Chapter V: Canto III (1)

The bloody fight, successless toil,
And how the fishes sack'd the isle.

The boat which, on the first assault did go, Struck with a harping-iron the younger foe; Who, when he felt his side so rudely gored, Loud as the sea that nourished him he roar'd. As a broad bream, to please some curious taste, While yet alive, in boiling water cast, Vex'd with unwonted heat he flings about The scorching brass, and hurls the liquor out; So with the barbed jav'lin stung, he raves, And scourges with his tail the suffering waves. 140 Like Spenser's Talus with his iron flail, He threatens ruin with his pond'rous tail; Dissolving at one stroke the batter'd boat, And down the men fall drenched in the moat; With every fierce encounter they are forced To quit their boats, and fare like men unhorsed.

The bigger whale like some huge carrack lay, Which wanteth sea-room with her foes to play; Slowly she swims; and when, provoked, she would Advance her tail, her head salutes the mud; 150 The shallow water doth her force infringe, And renders vain her tail's impetuous swinge; The shining steel her tender sides receive, And there, like bees, they all their weapons leave.

This sees the cub, and does himself oppose Betwixt his cumber'd mother and her foes; With desp'rate courage he receives her wounds, And men and boats his active tail confounds. Their forces join'd, the seas with billows fill, And make a tempest, though the winds be still. 160 Now would the men with half their hopèd prey Be well content, and wish this cub away; Their wish they have: he (to direct his dam Unto the gap through which they thither came) Before her swims, and quits the hostile lake, A pris'ner there but for his mother's sake. She, by the rocks compell'd to stay behind, Is by the vastness of her bulk confined. They shout for joy! and now on her alone Their fury falls, and all their darts are thrown. 170 Their lances spent, one, bolder than the rest, With his broad sword provoked the sluggish beast; Her oily side devours both blade and haft, And there his steel the bold Bermudan left. Courage the rest from his example take, And now they change the colour of the lake; Blood flows in rivers from her wounded side, As if they would prevent the tardy tide, And raise the flood to that propitious height, As might convey her from this fatal strait. 180 She swims in blood, and blood does spouting throw To heaven, that heaven men's cruelties might know. Their fixed jav'lins in her side she wears, And on her back a grove of pikes appears; You would have thought, had you the monster seen Thus dress'd, she had another island been: Roaring she tears the air with such a noise, As well resembled the conspiring voice Of routed armies, when the field is won, 189 To reach the ears of her escapèd son. He, though a league removèd from the foe, Hastes to her aid; the pious Trojan[1] so, Neglecting for Creusa's life his own, Repeats the danger of the burning town. The men, amazèd, blush to see the seed Of monsters human piety exceed. Well proves this kindness, what the Grecian sung, That love's bright mother from the ocean sprung. Their courage droops, and hopeless now, they wish For composition with th'unconquered fish; 200 So she their weapons would restore again, Through rocks they'd hew her passage to the main. But how instructed in each other's mind? Or what commerce can men with monsters find? Not daring to approach their wounded foe, Whom her courageous son protected so, They charge their muskets, and, with hot desire Of fell revenge, renew the fight with fire; Standing aloof, with lead they bruise the scales, And tear the flesh of the incensèd whales. 210 But no success their fierce endeavours found, Nor this way could they give one fatal wound. Now to their fort they are about to send For the loud engines which their isle defend; But what those pieces framed to batter walls, Would have effected on those mighty whales, Great Neptune will not have us know, who sends A tide so high that it relieves his friends. And thus they parted with exchange of harms; Much blood the monsters lost, and they their arms. 220

[1] 'Trojan': Aeneas.

OF THE QUEEN.

The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build Her humble nest, lies silent in the field; But if (the promise of a cloudless day) Aurora smiling bids her rise and play, Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice, Or power to climb, she made so low a choice; Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd T'wards heaven, as if from heaven her note she fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng, Use to restrain the ambition of our song; 10 But since the light which now informs our age Breaks from the Court, indulgent to her rage, Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies, To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes; Those sov'reign beams which heal the wounded soul, And all our cares, but once beheld, control! There the poor lover that has long endured Some proud nymph's scorn, of his fond passion cured, Fares like the man who first upon the ground A glow-worm spied, supposing he had found 20 A moving diamond, a breathing stone; For life it had, and like those jewels shone; He held it dear, till by the springing day Inform'd, he threw the worthless worm away.

She saves the lover as we gangrenes stay, By cutting hope, like a lopp'd limb, away; This makes her bleeding patients to accuse High Heaven, and these expostulations use: 'Could Nature then no private woman grace, Whom we might dare to love, with such a face, 30 Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes, Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies? Beyond our reach, and yet within our sight, What envious power has placed this glorious light?'

Thus, in a starry night, fond children cry For the rich spangles that adorn the sky, Which, though they shine for ever fixed there, With light and influence relieve us here. All her affections are to one inclined; Her bounty and compassion to mankind; 40 To whom, while she so far extends her grace, She makes but good the promise of her face; For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen, No sweeter look than this propitious queen. Such guard, and comfort, the distressed find From her large power, and from her larger mind, That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers, For all the miserable are made hers. So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds, Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds, shields; 50 The royal bird possesses all the boughs, But shade and shelter to the flock allows.

Joy of our age, and safety of the next! For which so oft thy fertile womb is vex'd; Nobly contented, for the public good, To waste thy spirits and diffuse thy blood, What vast hopes may these islands entertain, Where monarchs, thus descended, are to reign? Led by commanders of so fair a line, Our seas no longer shall our power confine. 60

A brave romance who would exactly frame, First brings his knight from some immortal dame, And then a weapon, and a flaming shield, Bright as his mother's eyes, he makes him wield. None might the mother of Achilles be, But the fair pearl and glory of the sea;[1] The man to whom great Maro gives such fame,[2] From the high bed of heavenly Venus came; And our next Charles, whom all the stars design Like wonders to accomplish, springs from thine. 70

[1] 'Sea': Thetis [2] 'Maro': Aeneas

THE APOLOGY OF SLEEP, FOR NOT APPROACHING THE LADY WHO CAN DO ANYTHING BUT SLEEP WHEN SHE PLEASES.

My charge it is those breaches to repair Which Nature takes from sorrow, toil, and care; Rest to the limbs, and quiet I confer On troubled minds; but nought can add to her Whom Heaven, and her transcendent thoughts have placed Above those ills which wretched mortals taste.

Bright as the deathless gods, and happy, she From all that may infringe delight is free; Love at her royal feet his quiver lays, And not his mother with more haste obeys. 10 Such real pleasures, such true joys' suspense, What dream can I present to recompense?

Should I with lightning fill her awful hand, And make the clouds seem all at her command; Or place her in Olympus' top, a guest Among the immortals, who with nectar feast; That power would seem, that entertainment, short Of the true splendour of her present Court,

Where all the joys, and all the glories, are 19 Of three great kingdoms, sever'd from the care. I, that of fumes and humid vapours made, Ascending, do the seat of sense invade, No cloud in so serene a mansion find, To overcast her ever-shining mind,

Which holds resemblance with those spotless skies, Where flowing Nilus want of rain supplies; That crystal heaven, where Phoebus never shrouds His golden beams, nor wraps his face in clouds. But what so hard which numbers cannot force? So stoops the moon, and rivers change their course. 30

The bold Mæonian[1] made me dare to steep Jove's dreadful temples in the dew of sleep; And since the Muses do invoke my power, I shall no more decline that sacred bower Where Gloriana their great mistress lies; But, gently taming those victorious eyes,

Charm all her senses, till the joyful sun Without a rival half his course has run; Who, while my hand that fairer light confines, May boast himself the brightest thing that shines. 40

[1] 'Mæonian': Homer.

PUERPERIUM.[1]

1 You gods that have the power
To trouble and compose
All that's beneath your bower,
Calm silence on the seas, on earth impose.

2 Fair Venus! in thy soft arms
The God of Rage confine;
For thy whispers are the charms
Which only can divert his fierce design.

3 What though he frown, and to tumult do incline?
Thou the flame
Kindled in his breast canst tame,
With that snow which unmelted lies on thine.

4 Great goddess! give this thy sacred island rest;
Make heaven smile,
That no storm disturb us while
Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.

5 Great Gloriana! fair Gloriana!
Bright as high heaven is, and fertile as earth,
Whose beauty relieves us,
Whose royal bed gives us
Both glory and peace,
Our present joy, and all our hopes' increase.

[1] 'Puerperium ': Fenton conjectures that this poem was written in
1640, when the Queen was delivered of her fourth son, the Duke of
Gloucester.

A LA MALADE.

Ah, lovely Amoret! the care Of all that know what's good or fair! Is heaven become our rival too? Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you So amply thence, the common end Of giving lovers--to pretend? Hence, to this pining sickness (meant To weary thee to a consent Of leaving us) no power is given 9 Thy beauties to impair; for heaven Solicits thee with such a care, As roses from their stalks we tear, When we would still preserve them new And fresh, as on the bush they grew.

With such a grace you entertain, And look with such contempt on pain, That languishing you conquer more, And wound us deeper than before. So lightnings which in storms appear, Scorch more than when the skies are clear. 20

And as pale sickness does invade Your frailer part, the breaches made In that fair lodging, still more clear Make the bright guest, your soul, appear. So nymphs o'er pathless mountains borne, Their light robes by the brambles torn From their fair limbs, exposing new And unknown beauties to the view Of following gods, increase their flame And haste to catch the flying game. 30

UPON THE DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.[1]

May those already cursed Essexian plains, Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns, Prove all a desert! and none there make stay, But savage beasts, or men as wild as they! There the fair light which all our island graced, Like Hero's taper in the window placed, Such fate from the malignant air did find, 7 As that exposed to the boist'rous wind.

Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away Her for whose life, had we had time to pray, With thousand vows and tears we should have sought That sad decree's suspension to have wrought. But we, alas! no whisper of her pain Heard, till 'twas sin to wish her here again. That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread, Struck all our ears--The Lady Rich is dead! Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few Who her resemble, and her steps pursue; That death should license have to rage among The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young! 20

The Paphian queen from that fierce battle borne, With gored hand, and veil so rudely torn, Like terror did among th'immortals breed, Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.

All stand amazed! but beyond the rest th'heroic dame whose happy womb she bless'd,[2] Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven, Urging the promise to th'obsequious given, Of longer life; for ne'er was pious soul More apt t'obey, more worthy to control. 30 A skilful eye at once might read the race Of Caledonian monarchs in her face, And sweet humility; her look and mind At once were lofty, and at once were kind. There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too, For those that did what she disdain'd to do; So gentle and severe, that what was bad, At once her hatred and her pardon had.

Gracious to all; but where her love was due, 39 So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true, That a bold hand as soon might hope to force The rolling lights of heaven, as change her course.

Some happy angel, that beholds her there, Instruct us to record what she was here! And when this cloud of sorrow's overblown, Through the wide world we'll make her graces known. So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast, That all our art and power of speech is waste. Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise Eternal monuments of louder praise. 50

There our delight, complying with her fame, Shall have occasion to recite thy name, Fair Saccharissa!--and now only fair! To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear (Such as the Romans did erect of old), Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told The lovely passion each to other bare, With the resemblance of that matchless pair. Narcissus to the thing for which he pined Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, 60 Save that she graced the several parts of life, A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife. Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you, As that she holds with her associates now.

How false is hope, and how regardless fate, That such a love should have so short a date! Lately I saw her, sighing, part from thee; (Alas that that the last farewell should be!) So looked Astræa, her remove design'd, On those distressed friends she left behind. 70 Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast, That still the knot, in spite of death, does last; For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul, Prove well that on your part this bond is whole, So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love. Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave, Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have; Well-chosen love is never taught to die, But with our nobler part invades the sky. 80 Then grieve no more that one so heavenly shaped The crooked hand of trembling age escaped; Rather, since we beheld her not decay, But that she vanish'd so entire away, Her wondrous beauty, and her goodness, merit We should suppose that some propitious spirit In that celestial form frequented here, And is not dead, but ceases to appear.

[1] 'Lady Rich': she was the daughter of the Earl of Devonshire, and
married to the heir of the Earl of Warwick.
[2] 'Womb she blessed': the Countess of Devonshire, a very old woman,
the only daughter of Lord Bruce, descended from Robert the Bruce.

OF LOVE.

Anger, in hasty words or blows, Itself discharges on our foes; And sorrow, too, finds some relief In tears, which wait upon our grief; So every passion, but fond love, Unto its own redress does move; But that alone the wretch inclines To what prevents his own designs; Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep; 10 Postures which render him despised, Where he endeavours to be prized.

For women (born to be controll'd) Stoop to the forward and the bold; Affect the haughty and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the gen'rous steed oppress'd, Not kneeling did salute the beast; But with high courage, life, and force, Approaching, tamed th'unruly horse. 20

Unwisely we the wiser East Pity, supposing them oppress'd With tyrants' force, whose law is will, By which they govern, spoil and kill: Each nymph, but moderately fair, Commands with no less rigour here. Should some brave Turk, that walks among His twenty lasses, bright and young, And beckons to the willing dame, Preferr'd to quench his present flame, 30 Behold as many gallants here, With modest guise and silent fear, All to one female idol bend, While her high pride does scarce descend To mark their follies, he would swear That these her guard of eunuchs were, And that a more majestic queen, Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke, In vain I struggled with the yoke 40 Of mighty Love; that conqu'ring look, When next beheld, like lightning strook My blasted soul, and made me bow Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, 47 With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dogs, resolves to try The combat next; but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He straight resumes his wonted care, Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

FOR DRINKING OF HEALTHS.

Let brutes and vegetals, that cannot think, So far as drought and nature urges, drink; A more indulgent mistress guides our sp'rits, Reason, that dares beyond our appetites; (She would our care, as well as thirst, redress), And with divinity rewards excess. Deserted Ariadne, thus supplied, Did perjured Theseus' cruelty deride; Bacchus embraced, from her exalted thought Banish'd the man, her passion, and his fault. 10 Bacchus and Phoebus are by Jove allied, And each by other's timely heat supplied; All that the grapes owe to his rip'ning fires Is paid in numbers which their juice inspires. Wine fills the veins, and healths are understood To give our friends a title to our blood; Who, naming me, doth warm his courage so, Shows for my sake what his bold hand would do.

OF MY LADY ISABELLA, PLAYING ON THE LUTE.

Such moving sounds from such a careless touch! So unconcern'd herself, and we so much! What art is this, that with so little pains Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns? The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, And tell their joy for every kiss aloud. Small force there needs to make them tremble so; Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too? Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear, Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer. 10 Music so softens and disarms the mind, That not an arrow does resistance find. Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, And acts herself the triumph of her eyes: So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd.

OF MRS ARDEN.[1]

Behold, and listen, while the fair Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air, And with her own breath fans the fire Which her bright eyes do first inspire. What reason can that love control, Which more than one way courts the soul?

So when a flash of lightning falls On our abodes, the danger calls For human aid, which hopes the flame 9 To conquer, though from heaven it came; But if the winds with that conspire, Men strive not, but deplore the fire.

[1] 'Mrs. Arden': some suggest that this lady was probably either a maid
of honour, or a gentlewoman of the bed-chamber to King Charles the
First's Queen.

OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.[1]

Design, or chance, makes others wive; But Nature did this match contrive; Eve might as well have Adam fled, As she denied her little bed To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame, And measure out, this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly Of sad distrust and jealousy; 10 Secured in as high extreme, As if the world held none but them.

To him the fairest nymphs do show Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow; And every man a Polypheme Does to his Galatea seem; None may presume her faith to prove; He proffers death that proffers love.

Ah, Chloris! that kind Nature thus From all the world had severed us; 20 Creating for ourselves us two, As love has me for only you!

[1] 'Dwarfs': Gibson and Shepherd, each three feet ten inches in height.
They were pages at Court, and Charles I. gave away the female
infinitesimal.

LOVE'S FAREWELL.

1 Treading the path to nobler ends,
A long farewell to love I gave,
Resolved my country, and my friends,
All that remain'd of me should have.

2 And this resolve no mortal dame,
None but those eyes could have o'erthrown;
The nymph I dare not, need not name,
So high, so like herself alone.

3 Thus the tall oak, which now aspires
Above the fear of private fires,
Grown and design'd for nobler use,
Not to make warm, but build the house,
Though from our meaner flames secure,
Must that which falls from heaven endure.

FROM A CHILD.

Madam, as in some climes the warmer sun Makes it full summer ere the spring's begun, And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load, Before our violets dare look abroad; So measure not by any common use The early love your brighter eyes produce. When lately your fair hand in woman's weed Wrapp'd my glad head, I wish'd me so indeed, That hasty time might never make me grow Out of those favours you afford me now; 10 That I might ever such indulgence find, And you not blush, nor think yourself too kind; Who now, I fear, while I these joys express, Begin to think how you may make them less. The sound of love makes your soft heart afraid, And guard itself, though but a child invade, And innocently at your white breast throw A dart as white-a ball of new fallen snow.

ON A GIRDLE.

That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

THE FALL.

See! how the willing earth gave way, To take th'impression where she lay. See! how the mould, as both to leave So sweet a burden, still doth cleave Close to the nymph's stain'd garment. Here The coming spring would first appear, And all this place with roses strow, If busy feet would let them grow. Here Venus smiled to see blind chance Itself before her son advance, 10 And a fair image to present, Of what the boy so long had meant. 'Twas such a chance as this, made all The world into this order fall; Thus the first lovers, on the clay, Of which they were composéd, lay; So in their prime, with equal grace, Met the first patterns of our race. Then blush not, fair! or on him frown, Or wonder how you both came down; 20 But touch him, and he'll tremble straight, How could he then support your weight? How could the youth, alas! but bend, When his whole heaven upon him lean'd? If aught by him amiss were done, 'Twas that he let you rise so soon.

OF SYLVIA.

1 Our sighs are heard; just Heaven declares
The sense it has of lovers' cares;
She that so far the rest outshined,
Sylvia the fair, while she was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now.
So, when the sky makes us endure
A storm, itself becomes obscure.

2 Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's self her name,
Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand such as I,
Their grief untold, should pine and die;
Than her bright morning, overcast
With sullen clouds, should be defaced.

THE BUD.

1 Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;
I pluck'd it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.

2 Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon.
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower, my breath has done.

3 If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love, and music too,
When Flavia it aspires to move?
When that, which lifeless buds persuades
To wax more soft, her youth invades?

ON THE DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.

1 Pygmalion's fate reversed is mine;[1]
His marble love took flesh and blood;
All that I worshipp'd as divine,
That beauty! now 'tis understood,
Appears to have no more of life
Than that whereof he framed his wife.

2 As women yet, who apprehend
Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find,
Like leaves saluted by the wind:

3 So though the beauty do appear
No beauty, which amazed me so;
Yet from my breast I cannot tear
The passion which from thence did grow;
Nor yet out of my fancy raze
The print of that supposèd face.

4 A real beauty, though too near,
The fond Narcissus did admire:
I dote on that which is nowhere;
The sign of beauty feeds my fire.
No mortal flame was e'er so cruel
As this, which thus survives the fuel!

[1] 'Mine': Ovid, _Met_. x.

OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT.

1 Not caring to observe the wind,
Or the new sea explore,
Snatch'd from myself, how far behind
Already I behold the shore!

2 May not a thousand dangers sleep
In the smooth bosom of this deep?
No; 'tis so reckless and so clear,
That the rich bottom does appear
Paved all with precious things; not torn
From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born.

3 Sweetness, truth, and every grace
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The eye may in a moment reach,
And read distinctly in her face.

4 Some other nymphs, with colours faint,
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint,
And a weak heart in time destroy;
She has a stamp, and prints the boy:
Can, with a single look, inflame
The coldest breast, the rudest tame.

THE SELF-BANISHED.

1 It is not that I love you less,
Than when before your feet I lay;
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.

2 In vain, alas! for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

3 Who in the spring, from the new sun,
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot;

4 Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.

5 But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made--to love you too.

A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR, OF THE PRESENT GREATNESS, AND JOINT INTEREST, OF HIS HIGHNESS, AND THIS NATION.[1]

1 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

2 Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injured that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.

3 Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition, tossing us, repress'd.

4 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restored by you, is made a glorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.

5 The sea's our own; and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet;
Your power extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

6 Heaven (that hath placed this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe),
In this conjunction doth on Britain smile;
The greatest leader, and the greatest isle!

7 Whether this portion of the world were rent,
By the rude ocean, from the continent,
Or thus created, it was sure design'd
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.

8 Hither th'oppressed shall henceforth resort,
Justice to crave, and succour, at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world's Protector shall be known.

9 Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies
Through every land that near the ocean lies,
Sounding your name, and telling dreadful news
To all that piracy and rapine use.

10 With such a chief the meanest nation bless'd,
Might hope to lift her head above the rest;
What may be thought impossible to do
By us, embraced by the sea and you?

11 Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea,
And every coast may trouble, or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.

12 Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy seats arrive;
While we descend at pleasure, to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.

13 Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,
Of her own growth hath all that Nature craves,
And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.

14 As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our earth, and what our heaven denies,
Our ever constant friend, the sea, supplies.

15 The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of every vine.

16 To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims;
Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

17 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds;
Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown,
Could never make this island all her own.

18 Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince, too,
France-conqu'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you;
For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

19 When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide
Another yet; a world reserved for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.

20 He safely might old troops to battle lead,
Against th'unwarlike Persian and the Mede,
Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field,
More spoils than honour to the victor yield.

21 A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

22 Whom the old Roman wall so ill confined,
With a new chain of garrisons you bind;
Here foreign gold no more shall make them come;
Our English iron holds them fast at home.

23 They, that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer regions than their hills of snow,
May blame the sun, but must extol your grace,
Which in our senate hath allowed them place.

24 Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown,
Falling they rise, to be with us made one;
So kind Dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.

25 Like favour find the Irish, with like fate,
Advanced to be a portion of our state;
While by your valour and your bounteous mind,
Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd.

26 Holland, to gain your friendship, is content
To be our outguard on the Continent;
She from her fellow-provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

27 In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse,
Preventing posts, the terror and the news,
Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar;
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.

28 Your never-failing sword made war to cease;
And now you heal us with the acts of peace;
Our minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

29 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone;
Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.

30 To pardon willing, and to punish loth,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both;
Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.

31 When fate, or error, had our age misled,
And o'er this nation such confusion spread,
The only cure, which could from Heaven come down,
Was so much power and piety in one!

32 One! whose extraction from an ancient line
Gives hope again that well-born men may shine;
The meanest in your nature, mild and good,
The noblest rest secured in your blood.

33 Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in peace
A mind proportion'd to such things as these;
How such a ruling sp'rit you could restrain,
And practise first over yourself to reign.

34 Your private life did a just pattern give,
How fathers, husbands, pious sons should live;
Born to command, your princely virtues slept,
Like humble David's, while the flock he kept.

35 But when your troubled country called you forth,
Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth,
Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend,
To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end.

36 Still as you rise, the state, exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you;
Changed like the world's great scene! when, without noise,
The rising sun night's vulgar light destroys.

37 Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read your story;
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.

38 This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him went back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

39 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars,
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

40 If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord;
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

41 You! that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high sp'rits compose;
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

42 So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

43 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil oppress'd,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

44 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace;
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

45 Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overrun,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won;
How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

46 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And every conqueror creates a Muse.
Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing;
But there, my lord! we'll bays and olive bring,

47 To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside;
While all your neighbour princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves,[2] pay reverence, and bow.

[1] Written about 1654. [2] 'Joseph's sheaves': Gen. xxxvii.

ON THE HEAD OF A STAG.

So we some antique hero's strength Learn by his lance's weight and length, As these vast beams express the beast Whose shady brows alive they dress'd. Such game, while yet the world was new, The mighty Nimrod did pursue. What huntsman of our feeble race, Or dogs, dare such a monster chase, Resembling, with each blow he strikes, 9 The charge of a whole troop of pikes? O fertile head! which every year Could such a crop of wonder bear! The teeming earth did never bring So soon, so hard, so huge a thing; Which might it never have been cast (Each year's growth added to the last), These lofty branches had supplied The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride; Heaven with these engines had been scaled, When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd. 20

THE MISER'S SPEECH. IN A MASQUE.

Balls of this metal slack'd At'lanta's pace, And on the am'rous youth[1] bestow'd the race; Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own), Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize. Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe; For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe, Who can blame Danaë[2], or the brazen tower, That they withstood not that almighty shower 10 Never till then did love make Jove put on A form more bright, and nobler than his own; Nor were it just, would he resume that shape, That slack devotion should his thunder 'scape. 'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, 15 Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung, But fond repentance of his happy wish, Because his meat grew metal like his dish. Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

[1] 'Am'rous youth': Hippomenes.
[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the
second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more
conventional diaresis shown here.

CHLORIS AND HYLAS. MADE TO A SARABAND.

CHLORIS.

Hylas, O Hylas! why sit we mute, Now that each bird saluteth the spring? Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute, Never canst thou want matter to sing; For love thy breast does fill with such a fire, That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYLAS.

Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things Of various flowers the bees do compose; Yet no particular taste it brings Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose; 10 So love the result is of all the graces Which flow from a thousand sev'ral faces.

CHLORIS.

Hylas! the birds which chant in this grove, Could we but know the language they use, They would instruct us better in love, And reprehend thy inconstant Muse; For love their breasts does fill with such a fire, 17 That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.

HYLAS.

Chloris! this change the birds do approve, Which the warm season hither does bring; 20 Time from yourself does further remove You, than the winter from the gay spring; She that like lightning shined while her face lasted, The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.

IN ANSWER OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.

CON.

Stay here, fond youth! and ask no more; be wise; Knowing too much long since lost Paradise.

PRO.

And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft Of all that Paradise which yet is left.

CON.

The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst should still Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill If rudely from sweet dreams, and for a toy, Thou waked; he wakes himself that does enjoy.

PRO.

How can the joy, or hope, which you allow Be styled virtuous, and the end not so? 10 Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire! 'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire; But--to sleep better; for whoe'er drinks deep Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.

CON.

Fruition adds no new wealth, but destroys, And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys. Who thinks he should be happier made for that, As reasonably might hope he might grow fat By eating to a surfeit; this once past, What relishes? even kisses lose their taste. 20

PRO.

Blessings may be repeated while they cloy; But shall we starve, 'cause surfeitings destroy? And if fruition did the taste impair Of kisses, why should yonder happy pair, Whose joys just Hymen warrants all the night, Consume the day, too, in this less delight?

CON.

Urge not 'tis necessary; alas! we know The homeliest thing that mankind does is so. The world is of a large extent we see, And must be peopled; children there must be: 30 So must bread too; but since there are enow Born to that drudgery, what need we plough?

PRO.

I need not plough, since what the stooping hine[1] Gets of my pregnant land must all be mine; But in this nobler tillage 'tis not so; For when Anchises did fair Venus know, What interest had poor Vulcan in the boy, Famous Aeneas, or the present joy?

CON.

Women enjoy'd, whate'er before they've been, 39 Are like romances read, or scenes once seen; Fruition dulls or spoils the play much more Than if one read, or knew the plot before.

PRO.

Plays and romances read and seen, do fall In our opinions; yet not seen at all, Whom would they please? To an heroic tale Would you not listen, lest it should grow stale?

CON.

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not heaven, if we knew what it were.

PRO.

If 'twere not heaven if we knew what it were, 'Twould not be heaven to those that now are there. 50

CON.

And as in prospects we are there pleased most, Where something keeps the eye from being lost, And leaves us room to guess; so here, restraint Holds up delight, that with excess would faint.

PRO.

Restraint preserves the pleasure we have got, But he ne'er has it that enjoys it not. In goodly prospects, who contracts the space, Or takes not all the bounty of the place? We wish remov'd what standeth in our light, And nature blame for limiting our sight; 60 Where you stand wisely winking, that the view Of the fair prospect may be always new.

CON.

They, who know all the wealth they have, are poor; He's only rich that cannot tell his store.

PRO.

Not he that knows the wealth he has is poor, But he that dares not touch, nor use, his store.

[1] 'Hine': hind.

AN APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.

1 They that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.

2 So they that are to love inclined,
Sway'd by chance, not choice or art,
To the first that's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
'Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

3 To man, that was in th'ev'ning made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Those little drops of light;
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing t'ward the east did stand,
She entertain'd his eyes.

4 But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determined there,
And could no higher rise;
He neither might, nor wished to know
A more refulgent light;
For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employ'd his utmost sight.

THE NIGHT-PIECE; OR, A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE DARK.

Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms, Defends us ill from Mira's charms; Mira can lay her beauty by, Take no advantage of the eye, Quit all that Lely's art can take, And yet a thousand captives make. Her speech is graced with sweeter sound Than in another's song is found! And all her well-placed words are darts, Which need no light to reach our hearts. 10 As the bright stars and Milky Way, Show'd by the night, are hid by day; So we, in that accomplish'd mind, Help'd by the night, new graces find, Which, by the splendour of her view, Dazzled before, we never knew. While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark; Her shining image is a light Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night. 20 Like jewels to advantage set, Her beauty by the shade does get; There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, All that our passion might restrain, Is hid, and our indulgent mind Presents the fair idea kind. Yet, friended by the night, we dare Only in whispers tell our care; He that on her his bold hand lays, With Cupid's pointed arrows plays; 30 They with a touch (they are so keen!) Wound us unshot, and she unseen. All near approaches threaten death; We may be shipwreck'd by her breath; Love, favour'd once with that sweet gale, Doubles his haste, and fills his sail, Till he arrive where she must prove The haven, or the rock, of love. So we th'Arabian coast do know At distance, when the spices blow; 40 By the rich odour taught to steer, Though neither day nor stars appear.

ON THE PICTURE OF A FAIR YOUTH, TAKEN AFTER HE WAS DEAD.

As gather'd flowers, while their wounds are new, Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew; Torn from the root that nourish'd them, awhile (Not taking notice of their fate) they smile, And, in the hand which rudely pluck'd them, show Fairer than those that to their autumn grow; So love and beauty still that visage grace; Death cannot fright them from their wonted place. Alive, the hand of crooked Age had marr'd, Those lovely features which cold Death has spared.

No wonder then he sped in love so well, When his high passion he had breath to tell; When that accomplish'd soul, in this fair frame, No business had but to persuade that dame, Whose mutual love advanced the youth so high, That, but to heaven, he could no higher fly.

ON A BREDE OF DIVERS COLOURS, WOVEN BY FOUR LADIES.

Twice twenty slender virgin-fingers twine This curious web, where all their fancies shine. As Nature them, so they this shade have wrought, Soft as their hands, and various as their thought; Not Juno's bird when, his fair train dispread, He woos the female to his painted bed, No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies, So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.

OF A WAR WITH SPAIN, AND FIGHT AT SEA.[1]

Now, for some ages, had the pride of Spain Made the sun shine on half the world in vain; While she bid war to all that durst supply The place of those her cruelty made die. Of Nature's bounty men forebore to taste, And the best portion of the earth lay waste. From the new world, her silver and her gold Came, like a tempest, to confound the old; Feeding with these the bribed electors' hopes, Alone she gives us emperors and popes; 10 With these accomplishing her vast designs, Europe was shaken with her Indian mines.

When Britain, looking with a just disdain Upon this gilded majesty of Spain, And knowing well that empire must decline, Whose chief support and sinews are of coin, Our nation's solid virtue did oppose To the rich troublers of the world's repose.

And now some months, encamping on the main, Our naval army had besiegèd Spain; 20 They that the whole world's monarchy design'd, Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined; From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see, Riding without a rival on the sea.

Others may use the ocean as their road, Only the English make it their abode, Whose ready sails with every wind can fly, And make a cov'nant with th'inconstant sky; Our oaks secure, as if they there took root, 29 We tread on billows with a steady foot.

Meanwhile the Spaniards in America, Near to the line the sun approaching saw, And hoped their European coasts to find Clear'd from our ships by the autumnal wind; Their huge capacious galleons stuff'd with plate, The lab'ring winds drive slowly t'wards their fate. Before St. Lucar they their guns discharge To tell their joy, or to invite a barge; This heard some ships of ours (though out of view), And, swift as eagles, to the quarry flew; 40 So heedless lambs, which for their mothers bleat, Wake hungry lions, and become their meat.

Arrived, they soon begin that tragic play, And with their smoky cannons banish day; Night, horror, slaughter, with confusion meets, And in their sable arms embrace the fleets. Through yielding planks the angry bullets fly, And, of one wound, hundreds together die; Born under diff'rent stars, one fate they have, The ship their coffin, and the sea their grave! 50 Bold were the men which on the ocean first Spread their new sails, when shipwreck was the worst; More danger now from man alone we find Than from the rocks, the billows, or the wind. They that had sail'd from near th'Antarctic Pole, Their treasure safe, and all their vessels whole, In sight of their dear country ruin'd be, Without the guilt of either rock or sea! What they would spare, our fiercer art destroys, Surpassing storms in terror and in noise. 60 Once Jove from Ida did both hosts survey, And, when he pleased to thunder, part the fray;

Here, heaven in vain that kind retreat should sound, The louder cannon had the thunder drown'd. Some we made prize; while others, burn'd and rent, With their rich lading to the bottom went; Down sinks at once (so Fortune with us sports:) The pay of armies, and the pride of courts. Vain man! whose rage buries as low that store, As avarice had digg'd for it before; 70 What earth, in her dark bowels, could not keep From greedy hands, lies safer in the deep, Where Thetis kindly does from mortals hide Those seeds of luxury, debate, and pride.

And now, into her lap the richest prize Fell, with the noblest of our enemies; The Marquis[2](glad to see the fire destroy Wealth that prevailing foes were to enjoy) Out from his flaming ship his children sent, To perish in a milder element; 80 Then laid him by his burning lady's side, And, since he could not save her, with her died. Spices and gums about them melting fry, And, phoenix-like, in that rich nest they die; Alive, in flames of equal love they burn'd, And now together are to ashes turn'd; Ashes! more worth than all their fun'ral cost, Than the huge treasure which was with them lost. These dying lovers, and their floating sons, Suspend the fight, and silence all our guns; 90 Beauty and youth about to perish, finds Such noble pity in brave English minds, That (the rich spoil forgot, their valour's prize,) All labour now to save their enemies.

How frail our passions! how soon changèd are 95 Our wrath and fury to a friendly care! They that but now for honour, and for plate, Made the sea blush with blood, resign their hate; And, their young foes endeav'ring to retrieve, With greater hazard than they fought, they dive. 100