Thou know’st the sacred laws of old Ordained a thief should pay, To quit him of his theft, sevenfold What he had stol’n away. Thy payment shall but double be; 20 Oh then with speed resign My own seducèd heart to me, Accompanied with thine. Sir William Davenant.

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove’s roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof: Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5 Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me, Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty: 10 Locks, bars, and solitude together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. I, whilst I wished to be retired, Into this private room was turned; As if their wisdom had conspired 15 The salamander should be burned; Or like a sophy that would drown a fish, I am constrained to suffer what I wish. The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; 20 And ’tis the Indian’s pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see Make torments easy to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm 25 I, as my mistress’ favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm, I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 30 I’m in the cabinet locked up, Like some high-prizèd margarite, Or like the great mogul or pope, Am cloistered up from public sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 35 And thus, proud sultan, I’m as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: 40 Malice of late’s grown charitable, sure, I’m not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason’s life, Thinking to’ have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife 45 Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by the event. When once my Prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; 50 And for to smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart, When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my King, 55 Neither in person nor in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: My King from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? 60 Have you not seen the nightingale, A pilgrim, coopt into a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage? Even there her charming melody doth prove 65 That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confine, Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: 70 And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King. My soul is free as ambient air, Although my baser part’s immewed, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 75 To’ accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body bind, My King alone can captivate my mind. Anon.

Great Monarch of the world, from whose power springs The potency and power of [earthly] kings, Record the royal woe my suffering sings. Nature and law by thy divine decree, (The only root of righteous royalty,) 5 With this dim diadem invested me: With it the sacred sceptre, purple robe, The holy unction, and the royal globe; Yet am I levelled with the life of Job. The fiercest furies, that do daily tread 10 Upon my grief, my grey discrownèd head, Are they that owe my bounty for their bread. With my own power my majesty they wound, In the King’s name the King’s himself uncrowned; So doth the dust destroy the diamond. 15 They promise to erect my royal stem, To make me great, to’ advance my diadem, If I will first fall down, and worship them. My life they prize at such a slender rate, That in my absence they draw bills of hate, 20 To prove the King a traitor to the State. Felons obtain more privilege than I; They are allowed to answer ere they die: ’Tis death for me to ask the reason why. But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo 25 Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to Such as Thou know’st do not know what they do. Augment my patience, nullify my hate, Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate; Yet, though we perish, bless this Church and State. 30 King Charles the First.

The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. ’Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 And oil the unused armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, 10 But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star: And like the three-forked lightning first, Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side 15 His fiery way divide: For ’tis all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. 20 Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast. ’Tis madness to resist or blame 25 The face of angry heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the Man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere 30 (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,) Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old 35 Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain— But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. 40 Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room, Where greater spirits come. What field of all the Civil War 45 Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope 50 That Charles himself might chase To Carsbrook’s narrow case; That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands 55 Did clap their bloody hands; He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe’s edge did try; 60 Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. —This was that memorable hour 65 Which first assured the forcèd power: So when they did design The Capitol’s first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; 70 And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate! And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do 75 That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust; 80 Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic’s hand— How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons’ feet presents 85 A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs: And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the Public’s skirt. 90 So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, 95 The falconer has her sure. —What may not then our Isle presume, While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year! 100 As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find 105 Within his parti-coloured mind, But from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid— Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, 110 Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the War’s and Fortune’s son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect 115 Still kept the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. 120 Andrew Marvell.

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans 5 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 10 O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. John Milton.

First-born of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro’s darksome womb! Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled: Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, 5 But ever ebb and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and heaven to earth make love! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy wingèd arrows fly? 10 Swiftness and power by birth are thine; From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word Divine. ’Tis, I believe, this archery to show, That so much cost in colours thou And skill in painting dost bestow 15 Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow. Swift as light thoughts their empty carriere run, Thy race is finished when begun; Let a post-angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. 20 Thou in the moon’s bright chariot proud and gay Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands, above 25 The sun’s gilt tent, for ever move; And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble glowworms to adorn, 30 And with those living spangles gild (O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. Night and her ugly subjects dost thou fright, And sleep, the lazy owl of night; Ashamed and fearful to appear, 35 They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm, Of painted dreams a busy swarm; At the first opening of thine eye The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. 40 When, Goddess, thou lift’st up thy wakened head Out of the Morning’s purple bed, Thy choir of birds about thee play, And all thy joyful world salutes the rising day. All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes, 45 Is but thy several liveries; Thou the rich dye on them bestowest, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear’st; A crown of studded gold thou bear’st; 50 The virgin lilies, in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, spring’s little infant, stands Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, 55 Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat. With flame condensed thou dost thy jewels fix, And solid colours in it mix: Flora herself envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. 60 Through the soft ways of heaven and air and sea, Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close channels slide. But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, 65 Gently thy source the land o’erflows; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours’ mingled light, a thick and standing lake: But the vast ocean of unbounded day In the empyrean heaven does stay; 70 Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. Abraham Cowley.

Philosophy! the great and only heir Of all that human knowledge which has been Unforfeited by man’s rebellious sin, Though full of years he do appear, (Philosophy! I say, and call it He, 5 For whatsoe’er the painter’s fancy be, It a male virtue seems to me) Has still been kept in nonage till of late, Nor managed or enjoyed his vast estate. Three or four thousand years, one would have thought, 10 To ripeness and perfection might have brought A science so well bred and nursed, And of such hopeful parts, too, at the first; But oh! the guardians and the tutors then, (Some negligent, some ambitious men) 15 Would ne’er consent to set him free, Or his own natural powers to let him see, Lest that should put an end to their authority. That his own business he might quite forget, They’ amused him with the sports of wanton wit; 20 With the deserts of poetry they fed him, Instead of solid meats to’ increase his force; Instead of vigorous exercise they led him Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse: Instead of carrying him to see 25 The riches which do hoarded for him lie In Nature’s endless treasury, They chose his eye to entertain (His curious, but not covetous, eye) With painted scenes and pageants of the brain. 30 Some few exalted spirits this latter age has shown, That laboured to assert the liberty (From guardians who were now usurpers grown) Of this old minor still, captived Philosophy; But ’twas rebellion called, to fight 35 For such a long-oppressèd right. Bacon, at last, a mighty man! arose, Whom a wise King and Nature chose Lord Chancellor of both their laws, And boldly undertook the injured pupil’s cause. 40 Authority, which did a body boast, Though ’twas but air condensed, and stalked about Like some old giant’s more gigantic ghost, To terrify the learnèd rout, With the plain magic of true reason’s light 45 He chased out of our sight, Nor suffered living men to be misled By the vain shadows of the dead: To graves, from whence it rose, the conquered phantom fled. He broke that monstrous god which stood, 50 In midst of the orchard, and the whole did claim, Which with a useless scythe of wood, And something else not worth a name, (Ridiculous and senseless terrors!) made Children and superstitious men afraid. 55 The orchard’s open now, and free: Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity: Come, enter all that will, Behold the ripened fruit, come, gather now your fill! Yet still, methinks, we fain would be 60 Catching at the forbidden tree; We would be like the Deity; When truth and falsehood, good and evil, we Without the senses’ aid within ourselves would see; For ’tis God only who can find 65 All nature in his mind. From words, which are but pictures of the thought (Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew,) To things, the mind’s right object, he it brought; Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew. 70 He sought and gathered for our use the true; And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay, He pressed them wisely the mechanic way, Till all their juice did in one vessel join, Ferment into a nourishment divine, 75 The thirsty soul’s refreshing wine. Who to the life an exact piece would make, Must not from others’ work a copy take; No, not from Rubens or Vandyck; Much less content himself to make it like 80 The ideas and the images which lie In his own fancy or his memory: No, he before his sight must place The natural and the living face; The real object must command 85 Each judgment of his eye and motion of his hand. From these, and all long errors of the way, In which our wandering predecessors went, And, like the old Hebrews, many years did stray In deserts, but of small extent, 90 Bacon! like Moses, led us forth at last; The barren wilderness he passed, Did on the very border stand Of the blessed Promised Land, And from the mountain’s top of his exalted wit, 95 Saw it himself, and showed us it. But life did never to one man allow Time to discover worlds, and conquer too; Nor can so short a line sufficient be To fathom the vast deeps of Nature’s sea: 100 The work he did we ought to admire, And were unjust if we should more require From his few years, divided ’twixt the excess Of low affliction and high happiness: For who on things remote can fix his sight, 105 That’s always in a triumph or a fight? From you, great champions! we expect to get These spacious countries but discovered yet; Countries where yet, instead of Nature, we Her images and idols worshipped see: 110 These large and wealthy regions to subdue, Though Learning has whole armies at command, Quartered about in every land, A better troop she ne’er together drew. Methinks, like Gideon’s little band, 115 God with design has picked out you, To do these noble wonders by a few. When the whole host He saw, they are, said He, Too many to o’ercome for Me: And now He chooses out his men, 120 Much in the way that He did then: Not those many, whom He found Idly extended on the ground, To drink, with their dejected head, The stream, just so as by their mouths it fled: 125 No; but those few who took the waters up, And made of their laborious hands the cup. Thus you prepared, and in the glorious fight Their wondrous pattern too you take: Their old and empty pitchers first they brake, 130 And with their hands then lifted up the light. Iö! sound too the trumpets here! Already your victorious lights appear; New scenes of heaven already we espy, And crowds of golden worlds on high, 135 Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea Could never yet discovered be By sailor’s or Chaldean’s watchful eye. Nature’s great works no distance can obscure, No smallness her near objects can secure: 140 You’ have taught the curious sight to press Into the privatest recess Of her imperceptible littleness: You’ have learned to read her smallest hand, And well begun her deepest sense to understand. 145 Mischief and true dishonour fall on those Who would to laughter or to scorn expose So virtuous and so noble a design, So human for its use, for knowledge so divine. The things which these proud men despise, and call 150 Impertinent, and vain, and small, Those smallest things of nature let me know, Rather than all their greatest actions do. Whoever would deposèd truth advance Into the throne usurped from it, 155 Must feel at first the blows of ignorance, And the sharp points of envious wit. So when, by various turns of the celestial dance, In many thousand years A star, so long unknown, appears, 160 Though heaven itself more beauteous by it grow, It troubles and alarms the world below, Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, show. With courage and success you the bold work begin; Your cradle has not idle been; 165 None e’er but Hercules and you would be At five years’ age worthy a history: And ne’er did fortune better yet The historian to the story fit. As you from all old errors free 170 And purge the body of Philosophy, So from all modern follies he Has vindicated eloquence and wit: His candid style like a clean stream does slide, And his bright fancy all the way 175 Does, like the sunshine, in it play; It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide, Where the god does not rudely overturn, But gently pour, the crystal urn, And with judicious hand does the whole current guide. ’T has all the beauties Nature can impart, 181 And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art. Abraham Cowley.

No victor that in battle spent, When he at night asleep doth lie Rich in a conquered monarch’s tent, E’er had so vain a dream as I. Methought I saw the earliest shade 5 And sweetest that the spring can spread, Of jasmin, briar, and woodbine made; And there I saw Clorinda dead. Though dead she lay, yet could I see No cypress nor no mourning yew; 10 Nor yet the injured lover’s tree; No willow near her coffin grew. But all showed unconcerned to be, As if just Nature there did strive To be as pitiless as she 15 Was to her lover when alive. And now, methought, I lost all care, In losing her; and was as free As birds let loose into the air, Or rivers that are got to sea. 20 Methought Love’s monarchy was gone; And whilst elective numbers sway, Our choice and change makes power our own, And those court us whom we obey. Yet soon, now from my Princess free, 25 I rather frantic grew than glad, For subjects, getting liberty, Get but a license to be mad. Birds that are long in cages awed, If they get out, awhile will roam; 30 But straight want skill to live abroad, Then pine and hover near their home. And to the ocean rivers run From being pent in banks of flowers; Not knowing that the exhaling sun 35 Will send them back in weeping showers. Soon thus for pride of liberty I low desires of bondage found; And vanity of being free Bred the discretion to be bound. 40 But as dull subjects see too late Their safety in monarchal reign, Finding their freedom in a State Is but proud strutting in a chain; Then growing wiser, when undone, 45 In winter nights sad stories sing In praise of monarchs long since gone, To whom their bells they yearly ring; So now I mourned that she was dead, Whose single power did govern me; 50 And quickly was by reason led To find the harm of liberty. Even so the lovers of this land (Love’s empire in Clorinda gone) Thought they were quit from Love’s command, 55 And beauty’s world was all their own. But lovers, who are Nature’s best Old subjects, never long revolt; They soon in passion’s war contest, Yet in their march soon make a halt. 60 And those, when by my mandates brought Near dead Clorinda, ceased to boast Of freedom found, and wept for thought Of their delightful bondage lost. And now the day to night was turned, 65 Or sadly night’s close mourning wore; All maids for one another mourned, That lovers now could love no more. All lovers quickly did perceive They had on earth no more to do 70 Than civilly to take their leave, As worthies that to dying go. And now all quires her dirges sing, In shades of cypress and of yew; The bells of every temple ring, 75 Where maids their withered garlands strew. To such extremes did sorrow rise, That it transcended speech and form, And was so lost to ears and eyes As seamen sinking in a storm. 80 My soul, in sleep’s soft fetters bound, Did now for vital freedom strive; And straight, by horror waked, I found The fair Clorinda still alive. Yet she’s to me but such a light, 85 As are the stars to those who know We can at most but guess their height, And hope they mind us here below. Sir William Davenant.

What is the existence of man’s life But open war, or slumbered strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, 5 Till death’s cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, 10 Which bears his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 15 Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enrolled. It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth: 20 Where all the comforts he can share As wandering as his fancies are; Till in the mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial, which points out 25 The sunset, as it moves about: And shadows out in lines of night The subtle stages of time’s flight, Till all-obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade. 30 It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts vain hope, and varied fears: The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 35 And leaves no epilogue but death. Henry King.

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat Of courtly grandeur, and become as great As are his mounting wishes: as for me, Let sweet repose and rest my portion be; Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere 5 Out of the road of business, or the fear Of falling lower; where I sweetly may Myself and dear retirement still enjoy: Let not my life or name be known unto The grandees of the time, tost to and fro 10 By censures or applause; but let my age Slide gently by; not overthwart the stage Of public action; unheard, unseen, And unconcerned, as if I ne’er had been. And thus, while I shall pass my silent days 15 In shady privacy, free from the noise And bustles of the mad world, then shall I A good old innocent plebeian die. Death is a mere surprise, a very snare To him, that makes it his life’s greatest care 20 To be a public pageant; known to all, But unacquainted with himself, doth fall. Sir Matthew Hale.

The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day— Those now by me, as they have been, 5 Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream. All earthly comforts vanish thus; So little hold of them have we, 10 That we from them, or they from us, May in a moment ravished be. Yet we are neither just nor wise, If present mercies we despise; Or mind not how there may be made 15 A thankful use of what we had. George Wither.

In this marble casket lies A matchless jewel of rich price; Whom Nature in the world’s disdain But showed, and put it up again. Anon.

False world, thou liest: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end 5 To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou suppliest: And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou viest With heaven; fond earth, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 10 Of endless treasure: Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure: Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails, And swear’st to ease her; 15 There’s none can want where thou suppliest, There’s none can give where thou deniest; Alas! fond world, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest. What well-advisèd ear regards What earth can say? 20 Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou viest; 25 If seen, and then revied, deniest: Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, 30 No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in’t, Nor wealth, nor pleasure. Vain earth! that falsely thus compliest With man; vain man, that thou reliest 35 On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest. What mean dull souls in this high measure To haberdash In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash; 40 The height of whose enchanting pleasure Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou suppliest Us mortals with? Are these the highest? 44 Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest. Francis Quarles.

Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, 5 And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive; The last set out, the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10 Oh early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? It might (what nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine 15 Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betrayed; Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness; and maturing time 20 But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young, But, ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue! Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around. 25 John Dryden.