O! if Love shall live, O! where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live.
Or if Love shall die, O! where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die.
IN THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING.
ALL trees, all leafy groves, confess the Spring Their gentlest friend: then, then the lands begin To swell with forward pride, and seed desire To generation: Heaven's almighty sire Melts on the bosom of his love, and pours Himself into her lap in fruitful showers, And by a soft insinuation, mixt
With Earth's large mass, doth cherish and assist Her weak conceptions: no lone shade, but rings With chatting birds' delicious murmurings. Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields (Quick with warm Zephyr's lively breath) lay forth Their pregnant bosoms in a fragrant birth. Fach body's plump and juicy, all things full Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will Trust his beloved bosom to the Sun, (Grown lusty now): no vine so weak and young That fears the foul-mouth'd Auster, or those storis That the south-west wind hurries in his arms, But hastes her forward blossoms, and lays out, Freely lays out her leaves; nor do I doubt But when the world first out of Chaos sprang, So smil'd the days, and so the tenour ran Of their felicity. A spring was there, An everlasting spring the jolly year Led round in his great circle: no wind's breath As then did smell of winter, or of death; When life's sweet light first shone on beasts, and From their hard mother Earth sprang hardy men; When beasts took up their lodging in the wood, Stars in their higher chambers: never cou'd 'The tender growth of things endure the sepse Of such a change, but that the Heav'ns' indulgence Kindly supplies sick Nature, and doth mold A sweetly-temper'd mean, nor hot nor cold.
WITH A PICTURE SENT TO A FRIEND.
I PAINT SO ill, my piece had need to be
Painted again by some good poesy,
I write so ill, my slender line is scarce
So much as th' picture of a well-limn'd verse: Yet may the love I send be true, though I Send not true picture nor true poesy: Both which I should not need to fear, away, My love, or feign'd, or painted, should appear.
Go, now, with some daring drug, Bait the disease, and while they tug, Thou, to maintain their cruel strife, Spend the dear treasure of thy life: Go, take physic, doat upon Some big-nam'd composition, The oraculous doctor's mystic bills, Certain hard ords made into pills; And what at length shalt get by these? Only a costlier disease.
Go, poor man, think what shall be Remedy against thy remedy.
That which makes us have no need Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark hither, reader, would'st thou see Nature her own physician be; Would'st see a man, all his own wealth, His own physic, his own health? A man whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well? Her garments that upon her sit,
As garments should do, close and fit? A well-cloth'd soul that's not opprest, Nor chok'd with what she should be drest? A soul sheath'd in a chrystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine? As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aereal veil is drawn
O'er Beauty's face, seeming to hide, More sweetly shows the blushing bride. A soul, whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steams? A happy soul, that all the way To Heaven hath a summer's day?
Would'st thou see a man, whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood?
A man, whose tuned humours be
A set of rarest harmony?
Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile Age, would'st see December smile? Would'st see a nest of roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering Winter's self into a spring?
In sum, would'st see a man that can Live to be old, and still a man?
THE BEGINNING OF HELIODORUS. THE Smiling morn had newly wak'd the day, And tipt the mountains in a tender ray: When on a hill (whose high imperious brow Looks down, and sees the humble Nile below Lick his proud feet, and haste into the seas Thro' the great mouth that's nam'd from Hercules) A band of men, rough as the arms they wore, Look'd round, first to the sea, then to the shore. The shore, that show'd them what the sea deny'd, Hope of a prey. There, to the main land ty’d, A ship they saw, no men she had: yet prest Appear'd with other lading, for her breast Deep in the groaning waters wallowed Up to the third ring; o'er the shore was spread
LOVE is lost, nor can his mother Her little fugitive discover :
She seeks, she sighs, but no where spies him; Love is lost; and thus she cries him:
"O yes! if any happy eye This roving wanton shall descry: Let the finder surely know Mine is the wag; 'tis I that owe The winged wand'rer, and that none May think his labour vainly gone, The glad descrier shall 1.ot miss To taste the nectar of a kiss From Venus' lips; but as for him That brings him to me, he shall swim In riper joys; more shall be his (Venus assures him) than a kiss : But lest your eye discerning slide, These marks may be your judgment's guide : His skin as with a fiery blushing High-colour'd is; his eyes still flushing With nimble flames; and though his mind Be ne'er so curst, his tongue is kind: For never were his words in aught Found the pure issue of his thought. The working bees' soft melting gold, That which their waxen mines enfold, Flow not so sweet as do the tones Of his tun'd accents; but if once His anger kindle, presently
It boils out into cruelty,
And fraud: he makes poor mortals' hurts The objects of his cruel sports; With dainty curls his froward face Is crown'd about; but O! what place, What farthest nook of lowest Hell, Feels not the strength, the reaching spell, Of his small hand? Yet not so small As 'tis powerful therewithal. Though bare his skin, his mind he covers, And like a saucy bird he hovers With wanton wing, now here, now there, 'Bout men and women; nor will spare, Till at length he perching rest, In the closet of their breast.
His weapon is a little bow,
Yet such a one as (Jove knows how) Ne'er suffer'd yet his little arrow
Of Heav'n's high'st arches to fall narrow.
The gold that on his quiver smiles, Deceives men's fears with flattering wiles: But O! (too well my wounds can tell) With bitter shafts 'tis sauced too well. He is all cruel, cruel all;
His torch imperious, though but small, Makes the Sun (of flames the sire) Worse than sun-burnt in his fire. Wheresoe'er you chance to find him, Seize him, bring him, (but first bind him.) Pity not him, but fear thy self, Though thou see the crafty elf, Tell down his silver drops unto thee, They're counterfeit, and will undo thee. With baited smiles if he display
His fawning cheeks, look not that way; If he offer sugar'd kisses,
Start, and say, 'The serpent hisses :' Draw him, drag him, though he pray, Woo, entreat, and crying say, 'Pr'ythee, sweet, now let me go, Here's my quiver, shafts, and bow, I'll give thee all, take all,' take heed, Lest his kindness make thee bleed.
What e'er it be Love offers, still presume That tho' it shines, 'tis fire, and will consume."
OUT OF THE ITALIAN.
Love now no fire hath left him, We two betwixt us have divided it. Your eyes the light hath reft him; The heat commanding in my heart doth sit O! that poor Love be not for ever spoiled, Let my heat to your light be reconciled. So shall these flames, whose worth Now all obscured lies, (Drest in those beams) start forth And dance before your eyes.
Or else partake my flames, (I care not whether)
And so in mutual names,
O Love! burn both together.
OUT OF THE ITALIAN.
WOULD any one the true cause find
How Love came nak'd, a boy, and blind? 'Tis this: listning one day too long To th' syrens in my mistress' song, The ecstasy of a delight.
So much o'er-mastring all his might, To that one sense, made all else thrall,
And so he lost his clothes, eyes, heart and all,
FRONTISPIECE OF ISAACSON'S CHRONO- LOGY EXPLAINED.
IF with distinctive eye and mind you look Upon the front, you see more than one book. Creation is God's book, wherein he writ
Each creature, as a letter filling it. History is Creation's book, which shows
To what effects the series of it goes. Chronology's the book of History, and bears The just account of days, of months, and years. But Resurrection in a later press,
And New Edition is the sum of these: The language of these books had all been one, Had not th' aspiring tow'r of Babylon Confus'd the tongues, and in a distance hurl'd As far the speech, as men, o' th' new fill'd world. Set then your eyes in method, and behold Time's emblem, Saturn; who, when store of gold Coin'd the first age, devour'd that birth he fear'd; Till History, Time's eldest child, appear'd; And, phoenix-like, in spite of Saturn's rage, Forc'd from her ashes, heirs in every age,
From th' rising Sun, obtaining by just suit A Spring's engender, and an Autumn's fruit. Who in those volumes, at her motion pen'd, Unto Creation's Alpha doth extend. Again ascend, and view Chronology, By optic skill pulling far History
Nearer; whose hand the piercing eagle's eye Strengthens to bring remotest objects nigh. Under whose feet, you see the setting Sun, From the dark gnomon, o'er her volumes run, Drown'd in eterual night, never to rise; Till Resurrection show it to the eyes
Of earth-worn men; and her shrill trumpet's sound Affright the bones of mortals from the ground: The columns both are crown'd with either sphere, To show Chronology and History bear No other culmen than the double art, Astronomy, Geography impart.
LET hoary Time's vast bowels be the grave To what his bowels' birth and being gave: Let Nature die, and (phenix-like) from death Revived Nature take a second breath: If on Time's right hand sit fair History; If, from the seed of empty ruin, she Can raise so fair an harvest: let her be Ne'er so far distant, yet Chronology (Sharp-sighted as the eagle's eye, that can Out-stare the broad-beam'd day's meridian) Will have a perspicil to find her out,
And, thro' the night of errour and dark doubt, Discern the dawn of Truth's eternal ray, As when the rosy morn buds into day.
Now that Time's empire might be amply fill'd, Babel's bold artists strive (below) to build Ruin a temple; on whose fruitful fall History rears her pyramids more tall Than were th' Egyptian (by the life, these give, The Egyptian pyramids themselves must live :) On these she lifts the world; and on their base Shows the two terms and limits of Time's race: That, the Creation is the Judgement this; That, the world's morning; this her midnight is.
AN EPITAPH UPON MR. ASHTON,
A CONFORMABLE CITIZEN.
THE modest front of this small floor, Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can, "Here lies a truly honest man:" One whose conscience was a thing, That troubled neither church nor king, One of those few that in this town Honour all preachers, hear their own, Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practise any. He heard them reverendly, and then His practice preach'd them o'er agen. His parlour-sermons rather were Those to the eye, than to the ear.
His prayers took their price and strength Not from the loudness, nor the length. He was a Protestant at home, Not only in despite of Rome. Helov'd his father, yet his zeal Tore not off his mother's veil.
To th' church he did allow her dress, True beauty to true holiness.
Peace, which he lov'd in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end: When Age and Death call'd for the score, No surfeits were to reckon for; Death tore not (therefore) but sans strife Gently untwin'd his thread of life. -What remains, then, but that thou Write these lines, reader, in thy brow, And by his fair example's light, Burn in thy imitation bright. So while these lines can but bequeath A life perhaps unto his death, His better epitaph shall be, His life still kept alive in thee.
OUT OF CATULLUS. COME, and let us live, my dear, Let us love, and never fear What the sourest fathers say: Brightest Sol, that dies to day, Lives again as blithe to morrow; But if we, dark sons of sorrow Set; O! then how long a night Shuts the eyes of our short light! Then let amorous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell
A thousand and a hundred score, An hundred and a thousand more, Till another thousand smother That, and that wipe of another. 'Thus, at last, when we have numbred Many a thousand, many a hundred; We'll confound the reckoning quite, And lose our selves in wild delight: While our joys so multiply, As shall mock the envious eye.
Of chrystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet you her, my wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty,
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glistring shoe-tie.
Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoil
Of shop, or silkworm's toil,.
Or a bought blush, or a set smile..
Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tam'd heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on Love's bow;
Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confess
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and flight,
As the coy bride's, when night
First does the longing lover right.
Tears, quickly fled,
And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead,
Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow, From a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days, that in spight
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night,
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers' play,
Yet long by th' absence of the day,
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend."
Her flattery,
Picture and poesy:
Her counsel her own virtue be
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish-no more. Now if Time knows
That her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows
Her whose just bays
My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise ; Her that dares be
What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she.
'Tis she, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. May she enjoy it,
Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it.
Such worth as this is, Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye,
Be ye my fictions; but her story,
IN PICTURAM REVERENDISSIMI EPISCOPI, D. ANDREWS.
HÆC charta monstrat, fama quem monstrat magis, Sed & ipsa nec dum fama quem monstrat satis, Ille, ille totam solus implevit tubam, Tot ora solus domuit & famam quoque Fecit modestam: mentis igneæ pater Agiliq; radio lucis æternæ vigil, Per alta rerum pondera indomito vagus Cucurrit animo, quippe naturam ferox Exhausit ipsam mille foetus artibus, Et mille linguis ipse se in gentes procul Variavit onines, fuitq; toti simul Cognatus orbi, sic sacrum & solidum jubar Saturumq; cœlo pectus ad patrios libens Porrexit ignes: hac eum (lector) vides
Hæc (ecce) charta O utinam & audires quoque,
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