POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
GIVE me my heart again (fair treachery) You ravish'd from me with a smile, Oh let it in some nobler quarrel die Than a poor trophy of your guile.
And faith (bright Colia) tell me, what should
Who are all falsehood, do with one so true?
Or lend me yours awhile instead of it,
That I in time my skill may try, Though ill I know it will my bosom fit, To teach it some fidelity;
Or that it else may teach me to begin To be to you what you to me have been.
False and imperious Cœlia, cease to be Proud of a conquest is your same, You triumph o'er an humble enemy, Not one you fairly overcame.
Your eyes alone might have subdu'd my heart,
Without the poor confed'racy of art. But to the pow'r of beauty you must add The witchcraft of a sigh and tear: 1 did admire before, but yet was made By those to love; they fix'd me there: I else, as other transient lovers do, Had twenty lov'd ere this as well as you.
And twenty more I did intend to love, E're twenty weeks are pest and gone, And at a rate so molish, as shill prove My heart a very civil one:
But Oh, (false fair!) I thus resolve in vain, Unless you give me back. my heart again.
THE EXPOSTULATION.
HAVE I lov'd my fair so long,
Six Olympiads at least, And to youth and beauty's wrong, On virtue's single interest,
To be at last with scorn oppress'd? Have I lov'd that space so true,
Without looking once awry, Lest I might prove false to you, To whom I vow'd fidelity, To be repay'd with cruelty? Was you not, oh sweet! confess, Willing to be so belov'd? Favour gave my flame increase,
By which it still asp ring mov'd, And had gone out, if disapprov'd. Whence then can this change proceed! Say; or whither does it tend? That false heart will one day bleed,
When it has brought so true a friend To cruel and untimely end.
What have I left to do but die, Since Hope, my old companion, That train'd me from my infancy, My friend, my comforter is gone?
Oh fawning, false, deceiving friend! Accursed be thy flatteries, Which treacherously did intend
I should be wretched to be wise:
And so I am; for being taught
To know thy guiles, have only wrought My greater misery and pain:
My misery is yet so great,
That, though I have found out the cheat I wish for thee again in vain.
STANDING upon the margent of the main, Whilst the high boiling tide came tumbling in, I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain
As great an ocean, and as rude, within;
As full of waves, of depths, and broken grounds, As that which daily laves her chalky bounds. Soon could my sad imagination find
A parallel to this haif world of flood. An ocean by my walls of earth confin'd, And rivers in the channels of my blood: Discovering man, unhappy man, to be Of this great frame Heaven's epitome. There pregnant Argosies with full sails ride, To shoot the gulphs of sorrow and despair, Of which the love no pilot has to guide, But to her sea-born mother steers by pray'r, When, oh! the hope her anchor lost, undone, Rolls at the mercy of the regent Moon.
'Tis my ador'd Diana, then must be
The guid'ress to this beaten bark of mine, 'Tis she must calm and smooth this troubled sea, And waft my hope over the vaulting brine:
Call home thy venture, Dian, then at last, And be as merciful as thou art chaste.
WHEN Cœlia must my old day set, And my young morning rise, In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes?
My state is more advanc'd, than when I first attempted thee;
I su'd to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.
I've serv'd my time faithful and true, Expecting to be plac'd
In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast : Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love's pow'r,
We ought not to mispend so much As one poor short-liv'd hour.
Yet think not (sweet) I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste, Since none to surfeit e'er was known, Before he had a taste; My infant love could humbly wait,
When young it scarce knew how
To plead; but, grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.
THE PICTURE.
How, Chloris, can I e'er believe The vows of women kind, Since yours I faithless find,
So faithless, that you can refuse To him your shadow, that to choose
You swore you could the substance give?
Is't not enough that I must go Into another clime,
Where feather-footed time May turn my hopes into despair, My youthful dawn to bristled hair, But that you add this torment too? Perchance you fear idolatry
Would make the image prove A woman fit for love; Or give it such a soul as shone Through fond Pigmalion's living stone, That so I might abandon thee.
O no! 'twould fill my genius' room, My honest one, that when Frailty would love again, And, failing, with new objects burn, Then, sweetest, would thy picture tura My wand'ring eyes to thee at home.
Gons! are you just, and can it be You should deal man his misery With such a liberal hand, yet spare So meanly when his joys you share ? Durst timorous mortality
Demand of this the reason why? The argument of all our ills
Would end in this, that 'tis your wills. Be it so then, and since 'tis fit We to your harsh. decrees submit, Farewel all durable content, Nothing but woe is permanent.
How strangely, in a little space, Is my state chang'd from what it was, When my Clorinda with her rays Illustrated this happy place? When she was here, was here, alas! How sadly sounds that, when she was! That monarch rul'd not under sky, Who was so great a prince as 1: And if who boasts most treasure be The greatest monarch, I was he; As seiz'd of her, who from her birth Has been the treasure of the Earth: Fut she is gone, and I no more That mighty sovereign, but as poor, Since stript of that my glorious trust, As he who grovels in the dust.
Now I could quarrel Heav'n, and be Ringleader to a mutiny,
Like that of the gigantic wars, And hector my malignant stars; Or, in a tamer method, sit
Sighing, as though my heart would split; With looks dejected, arms across, Mourning and weeping for a loss My sweet (if kind as heretofore) Can in two short liv'd hours restore. Some god then, (sure you are not all Deaf to poor lovers when they call) Commiserating my sad smart, Touch fair Clorinda's noble heart To pity a poor sufferer, Disdains to sigh, unless for her! Some friendly deity possess
Her generous breast with my distress!
Oh! tell her how I sigh away The tedious hours of the day; Hating all light that does not rise From the gay morning of her eyes. Tell her that friends, which were to be Welcome to men in misery, To me, I know not how, of late Are grown to be importunate.
My books which once were wont to be My best beloved company, Are (save a prayer-book for form) Left to the canker or the worm. My study's grief, my pleasure care, My joys are woe, my hope despair, Fears are my drink, deep sighs my food, And my companion's solitude.
Night too, which Heav'n ordain'd to be Man's chiefest friend's my enemy. When she her sable curtain spreads, The whole creation make their beds, And every thing on Earth is bless'd With gentle and refreshing rest; But wretched I, more pensive made By the addition of that shade, Am left alone, with sorrow roar The grief I did but sigh before;
And tears, which, check'd by shame and light, Do only drop by day, by night (No longer aw'd by nice respects,) Gush out in floods and cataracts. Ill life, ah love, why is it so! To me is measur'd out by woe, Whilst she, who is that life's great light, Conceals her glories from my sight. Say, fair Clorinda, why should he, Who is thy virtue's creature, be More wretched than the rest of men, Who love and are belov'd again? I know my passion, not desert, Has giv'n me int'rest in a heart, Truer than ever man possess d, And in that knowledge I am bless'd : Yet even thence proceeds my care, That makes your absence hard to bear; For were you cruel, I should be Glad to avoid your cruelty; But happy in an equal flame, I, sweetest, thus impatient am. Then since your presence can restore My heart the joy it had before; Since lib'ral Heaven never gave To woman such a pow'r to save; Practise that sovereign pow'r on one Must live or die for you alone.
TAKING LEAVE OF CHLORIS. SHE sighs as if she would restore The life she took away before; As if she did recant my doom, And sweetly would reprieve me home: Such hope to one condemn'd appears From every whisper that he hears :
But what do such vain hopes avail, If those sweet sighs compose a gale, To drive me hence, and swell my sail? See, see, she weeps! who would not swear That love descended in that tear, Boasting him of his wounded prize Thus in the bleeding of her eyes? VOL VI.
Or that those tears with just pretence Would quench the fire that came from thence? But oh! they are (which strikes me dead) Chrystal her frozen heart has bred, Neither in love nor pity shed. Thus of my merit jealous grown, My happiness I dare not own, But wretchedly her favours wear, Blind to my self, unjust to her Whose sighs and tears at least discover She pities, if not loves her lover: And more betrays the tyrant's skill, Than any blemish in her will, That thus laments whom she doth kill. Pity still (sweet) my dying state, My flame may sure pretend to that, Since it was only unto thee I gave my life and liberty; Howe'er my life's misfortune's laid, By love I'm pity's object made.
Pity me then, and if thou hear I'm dead, drop such another tear, And I am paid my full arrear.
FIE, pretty Doris! weep no more, Damon is doubtless safe on shore,
Despite of wind and wave; The life is fate-free that you cherish, And 'tis unlike he now should perish You once thought fit to save.
Dry (sweet) at last, those twins of light, Which whilst eclips'd, with us 'tis night, And all of us are blind: The tears that you so freely shed, Are both too precious for the dead,
And for the quick too kind.
Fie, pretty Doris! sigh no more, The gods your Damon will restore,
From rocks and quicksands free ; Your wishes will secure his way, And doubtless he for whom you pray, May laugh at destiny.
Still then those tempests of your breast, And set that pretty heart at rest, The man will soon return; Those sighs for Heav'n are only fit, Arabian gums are not so sweet,
Nor off'rings when they burn. On him you lavish grief in vain, Can't be lamented, nor complain,
Whilst you continue true: That man's disaster is above, And needs no pity, that does love, And is belov'd by you.
ON MY PRETTY MARTEN. COME, my pretty little Muse, Your assistance I must use, And you must assist me too Better than you use to do, Or the subject we disgrace Has oblig'd us many ways. Pretty Matty is our theme, Of all others the supreme; Z z
Should we study for't a year, Could we choose a prettier ? Little Mat, whose pretty play Does divert us ev'ry day, Whose caresses are so kind, Sweet, and free, and undesign'd, Meekness is not more disarming, Youth and modesty more charming ; Nor from any ill intent
Nuns or doves more innocent: And for beauty, Nature too
Here would show what she could do; Finer creature ne'er was seen, Half so pretty, half so clean. Eyes as round and black as sloe, Teeth as white as morning snow; Breath as sweet as blowing roses, When the morn their leaves discloses, Or, what sweeter you'll allow, Breath of Vestals when they vow, Or, that yet doth sweeter prove, Sighs of maids who die for love. Next his feet my praise commands, Which methinks we should call hands, For so finely they are shap'd, And for any use so apt, Nothing can so dextrous be, Nor fine handed near as he.
These, without though black as jet, Within are soft and supple yet As virgin's palm, where man's deceit Seal of promise never set. Back and belly soft as down,
Sleeps which peace of conscience crown, Or the whispers love reveal, Or the kisses lovers steal: And of such a rich perfume, As, to say I dare presume, Will out-ravish and out-wear That of th' fulsome milliner. Tail so bushy and so long,
(Which t' omit would do him wrong) As the proudest she of all Proudly would he fann'd withal.
Having given thus the shape Of this pretty little ape, To his virtues next I come, Which amount to such a sum, As not only well may pass Both my poetry and dress To set forth as I should do't, But arithmetic to boot.
Valour is the ground of all That we mortals virtues call; And the little cavalier That I do present you here, Has of that so great a share, He might lead the world to war. What the beasts of greater size Tremble at, he does despise, And is so compos'd of heart, Drums nor guns can make him start: Noises which make others quake, Serve his courage to awake. Libyan lions make their feasts Of subdu'd plebeian beasts, And Hyrcanian tigers prey Still on creatures less than they, Or less arm'd; the Russian bears Of támer beasts make inassacres.
Irish wolves devour the dams, English foxes prey on lambs. These are all effects of course, Not of valour, but of force; But my Matty does not want Heart t' attack an elephant. Yet his nature is so sweet, Mice may nibble at his feet, And may pass as if unseen, If they spare his magazine. Constancy, a virtue then
In this age scarce known to men, Or to womankind at least, In this pretty little beast To the world might be restor'd, And my Matty be ador'd. Chaste he is as turtle doves, That abhor adult'rate loves; True to friendship and to love, Nothing can his virtue move, But his faith in either giv❜n, Seems as if 'twere seal'd in Heaven. Of all brutes to him alone Justice is, and favour known. Nor is Matty's excellence Merely circumscrib'd by sense, He for judgment what to do, Knows both good and evil too, But is with such virtue blest, That he chooses still the best, And wants nothing of a wit But a tongue to utter it: Yet with that we may dispense, For his signs are eloquence. Then for fashion and for mien, Matty's fit to court a queen; All his motions graceful are, And all courts outshine as far As our courtiers Peakish clowns, Or those Peaknils northern loons, Which should ladies see, they sure Other beasts would ne'er endure; Then no more they would make suit For an ugly pissing-coat Rammish cat, nor make a pet Of a bawdy mamoset. Nay, the squirrel, though it is Pretty'st creature next to this, Would henceforward be discarded, And in woods live unregarded. Here sweet beauty is a creature Purposely ordain'd by Nature, Both for cleanness and for shape Worthy a fair lady's lap.
Live long, my pretty little boy, Thy master's darling, lady's joy, And when fate will no more forbear To lay his hands on him and her, E'en then let fate my Matty spare, And when thou dy'st then turn a star.
HARK, the cock crows, and yon bright star, Tells us the day himself's not far;
And see where, breaking from the night,
He gilds the western hills with light. With him old Janus does appear, Peeping into the future year With such a look as seems to say The prospect is not good that way. Thus do we rise ill sights to see, And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy, When the prophetic fear of things A more tormenting mischief brings, More full of soul-tormenting gall Than direst mischiefs can befall.
But stay! but stay! methinks my sight, Better inform'd by clearer light, Discerns sereneness in that brow, That all contracted seem'd but now: His reverse face may show distaste, And frown upon the ills are past; But that which this way looks is clear, And smiles upon the new-born year. He looks too from a place so high, The year lies open to his eye, And all the moments open are To the exact discoverer ;
Yet more and more he smiles upon The happy revolution.
Why should we then suspect or fear The influences of a year So smiles upon us the first morn, And speaks us good so soon as born? Pox on't! the last was ill enough, This cannot but make better proof; Or at the worst, as we brush'd through The last, why so we may this too; And then the next in reason should Be superexcellently good : For the worst ills we daily see, Have no more perpetuity
Than the best fortunes that do fall; Which also bring us wherewithal Longer their being to support, Than those do of the other sort; And who has one good year in three, And yet repines at destiny, Appears ingrateful in the case, And merits not the good he has.
Then let us welcome the new guest, With lusty brimmers of the best; Mirth always should good fortune meet, And renders e'en disaster sweet : And though the princess turn her back, Let us but line ourselves with sack, We better shall by far hold out, Till the next year she face about.
How uneasy is his life
Who is troubled with a wife! Be she ne'er so fair or comely, Be she ne'er so foul or homely, Be she ne'er so young and toward, Be she ne'er so old and froward, Be she kind with arms enfolding, Be she cross and always scolding, Be she blithe or melancholy, Have she wit or have she folly,
Be she wary, be she squand'ring, Be she staid, or be she wand'ring, Be she constant, be she fickle, Be she fire, or be she ickle, Be she pious or ungodly,
Be she chaste or what sounds oddly: Lastly, be she good or evil,
Be she saint, or be she devil; Yet uneasy is his life,
Who is marry'd to a wife.
If fair, she's subject to temptation,
If foul, herself's solicitation,
If young and sweet, she is too tender, If old and cross, no man can mend her, If too too kind, she's over clinging, If a true scold, she's ever ringing, If blithe, find fiddles, or y' undo her, If sad, then call a casuist to her, If a wit, she'll still be jeering, If a fool, she's ever fleering, If too wary, then she'll shrew thee, If too lavish, she'll undo thee,
If staid, she'll mope a year together, If gadding, then to London with her,
If true, she'll think you don't deserve her,
If false, a thousand will not serve her, If lustfull, send her to a spittle, If cold, she is for one too little, If she be of th' reformation, Thy house will be a convocation, If a libertine, then watch it,
At the window thou may'st catch it, If chaste, her pride will still importune, If a whore, thou know'st thy fortune: So uneasy is his life
Who is marry'd to a wife.
These are all extremes I know, But all womankind is so, And the golden mien to none Of that cloven race is known;
Or to one if known it be,
Yet that one's unknown to me. Some Ulyssean traveller
May perhaps have gone so far, As t' have found (in spite of Nature) Such an admirable creature.
If a voyager there be
Has made that discovery,
He the fam'd Odcombian gravels, And may rest to write his travels.
But alas! there's no such woman, The calamity is common, The first rib did bring in ruin, And the rest have since been doing, Some by one way, some another, Woman still is inischief's mother, And yet cannot man forbear, Though it cost him ne'er so dear.
Yet with me 'tis out of season To complain thus without reason, Since the best and sweetest fair Is allotted to my share: But alas! I love her so That my love creates my woe; For if she be out of humour, Straight displeas'd I do presume her, And would give the world to know What it is offends her so:
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