As melting honey, dropping from the comb,

So 'still the words that spring between thy lips;
Thy lips, where smiling Sweetness keeps her home,
And heav'nly Eloquence pure manna sips:

He that his pen but in that fountain dips,

How nimbly will the golden phrases fly,
And shed forth streams of choicest rhetory,

Welling celestial torrents out of poesy!

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Like as the thirsty land in summer's heat

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Calls to the clouds, and gapes at every show'r

As though her hungry clifts all heav'n would eat,

Which if high God into her bosom pour,

Though much refreshed, yet more she could devour;
So hang the greedy ears of angels sweet,
And every breath a thousand Cupids meet,

Some flying in, some out, and all about her fleet.

With dropping nectar-floods the fury of their way.

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If any wander, thou dost call him back;
If any be not forward, thou incit'st him;
Thou dost expect, if any should grow slack;
If any seem but willing, thou invit'st him;

Or if he do offend thee, thou acquit'st him;

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Thou find'st the lost, and follow'st him that flies, Healing the sick, and quick'ning him that dies; Thou art the lame man's friendly staff, the blind man's

eyes.

So fair thou art, that all would thee behold;
But none can thee behold, thou art so fair.

Pardon, O pardon, then, thy vassal bold,

That with poor shadows strives thee to compare,

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And match the things which he knows matchless are!
O thou vive mirrour of celestial grace,

How can frail colours portrait out thy face,

Or paint in flesh thy beauty in such semblance base?

SATAN

At length an aged sire far off He saw
Come slowly footing; every step he guessed
One of his feet he from the grave did draw;
Three legs he had-the wooden was the best:
And all the way he went he ever blest
With benedicities and prayers' store,

1610.

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But the bad ground was blessed ne'er the more:

And all his head with snow of age was waxen hoar.

A good old hermit he might seem to be,
That for devotion had the world forsaken
And now was travelling some saint to see,
Since to his beads he had himself betaken,
Where all his former sins he might awaken,

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And them might wash away with dropping brine,
And alms, and fasts, and church's discipline,

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And, dead, might rest his bones under the holy shrine.

But when he nearer came, he lowted low
With prone obeisance and with curtsy kind,
That at his feet his head he seemed to throw.
What needs him now another saint to find?
Affections are the sails, and faith the wind,

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That to this Saint a thousand souls convey
Each hour: O happy pilgrims thither stray!

What caren they for beasts or for the weary way?

"Ay me," quoth he "how many years have been

Since these old eyes the sun of heav'n have seen! Certes the Son of Heav'n they now behold, I ween.

"Ah, mote my humble cell so blessed be
As Heav'n to welcome in his lowly roof,
And be the temple for Thy Deity!
Lo, how my cottage worships Thee aloof,
That under ground hath hid his head, in proof

It doth adore Thee with the ceiling low.
Here honey, milk, and chestnuts wild do grow;
The boughs a bed of leaves upon Thee shall bestow.

"But oh!" he said and therewith sighed full deep, "The heav'ns, alas! too envious are grown, Because our fields Thy presence from them keep; For stones do grow where corn was lately sown." So, stooping down, he gathered up a stone.

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"But Thou with corn canst make this stone to ear: What needen we the angry heav'ns to fear?

Let them envy us still, so we enjoy Thee here."

Thus on they wandered. But those holy weeds
A monstrous serpent, and no man, did cover
(So under greenest herbs the adder feeds);
And round about that stinking corps did hover
The dismal Prince of gloomy night; and over
His ever-damnèd head the shadows erred
Of thousand peccant ghosts, unseen, unheard,
And all the Tyrant fears, and all the Tyrant feared.

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He was the Son of blackest Acheron,

Where many frozen souls do chatt'ring lie;
And ruled the burning waves of Phlegethon,
Where many more in flaming sulphur fry,
At once compelled to live and forced to die;

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Where nothing can be heard for the loud cry
Of "Oh!" and "Ah!" and "Out alas! that I
Or once again might live or once at length might die!"

PHINEAS FLETCHER

FROM

THE PURPLE ISLAND

KOILIA

At that cave's mouth twice sixteen porters stand,
Receivers of the customary rent:

On each side four, the foremost of the band,
Whose office to divide what in is sent;

Straight other four break it in pieces small;
And at each hand twice five, which, grinding all,

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Fit it for convoy, and this city's arsenal.

From thence a groom of wondrous volubility
Delivers all unto near officers,

Of nature like himself and like agility;

At each side four, that are the governors

To see the vict'als shipped at fittest tide;
Which straight from thence with prosp'rous channel

slide

And in Koilia's port with nimble oars glide.

The haven, framed with wondrous sense and art,
Opens itself to all that entrance seek;
Yet if aught back would turn and thence depart,
With thousand wrinkles shuts the ready creek;

But when the rent is slack, it rages rife,
And mut'nies in itself with civil strife:
Thereto a little groom eggs it with sharpest knife.

Below dwells, in this city's market-place,
The island's common cook, Concoction;
Common to all, therefore in middle space
Is quartered fit, in just proportion;

Whence never from his labour he retires,
No rest he asks or better change requires;

Both night and day he works, ne'er sleeps, nor sleep desires.

That heat which in his furnace ever fumeth

Is nothing like to our hot parching fire,

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Which, all consuming, self at length consumeth,

But moist'ning flames a gentle heat inspire,

Which sure some inborn neighbour to him lendeth;
And oft the bord'ring coast fit fuel sendeth,
And oft the rising fume, which down again descendeth.

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Like to a pot, where under-hovering
Divided flames, the iron sides entwining,
Above is stopped with close-laid covering,
Exhaling fumes to narrow straits confining;
So doubling heat his duty doubly speedeth;
Such is the fire Concoction's vessel needeth,
Who daily all the isle with fit provision feedeth.

1633.

THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE

Thrice, O thrice happy shepherd's life and state,
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns.
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep,
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

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No Serian worms he knows, that with their threed
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride.
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed.

ΙΟ

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, No begging wants his middle fortune bite, But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes.
In country plays is all the strife he uses,
Or song or dance unto the rural Muses;
And but in music's sports all differences refuses.

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