Chapter VIII: Preface (8)

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, My sliding Chariot stayes, Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green That in the channell strayes, Whilst from off the waters fleet Thus I set my printless feet O're the Cowslips Velvet head, That bends not as I tread, Gentle swain at thy request I am here.

John Milton. 1608-1674

316. From 'Comus' iv

The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that ly Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid ayr All amidst the Gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree: Along the crisped shades and bowres Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, Thither all their bounties bring, That there eternal Summer dwels, And West winds, with musky wing About the cedar'n alleys fling Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels. Iris there with humid bow, Waters the odorous banks that blow Flowers of more mingled hew Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, And drenches with Elysian dew (List mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of Hyacinth, and roses Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen; But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't After her wandring labours long, Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal Bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly don, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earths end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon. Mortals that would follow me, Love vertue, she alone is free. She can teach ye how to clime Higher then the Spheary chime; Or if Vertue feeble were, Heav'n it self would stoop to her.

John Milton. 1608-1674

317. Lycidas A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oate proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea, He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory, They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatall and perfidious Bark Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing Violet. The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves Where other groves, and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet Societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

John Milton. 1608-1674

318. On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

John Milton. 1608-1674

319. To Mr. Lawrence

LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son,
Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help wast a sullen day; what may be won
From the hard Season gaining: time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise
To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice
Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

John Milton. 1608-1674

320. To Cyriack Skinner

CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

John Milton. 1608-1674

321. On His Deceased Wife

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin'd
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

John Milton. 1608-1674

322. Light

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, So were I equal'd with them in renown. Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.

John Milton. 1608-1674

323. From 'Samson Agonistes' i

OH how comely it is and how reviving To the Spirits of just men long opprest! When God into the hands of thir deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour, The brute and boist'rous force of violent men Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour Truth; He all thir Ammunition And feats of War defeats With plain Heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm'd, Thir Armories and Magazins contemns, Renders them useless, while With winged expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd.

John Milton. 1608-1674

324. From 'Samson Agonistes' ii

ALL is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent. His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

325. A Doubt of Martyrdom

O FOR some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
'Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crown'd
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise
And have our loves enjoy'd.

What posture can we think him in
That, here unloved, again
Departs, and 's thither gone
Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that Elysium be
Where I my mistress still must see
Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just,
And Sophonisba must
Be his whom she held dear,
Not his who loved her here.
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough
For difference crowns the brow
Of those kind souls that were
The noble martyrs here:
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,
Give me the woman here!

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

326. The Constant Lover

OUT upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together!
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

327. Why so Pale and Wan?

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

328. When, Dearest, I but think of Thee

WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are like the grace of deities, Still present with us, tho' unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrow'd lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By love's quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that 's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

Sir Richard Fanshawe. 1608-1666

329. A Rose

BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born-- Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death!

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

330. To Chloe Who for his sake wished herself younger

THERE are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awaken'd sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

331. Falsehood

STILL do the stars impart their light To those that travel in the night; Still time runs on, nor doth the hand Or shadow on the dial stand; The streams still glide and constant are: Only thy mind Untrue I find, Which carelessly Neglects to be Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

Fool that I am! I do recall My words, and swear thou'rt like them all, Thou seem'st like stars to nourish fire, But O how cold is thy desire! And like the hand upon the brass Thou point'st at me In mockery; If I come nigh Shade-like thou'lt fly, And as the stream with murmur pass.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

332. On the Queen's Return from the Low Countries

HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew! The day shall have its due. Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, On which let honour breathe; Then throw it round the temples of our Queen! 'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.

When greater tempests than on sea before Received her on the shore; When she was shot at 'for the King's own good' By legions hired to blood; How bravely did she do, how bravely bear! And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.

Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness: A gather'd mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace: Thus, arm'd with innocence, secure they move Whose highest 'treason' is but highest love.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

333. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly

SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, And died as free from sickness as she lived. Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven, She only saw her time and stept to Heaven; Where seraphims view all her glories o'er, As one return'd that had been there before. For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seem'd rather assumed than born; So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were That she could die, or that she could live here.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 1612-1650

334. I'll never love Thee more

MY dear and only Love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
Than purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part
(Which virtuous souls abhor),
And hold a synod in thine heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

And in the empire of thine heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part
Or dare to vie with me,
Or if Committees thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then,
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen
And famous by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.

Thomas Jordan. 1612?-1685

335. Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice! The changeable world to our joy is unjust, All treasure 's uncertain, Then down with your dust! In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea; With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense, For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour That none but the stars Are thought fit to attend her, Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears? Let 's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, 'Tis certain, Post mortem Nulla voluptas. For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense, Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

336. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress

WHOE'ER she be-- That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal 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 glist'ring shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A Face, that 's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest.

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbour diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed 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 slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right.

Days, that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days, that in spite 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!'

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

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.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

337. The Weeper

HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
Still spending, never spent; I mean
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
'Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares
Promise the earth to countershine
Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
Then to his music: and his song
Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
And draw from these full eyes of thine
Their Master's water, their own wine.

The dew no more will weep
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
--For she is a Queen--
Then is she drest by none but thee:
Then and only then she wears
Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping are
For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
Nowhere but here did ever meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
Let day and night do what they will,
Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

Not So long she lived
Will thy tomb report of thee;
But So long she grieved:
Thus must we date thy memory.
Others by days, by months, by years,
Measure their ages, thou by tears.

Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can 'tice
You to be born? What cause can borrow
You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast
For sure the sordid earth
Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek
The darlings of Aurora's bed,
The rose's modest cheek,
Nor the violet's humble head.
No such thing: we go to meet
A worthier object--our Lord's feet.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death. She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do. Nor has she e'er yet understood Why, to show love, she should shed blood; Yet, though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die. Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love....

Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel for a martyrdom. No home for her, confesses she, But where she may a martyr be. She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem; She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give Them God, and teach them how to live In Him; or, if they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die. So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.

Farewell then, all the world, adieu! Teresa is no more for you. Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, Never till now esteemed toys!

Farewell whatever dear may be-- Mother's arms, or father's knee! Farewell house, and farewell home! She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.

Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom....

O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain! Of intolerable joys! Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would for ever so be slain; And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he still may die! How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at once die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh, and then,-- O what? Ask not the tongues of men.

Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, And hold them fast for ever there. So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come, And in her first ranks make thee room; Where, 'mongst her snowy family, Immortal welcomes wait for thee. O what delight, when she shall stand And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses! What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart!

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall shine, And thy sufferings be divine. Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew. Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ Love's noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, And with them all about thee bow To Him; put on, He'll say, put on, My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls, whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars; and so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go. And, wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, Which who in death would live to see, Must learn in life to die like thee.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

339. Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa

O THOU undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and fires; By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the seraphim!); By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

340. Verses from the Shepherds' Hymn

WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the East, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow-- A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?

No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome--tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

341. Christ Crucified

THY restless feet now cannot go
For us and our eternal good,
As they were ever wont. What though
They swim, alas! in their own flood?

Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be;
It gives, but O, itself's the gift!
It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together

TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas

IF to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone
You or I were alone;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,
Or pay a tear to 'suage
The foaming blue god's rage;
For whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,
Our faith and troth,
Like separated souls,
All time and space controls:
Above the highest sphere we meet
Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate
Our after-fate,
And are alive i' the skies,
If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

345. Gratiana Dancing

SHE beat the happy pavement--
By such a star made firmament,
Which now no more the roof envìes!
But swells up high, with Atlas even,
Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,
And, in her, all the deities.

Each step trod out a Lover's thought,
And the ambitious hopes he brought
Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts,
Such sweet command and gentle awe,
As, when she ceased, we sighing saw
The floor lay paved with broken hearts.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

346. To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair

AMARANTHA sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly!

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' East, To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest, But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night, Like the Sun in 's early ray; But shake your head, and scatter day!

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

347. The Grasshopper

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

348. To Althea, from Prison

WHEN Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free--
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

349. Anacreontics 1. Drinking

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in Nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there--for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

350. Anacreontics 2. The Epicure

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowerly beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, And around it roses growing, What should I do but drink away The heat and troubles of the day? In this more than kingly state Love himself on me shall wait. Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! And mingled cast into the cup Wit and mirth and noble fires, Vigorous health and gay desires. The wheel of life no less will stay In a smooth than rugged way: Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments shower?-- Nobler wines why do we pour?-- Beauteous flowers why do we spread Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses while I live, Now your wines and ointments give: After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have: All are Stoics in the grave.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

351. Anacreontics 3. The Swallow

FOOLISH prater, what dost thou So early at my window do? Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day; A dream that ne'er must equall'd be By all that waking eyes may see. Thou this damage to repair Nothing half so sweet and fair, Nothing half so good, canst bring, Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey

IT was a dismal and a fearful night: Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light, When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breast By something liker Death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know!

My sweet companion and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever and my life to moan? O, thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony Besieged around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas! my treasure 's gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry-- Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker join And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, But low and humble as his grave. So high that all the virtues there did come, As to their chiefest seat Conspicuous and great; So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget; And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retired, and gave to them their due. For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always lived, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the Sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.

But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age, Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose-- The place now only free from those. There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; And wheresoe'er thou casts thy view Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

353. The Wish

WELL then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.