Th'adorning thee with so much art

I cut my love into his gentle bark, Is but a barbarous skill;

And in three days, behold ! 'tis dead : Tis like the poisoning of a dart

My very written flames so violent be, Too apt before to kill.

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree. The ministering angels none can see ;

How should I live myself, wbuse heart is found 'Tis not their beauty or their face,

Deeply graven every where For which by men they worship'd be;

With the large history of many a wound, But their high office and their place,

Larger than thy trunk can bear? Thou art my goddess, my saint she;

With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

Love in my heart has voluines put.
What a few words from thy rich stock did take

The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poison with one drop does make

The nails and hairs to fall :

Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Ag! what advice can I receive!

Or characters could ne'er do this.
No, satisfy me first;
For who would physic-potions give

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this To one that dies with thirst?

And pardon me, thou gentle tree; A little puff of breath, we find,

I thought her name would thee have happy made, Small fires can quench and kill;

And blessed omens hop'd from thee: But, when they're great, the adverse wind

“ Notes of my love, thrive here,” said I, “ and Does make them greater still.

grow ; Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,

And with ye let my love do so.” But straight I 'm just the same;

Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive! Alas! th' effect must needs be such

This blasted tree predestines it; Of cutting through a flame,

Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)

And, by the lines thou there hast writ,
Deform’dly hanging, the sad picture be

To that unlucky history.



Come, doctor! use thy roughest art,

Thou canst not cruel prove; Cut, burn, and torture, every part,

To heal me of my love. There is no danger, if the pain

Should me to a fever bring; Compar'd with heats I now sustain,

A ferer is so cool a thing,

(Like drink which feverish men desire) That I should hope 'twould almost quench my



Ask me not what my love shall do or be
(Love, which is soul to boly, and soul of me !)

When I am separated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily show,
What after death the soul will do;
*Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know.
The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move,
But all that while a lifeless carcase prove;

For 'tis the body of my love:

Not that my love will fly away,
But still continue; as, they say,
Sad troubled ghosts about their gravés do stray.

is a strange kind of ignorance this in you,

That you your victories should not spy,

Victories gutten by your eye!
That your bright beams, as those of comets do,

Should kill, but not know how, nor who !
That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilst all the people smell and see

The odorous flames I offer thee,
Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,

Thy constant, zealous worshipper.
They see 't too well who at my fires repine ;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove

Quick-ey'd enough to spy my love;
Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine,

Than the effect appears in mine.
Fair infidel! hy what unjust decree

Must I, who with such restless care

Would make this truth to thee appear,
Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be

Damn'd by thy incredulity?
I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain:

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you

May know that faith for to be true,
It shall itself by a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!
Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;

But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus dispute--That, since my heart, Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,

Perhaps thou may'si not know thine orna


I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park,
With freshest boughs and fairest head;


HONOUR. Come, let's go on, where love and youth does She loves, and she confesses too; I've seen too much, if this be all."

[call; There's then, at last, no more tu dos Alas ! how far more wealthy might I be

The happy work's entirely done;
With a contented ignorant poverty !

Enter the town which thou hast won ;
To show such stores, and nothing grant,

The fruits of conquest now begin ;
Is to enrage and vex my want.

lö, triumph! enter in.
For Love to die an infant is lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still. What 's this, ye gods! what can it be?

Remains there still an enemy?
We’ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,

Bold. Honour stands up in the gate,
As man and wife in picture do:

And would yet capitulate;
The richest crop of joy is still behind,

Have lo'ercome all real foes,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.

And shall this phantom me oppose ?
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,
But th' amour at last improv'd;

Noisy nothing ! stalking shade!
The Statue itself at last a woman grew,

By what witchcraft wert thou made? And so at last, my dear, should you do too. Empty cause of solid harms !

But I shall find out counter-charms,
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,

Thy airy devilship to remove
Unless it lead to farther bliss,

From this circle here of love.
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye ;
1 grows too serious a cruelty,

Sure I shall rid myself of thee
Unless it heal, as well as strike:

By the night's obscurity,
I would not, salamander-like,

And obscurer secrecy!
In scorching heats always to live desire,

Unlike to every other sprite,
But, like a martyr, pass to Heaven through fire. Thou attempt'st not men to fright,

Nor appear'st but in the light.
Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring,

And gently kisses every thing !
His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,

Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,

Though all thy gestures and discourses be
He does still new flowers beget.

Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty; The Sun himself, although all eye he be,

Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away Can find in love more pleasure than to see.

One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;

Yet guch a sweetness, such a grace,
In all thy speech appear,

That what to th' eye a beauteous face,

'That thy tongue is to th'ear:

So cunningly it wounds the heart, I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found

It strikes such heat through every part,
Love made them nonsense all;

That thou a tempter worse than Satan art.
I apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the paiu recall.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
So much as of original sin,

(beea As well might men who in a fever fry,

Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Mathematic doubts debate;

Desires in dying confess'd saints excite: As well might men who mad in darkness lie,

Thou, with strange adultery, Write the dispatches of a state.

Dost in each breast a brothel keep; I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer,

Awake, all men do lust for thee,
But those did worse than useless prove;

And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
For prayers are turn’d to sin, in those who are Ne'er before did woman live,
Out of charity, or in love.

Who to such multitudes did give

The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.
I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas ! was oil to th' fire;

Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,
Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there That a fly's death 's a wound to thee;
Did double the desire.

Though savage and rock-hearted those I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,

Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woes;

Yet ne'er before was tyrant known, And mix'd with pleasant companies;

Whose rage was of so large extent; My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,

The ills tbou dost are whole thine owo; And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

Thou'rt principal and instrument: Nay, God forgive me for’t! at last I try'd, In all the deaths that come from you, 'Gainst this, some new desire to stir,

You do the treble office do
And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Some faint resemblances of her.

Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,
The physic made me worse, with which I strove Which God did for our faults create !
This mortal ill t'expel;

Thou pleasant, universal ill, As wholesome med'cines the disease improve Which, sweet as healtb, yet like a plague dont There where they work not well


Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny!

And thou in pity didst apply Thou chaste committer of a rape!

The kind and only remedy: Thon voluntary destiny,

The cause absolves the crime ; since me Which no man can, or would escape!

So mighty forcedid move, so mighty goodness So gentle, and so glad to spare,

thee, So wondrous good, and wondrous fair,

She. Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.


And yet I'm sure I love thee too !

I'm angry; but my wrath will prove

More innocent than did thy love. the. What have we done? what cruel passion

Thou hast this day undone me quite; mov'd thee,

Yet wilt undome more should'st thou not come
Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?

at night.
Me thou’ast robb’d; but what art thou
Thyself the richer now?
Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure;

VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gutten | As soon bereafter will I wagers lay treasure!

'Gainst what an oracle shall say; He. We have done no harm ; nor was it theft in Fool that I was, to venture to deny

A tongue so us'd to victory!
But noblest charity in thee.

A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
I'll the well.gotten pleasure

That never yet it spoke but gain'd an heart : Safe in my memory treasure:

Though what you said had not been true, What though the flower itself do waste,

If spoke by any else but you; The essence from it drawn does long and And Fate will

change rather than you should lye.

Your speech will govern Destiny, sweeter last. She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,

"Tis true, if human Reason were the guide, And nothing can restore 't again.

Reason, methinks, was on my side; Art and labour to bestow,

But that 's a guide, alas ! we must resign,
Upon the carcase of it now,

When th' authority's divine.
Is but t embalm a body dead;

She said, she said herself it would be so;
The figure may remain, the life and beauty's And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no :

Never so justly, sure, before, fled.

Errour the name of blindness bore; e. Nerer, my dear, was Honour yet undone For whatso'er the question be, By Love, but Indiscretion.

There's no man that has eyes would bet for me To th' wise it all things does allow;

If Truth itself (as other angels do
And cares not what we do, but how.

When they descend to human view)
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,

In a material form would deign to shine,
Unless it let in air, for ever shines and burns.

'Twould imitate or borrow thine: Ske. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear, commit,

So well-proportion'd would the parts appear ! Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;

Happy the eye which Truth could see For men, with Roman pride, above

Cloath'd in a shape like thee; The conquest do the triumph love;

But happier far the eye Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy. Unless they through the streets their captive Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more lead enchain'd.

Than what I ow'd to thee before : He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, Who would not venture for that debt to play,

The bawd to his own wife is made; Which he were bound howe'er to pay? Beside, what boast is left for me,

If Nature gave me power to write in verse, Whose whole wealth 's a gift from thee? She gave it me thy praises to rehearse: 'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you

Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Who have not only ta'en, but bound and Has such a sovereign right to it, gagg'd me too.

That no man's Muse for public vent is free, She. Though public punishment we escape, the Till she has paid her customis first to thee.

Will rack and torture us within: (sin
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,

That worm which now the core does. The fish around her crowded, as they do

To the false light that treacherous fishers shew, When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the And all with as much ease might taken be, skin at last.

As she at first took me; He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I

For ne'er did light so clear

Among the waves appear,
That wounded balm is all my fault; Though every night the Sun himself set there.

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Kiss her, and as you part, you amorous waves,
(My happier rivals, and my fellow-slaves)
Point to your flowery banks, and to her shew
The good your bounties do;

Then tell her what your pride doth cost,
And how your use and beauty's lost,
When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost.
Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee,
Haste without stop to a devouring sea;
Where they will mix'd and undistinguish'd lie
With all the meanest things that die;
As in the ocean thou
No privilege dost know

Above th' impurest streams that thither flow.
Tell her, kind Flood! when this has made her sad,
Tell her there's yet one remedy to be had: [find
Show her how thou, though long since past, dost
Thyself yet still behind:

Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
Secure of being again o'erthrown?
Since such an enemy needs not fear
Lest any else should quarter there,
Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down

the town.

It is enough; enough of time and pain
Hast thou consum'd in vain ;
Leave, wretched Cowley! leave
Thyself with shadows to deceive;
Think that already lost which thou must never


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,


THROW an apple up an hill,

Down the apple tumbles still;
Roll it down, it never stops
Till within the vale it drops:
So are all things prone to Love,
All below, and all above.

Marriage (say to her) will bring
About the self-same thing.

But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. Metals grow within the mine,

Luscious grapes upon the vine }
Still the needle marks the pole;
Parts are equal to the whole:
'Tis a truth as clear, that Love
Quickens all, below, above,

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

in tears.

Though thousand beauties call it out:

A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.

Down the mountain flows the stream,
Up ascends the lambent flame;
Smoke and vapour mount the skies;
All preserve their unities;
Nought below, and nought above,
Seems averse, but prone to Love.
Stop the meteor in its flight,
Or the orient rays of light;
Bid Dan Phoebus not to shine,
Bid the planets not incline;
"Tis as vain, below, above,
To impede the course of Love,
Salamanders live in fire,
Eagles to the skies aspire,
Diamonds in their quarries lie,
Rivers do the sea supply:

Man is born to live and die,
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly;
Fishes in the waters swim,
Doves are mild, and lions grim;
Nature thus, below, above,
Pushes all things on to Love.
Does the cedar love the mountain?
Or the thirsty deer the fountain?
Does the shepherd love his crook ?
Or the willow court the brook?
Thus by nature all things move,
Like a running stream, to Love,
Is the valiant hero bold?
Does the miser doat on gold?

Resolve then on it, and by force or art

Free thy unlucky heart;
Since Fate does disapprove
Th' ambition of thy love,
And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part. Seek the birds in spring to pair?

Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
Should you this deny, you'll prove
Nature is averse to Love,

Thus appears, below, above,
A propensity to Love.

As the wencher loves a lass,
As the toper loves his glass,
As the friar loves his cowl,
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,

Fly precipitate to Love.

The pox, the plague, and every small disease
May come as oft as ill-fate please;
But Death and Love are never found
To give a second wound:

We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shunk.
When the Moon out-shines the Sun,

by these.

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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

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