SEE! how the willing earth gave way,
To take th' impression where she lay!
See! how the mould, as loth to leave
So sweet a burden, still doth cleave
Close to the nymph's stain'd garment! Here
The coming spring would first appear;
And all this place with roses strow,
If busy feet would let them grow.

Here Venus smil'd, to see blind Chance
Itself, before her son, advance;
And a fair image to present,
Of what the boy so long had meant.
"Twas such a chance as this made all
The world into this order fall.
Thus the first lovers, on the clay,
Of which they were composed, lay:
So in their prime, with equal grace,
Met the first patterns of our race.

Then blush not, fair! or on him frown,
Or wonder how you both came down;
But touch him, and he'll tremble strait:
How could he then support your weight?
How could the youth, alas! but bend,
When his whole Heaven upon him lean'd'
If aught by him amiss were done,
"Twas, that he let you rise so soon.

I pluck'd it, though no better grown;
And now you see how full 'tis blown.
Still as I did the leaves inspire,

With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,

And, spreading so, would flame anon: All that was meant by air or sun, To the young flower, my breath has done. If our loose breath so much can do,

What may the same in forms of love, Of purest love, and music too,

When Flavia it aspires to move? When that, which lifeless buds persuades To wax more soft, her youth invades ?

SONG.

BEHOLD the brand of beauty tost!

See how the motion does dilate the flame! Delighted Love his spoils does boast, And triumph in this game. Fire, to no place confin'd,

Is both our wonder, and our fear; Moving the mind,

As lightning hurled through the air.

High Heaven the glory does increase

Of all her shining lamps this artful way:
The Sun, in figures, such as these,
Joys with the Moon to play:

To the sweet strains they advance,
Which do result from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance

Moves with the numbers which she hears.

OF SYLVIA.

OUR sighs are heard, just Heaven declares
The sense it has of lovers' cares:
She, that has so far the rest outshin'd,
Sylvia the fair, while she was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now.

So when the sky makes us endure
A storm, itself becomes obscure.
Hence 'tis, that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's self her name;
Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand such as I,
Their grief untold, should pine and die,
Than her bright morning, overcast
With sullen clouds, should be defac'd.

THE BUD.

LATELY on yonder swelling bush, Big with many a coming rose, This early bud began to blush,

And did but half itself disclose:

ON THE

DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.

PYGMALEON'S fate revers'd is mine;

His marble love took flesh and blood;
All that I worshipp'd as divine,
That beauty! now 'tis understood,
Appears to have no more of life,
Than that whereof he fram'd his wife.

As women yet, who apprehend

Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find,
Like leaves saluted by the wind :

So, though the beauty do appear

No beauty, which amaz'd me so; Yet from my breast I cannot tear

The passion, which from thence did grow;
Nor yet out of my fancy rase
The print of that supposed face.

A real beauty, though too near,
The fond Narcissus did admire:
I doat on that which is no where;
The sign of beauty feeds my fire.
No mortal flame was e'er so cruel
As this, which thus survives the fuel.

TO A LADY,

FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.

MADAM! intending to have try'd

The silver favour which you gave,
In ink the shining point I dy'd,

And drench'd it in the sable wave;
When, griev'd to be so foully stain'd,
On you it thus to me complain'd.
"Suppose you had deserv'd to take
From her fair hand so fair a boon;
Yet how deserved I to make

So ill a change, who ever won
Immortal praise for what I wrote,
Instructed by her noble thought?

"I, that expressed her commands

To mighty lords and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands,

Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile."

So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladyship, in these:

And now 'tis forced to confess, That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more noble, write.

TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! Since first our calm of peace Was frighted hence, this good we find, Your favours with your fears increase, And growing mischiefs make you kind. So the fair tree, which still preserves

Her fruit and state, while no wind blows; In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs.

May not a thousand dangers sleep In the smooth bosom of the deep? No: 'tis so rockless and so clear, That the rich bottom does appear Pav'd all with precious things; not torn From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born. Sweetness, truth, and every grace,

Which time, and use, are wont to teach, The eye may in a moment reach, And read distinctly in her face.

Some other nymphs, with colours faint, And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, And a weak heart in time destroy; She has a stamp, and prints the boy: Can, with a single look, inflame The coldest breast, the rudest tame.

THE SELF-BANISHED.

Ir is not that I love you less,
Than when before your feet I lay;
But, to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain, alas! for every thing,
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the spring, from the new sun
Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot.

Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to thick shadows does retire; About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must

Your banish'd servant trouble you; For if I break, you may mistrust The vow I made to love you too.

THYRSIS, GALATEA.

THYRSIS.

As lately I on silver Thames did ride, Sad Galatea on the bank I spy'd:

Such was her look as sorrow taught to shine;
And thus she grac'd me with a voice divine.

GAL. You, that can tune your sounding strings so Of ladies' beauties, and of love, to tell, [well, Once change your note, and let your lute report The justest grief, that ever touch'd the court.

[share,

THYR. Fair nymph! I have in your delights no Nor ought to be concerned in your care; Yet would I sing, if I your sorrows knew; And to my aid invoke no muse but you. GAL. Hear then, and let your song augment our Which is so great, as not to wish relief.

[grief,

She that had all which Nature gives, or Chance, Whom Fortune join'd with Virtue to advance To all the joys this island could afford, The greatest mistress, and the kindest lord; Who with the royal mixt her noble blood, And in high grace with Gloriana stood; Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness, such, That none e'er thought her happiness too much; So well inclin'd her favours to confer, And kind to all, as Heaven had been to her! The virgin's part, the mother, and the wife, So well she acted in the span of life, That, though few years (too few, alas!) she told, She seem'd in all things, but in beauty, old. As unripe fruit, whose verdant stalks do cleave Close to the tree, which grieves no less to leave The smiling pendant, which adorns her so, And until autumn on the bough should grow: So seem'd her youthful soul not easily forc'd, Or from so fair, so sweet, a seat divorc'd. Her fate at once did hasty seem, and slow; At once too cruel, and unwilling too.

THYR. Under how hard a law are mortals born!

Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn:

O fertile head! which every year
Could such a crop of wonder bear!
The teeming Earth did never bring,
So soon, so hard, so huge a thing:
Which might it never have been cast,
(Each year's growth added to the last)
These lofty branches had supply'd
The Earth's bold sons' prodigious pride:
Heaven with these engines had been scal'd,
When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT, SEES not my love, how Time resumes

The glory which he lent these flowers?
Though none should taste of their perfumes,
Yet must they live but some few hours:
Time, what we forbear, devours!
Had Helen, or th' Egyptian queen 4,

Been near so thrifty of their graces;
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.
Should some malignant plauet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless shower,
Upon the autumn, or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.
Could the resolve of Love's neglect

Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my passion.

THE MISER'S SPEECH:

IN A MASQUE.

BALLS of this metal slack'd At'lanta's pace,
And on the amorous youth 5 bestow'd the race:

Is soon removed from our wondering eyes!
But since the sisters 3 did so soon untwine
So fair a thread, I'll strive to piece the line.
Vouchsafe, sad nymph! to let me know the dame,
And to the muses I'll commend her name:
Make the wide country echo to your moan,
The listening trees, and savage mountains, groan.
What rock's not moved when the death is sung
Of one so good, so lovely, and so young!

GAL. 'Twas Hamilton !—whom I had nam'd before, But naming her, grief lets me say no more.

ON THE HEAD OF A STAG. So we some antique hero's strength Learn by his lance's weight, and length; As these vast beams express the beast, Whose shady brows alive they drest. Such game, while yet the world was new, The mighty Nimrod did pursue. What huntsman of our feeble race, Or dogs, dare such a monster chase? Resembling, with each blow he strikes, The charge of a whole troop of pikes.

3 Parcæ.

Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise
Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe:
Th' adventurous lover how to gain the prize.
For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danaë, or the brazen tower,
That they withstood not that almighty shower?
Never till then did Love make Jove put on
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,
A form more bright, and nobler, than his own:
That slack devotion should his thunder scape.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

ON MR. FLETCHER'S

Thou hast alone those various inclinations,
Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-resembling pen,
That whate'er custom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them so,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is represented to the wondering eyes
Of all, that see or read thy comedies.
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind,
And, by the help of so divine an art,
At leisure view and dress his nobler part.
Narcissus, cozen'd by that flattering well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preserv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac'd,
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion grac❜d.
The sundry postures of thy copious Muse
Who would express, a thousand tongues must use;
Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,

So none could render thine; which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of shapes;
Who was, nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.

ON MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS. FLETCHER! to thee we do not only owe All those good plays, but those of others too: Thy wit repeated, does support the stage, Credits the last, and entertains this age. No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine, Could purchase robes, to make themselves so fine. What brave commander is not proud, to see Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry? Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn : Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done, Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.

I never yet the tragic strain assay'd, Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid 6. And, when I venture at the comic style, Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil. Thus has thy Muse at once improv'd and marr'd Our sport in plays, by rendering it too hard! So, when a sort of lusty shepherds throw The bar by turns, and none the rest out-go So far, but that the best are measuring casts, Their emulation and their pastime lasts: But, if some brawny yeoman of the guard Step in, and toss the axletree a yard, Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the rest, Despairing stand; their sport is at the best.

TO MR. GEORGE SANDYS,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF SOME PARTS OF THE BIBLE.

How bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men,
Who here with the same spirit sung,

The Maid's Tragedy.

Were urged to express, did shake The aged deep, and both the poles;

Their numerous thunder could awake Dull Earth, which does with Heaven consent To all they wrote, and all they meant. Say, sacred bard! what could bestow Courage on thee, to soar so high? Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee so To shake off all mortality?

To light this torch thou hast climb'd higher, Than he 7 who stole celestial fire.

TO MR. HENRY LAWES,

WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE, IN THE YEAR 1635.

VERSE makes heroic virtue live;

But you can life to verses give.

As, when in open air we blow,

The breath (though strain'd) sounds flat and low,
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high and makes it last:
So, in your airs our numbers drest,
Make a shrill sally from the breast
Of nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd,
Our passions to themselves commend;
While Love, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice and heart.
You, by the help of tune and time,
Can make that song, which was but rhyme:
Noy pleading, no man doubts the cause,
Or questions verses set by Lawes.

As a church-window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint;
So others, with division, hide
The light of sense, the poet's pride:
But you alone may truly boast
That not a syllable is lost:
The writer's and the setter's skill
At once the ravish'd ears do fill.
Let those, which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a song,
Content themselves with ut, re, mi :
Let words and sense be set by thee.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT,

UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT: WRITTEN IN
FRANCE.

THUS the wise nightingale, that leaves her home,
Her native wood, when storms and winter come,
Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring,
To foreign groves does her old music bring.

The drooping Hebrews banish'd, harps, unstrung,
At Babylon upon the willows hung:
Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel
No less in courage, than in singing well;
While, unconcern'd, you let your country know,
They have impoverish'd themselves, not you:
Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those Fates,
Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states.

So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;
Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass,
See Nero milder than Augustus was.
Hereafter, such, in thy behalf, shall be
Th' indulgent censure of posterity.

To banish those, who with such art can sing,
Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring:
Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,
Nor how to love their present youth be taught.
This to thyself.-Now to thy matchless book,
Wherein those few that can with judgment look,
May find old love in pure fresh language told;
Like new-stamp'd coin, made out of angel-gold:
Such truth in love, as th' antique world did know,
In such a style, as courts may boast of now;
Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,
But human passions, such as with us dwell.
Man is thy theme; his virtue, or his rage,
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Mars, nor Bellona, are not named here,
But such a Gondibert as both might fear:
Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshin'd,
By thy bright Birtha, and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds,
Betwixt thy worthies, and the Grecian gods!
Whose deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the sovereign crown:
Such
as, of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood,
Though not resisted, may be understood.

TO MY

WORTHY FRIEND MR. WASE,

THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.

THUS, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves, that on Parnassus grow.

The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne:
And young Apollo winds the horn.

Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs, for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed:

What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat, or to tame;
With all the mysteries of that game.
But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far,
From what our fiery battles are.
Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone.

No quarter now: but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text,
To tell how modern beasts are vext.

Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage:

Since none doth more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts, which you so early know.

TO HIS

WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

LUCRETIUS (with a stork-like fate,
Born and translated in a state)
Comes to proclaim, in English verse,
No monarch rules the universe:
But chance and atoms make this ALL
In order democratical;

Where bodies freely run their course,
Without design, or fate, or force.
And this in such a strain he sings,
As if his Muse, with angels' wings,
Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere,
And other worlds discover'd there.
For his immortal, boundless wit,
To Nature does no bounds permit;
But boldly has remov'd those bars
Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars,
By which they were before suppos'd,
By narrow wits, to be inclos'd;

Till his free muse threw down the pale,
And did at once dispark them all.

So vast this argument did seem,
That the wise author did esteem
The Roman language (which was spread
O'er the whole world, in triumph led)
A tongue too narrow to unfold
The wonders which he would have told.
This speaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend:
For here Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his music, and his mind.
Thy art has to our country brought
All that he writ, and all he thought.

Ovid translated, Virgil too,

Show'd long since what our tongue could do:
Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spar'd;
Only Lucretius was too hard.
Lucretius, like a fort, did stand
Untouch'd, till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear.
A garland! made of such new bays,
And sought in such untrodden ways,
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's, and your own.

TO HIS

WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOS. HIGGONS,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.

THE winged lion's 9 not so fierce in fight,
As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight;
Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce,
Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse:

9 The arms of Venice,