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COME, let's go on, where love and youth does
To show such stores, and nothing grant,
But th' amour at last improv'd;
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it heal, as well as strike:
Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring,
His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found
I apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
As well might men who in a fever fry, Mathematic doubts debate;
As well might men who mad in darkness lie, Write the dispatches of a state.
I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer, But those did worse than useless prove; For prayers are turu'd to sin, in those who are Out of charity, or in love.
I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do, And mix'd with pleasant companies; My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.
Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd, 'Gainst this, some new desire to stir, And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd Some faint resemblances of her.
The physic made me worse, with which I strove This mortal ill t' expel;
As wholesome med'cines the disease improve
There where they work not well.
SHE loves, and she confesses too;
What's this, ye gods! what can it be?
Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
THE INNOCENT ILL.
THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses be
Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away
That what to th' eye a beauteous face,
So cunningly it wounds the heart,
Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have So much as of original sin,
Such charms thy beauty wears, as might
That a fly's death 's a wound to thee;
Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Which God did for our faults create!
And thou in pity didst apply
The kind and only remedy:
The cause absolves the crime; since me So mighty force did move, so mighty goodness thee.
Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny! Thou chaste committer of a rape! Thou voluntary destiny,
Which no man can, or would escape! So gentle, and so glad to spare, So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.
the. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee,
Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?
Me thou 'ast robb'd; but what art thou
Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure!
He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in
But noblest charity in thee. I'll the well-gotten pleasure Safe in my memory treasure:
What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and
The. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,
Is but t' embalm a body dead; The figure may remain, the life and beauty's filed.
e. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone By Love, but Indiscretion.
To th' wise it all things does allow;
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,
He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, The bawd to his own wife is made; Beside, what boast is left for me, Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee? 'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you Who have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd me too.
She. Though public punishment we escape, the
When long 't has gnaw'd within,will break the
He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I sought,
That wounded balm is all my fault;
She. Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee now?
And yet I'm sure I love thee too!
Thou hast this day undone me quite; Yet wilt undo me more should'st thou not come at night.
VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay 'Gainst what an oracle shall say; Fool that I was, to venture to deny A tongue so us'd to victory!
A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
Errour the name of blindness bore;
There's no man that has eyes would bet for me.
Kiss her, and as you part, you amorous waves,
Then tell her what your pride doth cost,
Above th' impurest streams that thither flow.
Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
LOVE GIVEN OVER.
If e'er I clear my heart of this desire,
If e'er it home to its breast retire,
It ne'er shall wander more about,
THE FORCE OF LOVE. PRESERVED FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.
THROW an apple up an hill,
Down the apple tumbles still;
Marriage (say to her) will bring
But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. Metals grow within the mine,
Luscious grapes upon the vine }
Three of thy lustiest and thy freshest years, (Toss'd in storms of hopes and fears) Like helpless ships that be
Set on fire i' th' midst o' the sea,
Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd
Though thousand beauties call it out:
A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.
Down the mountain flows the stream,
Man is born to live and die,
Resolve then on it, and by force or art
Free thy unlucky heart;
Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
Thus appears, below, above,
As the wencher loves a lass,
Fly precipitate to Love.
The pox, the plague, and every small disease
We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shunk.
almost without any thing else, makes an excel
man had translated another; as may appear, when he that understands not the original, reads the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, than which nothing seems more raving. And sure, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monstrare & sentio tantum) would but make it ten times more distracted than it is in prose. We must consider in Pindar the great difference of time betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in pictures, at least the colours of poetry; the no less difference betwixt the religions and customs of our countries; and a thousand particularities of places, persons, and manners, which do but confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a distance. And lastly (which were enough alone for my purpose) we must consider, that our ears are strangers to the music of his numbers, #bich, sometimes (especially in songs and odes)
Ir a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it would be thought, that one mad-lent poet; for though the grammarians and critics have laboured to reduce his verses into regular feet and measures (as they have also those of the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they are little better than prose to our ears. And I would gladly know what applause our best piecos of English poesy could expect from a Frenchman or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word for word, into French or Italian prose. And when we have considered all this, we must needs confess, that, after all these losses sustained by Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or invention (not deserting still his subject) is not like to make him a richer man than he was in his own country. This is in some measure to be applied to all translations; and the not observing of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw are so much inferior to their originals. The like happens too in pictures, from the same root of exact imitation; which, being a vile and un