waves

No marvel then the difference of the place Two shepherds I adore with humble love;
Makes in my mind at all no difference :

Th' high-tow'ring swain, that by slow Mincius
For love is not produc'd or penn'd in space,
Having i' th' soul his only residence.

His well grown wings at first did lowly prove, Love's fire is thought; and thought is never Where Corydon's sick love full sweetly raves; thence,

But after sung bold Turnus' daring braves: Where it feels want: then where a love is dear, And next our nearer Colin's sweetest strain; The mind in farthest distance is most near.

Most, where be most his Rosalind doth plain. Me Kent holds fast with thousand sweet embraces; Well may I after look, but follow all in vain. (There mought I die with thee, there with thee Why then speaks Thenot of the honour'd bay?" live?)

Apollo's self, though fain, could not obtain her; All in the sbades, the nymphs and naked Graces She at his melting songs would scorn to stay,

Fresh joys and still succeeding pleasures give; Though all his art he spent to entertain her:

So much we sport, we have no time to grieve : Wild beasts he tan'd, yet never could detain her. Here do we sit, and laugh white headed caring ; Then sit we here within this willow glade: And know no sorrow sinple pleasures marring. Mere for my Thenot I a garland made A crown of wood-nymphs, spread i' th’grassy plain, with purple violets, and lovely myrtle shade.

Sit round about, no niggards of their faces; Nor do they cloud their fair with black disdain ;

All to myself will they impart their graces: Ah! not such joys find I in other places :

UPON THE PICTURE OF ACHMAT THE TURKISU TYRANT. To them I often pipe, and often sing, Sweet notes to sweeter voices tempering.

Sucu Achmat is, the Turks' great emperor,

Third son to Mahomet, whose youthly spring And now but late I sang the Hymen toys

But now with blossom'd cheeks begins to flow'r; Of two fair lovers (fairer were there nerer)

Out of his face you well may read a king: That in one bed coupled their spousal joys ;

Which who will throughly view, will eas'ly find Fortune and Nature being scant to neither :

A perfect index to his haughty mind. What other dare not wish, was full in either. Thrice bappy bed, thrice happy lovers firing, Within his breast, as in a palace, lie Where present blessings have out-stript desiring! Wakeful ambition leagu'd with hasty pride;

Fierceness ally'd with Turkish majesty; And when me list to sadder tunes apply me,

Rests hate, in which his father living dy'd: Pasilia's dirge, and Eupathus complaining;

Deep in his heart such Turkish virtue lies, And often while my pipe lies idle by me, [ing; And thus looks through the window of his eyes.

Read Fusca's deep disdain, and Thirsil s plain

Yet in that face is no room for disdaining; His pleasure (fer from pleasure) is to see Where cheerful kindness smiles in either eye, His navy spread her wings unto the wind; And beauty still kisses humility.

Instead of gold, arms till his treasury, Then do not marvel Kentish strong delights,

Which (numberless) fill not his greedy mind, Stealing the time, do bere so long detain me:

The sad Hungarian fears his tried might; Not powerful Circe with her Hecate rites,

And waning Persia trembles at his sight. Nor pleasing Lotos thus could entertain me,

His greener youth, most with the heathen spent As Kentish powerful pleasures here enchain me. Gives Christian princes justest cause to fear Meantime, the nymphs that in our Breochly use,

His riper age, whose childhood thus is bent. Kindly salute your busy Cambridge Muse.

A thousand trophies will be shortly rear,

Unless that God, who gave him first this rage,

Bind his proud head in humble vassalage. TO MY BELOVED THENOT, IN ANSWER OF HIS VERSE. Thexot, my dear, how can a lofty bill

To lowly shepherds' thoughts be rightly fitting ? An humble dale well fits with humble quill: There may I safely sing, all fearless sitting,

THOMALIN, my lief, thy music strains to hear, My Fusca's eyes, my Fusca's beauty dittying;

More raps my soul than when the swelling winds My loved loneness, and hid Muse enjoying:

On craggy rocks their whistling voices tear;
Yet should'st thou come, and see our simple

Or when the sea, if stopt his course he finds, : toying,

(joying.

With broken murmurs thinks weak shores to fear, Well would fair Thenot like our sweet retired

Scorning such sandy cords his proud head binds:

More than where rivers in the summer's ray, But if my Thenot love my humble vein,

Through covert glades cutting their sbady way, (Too lowly vein) ne'er let him Colin call me ;

Run tumbling down the lawns, and with the He, while he was, was (ah!) the choicest swain,

pebbles play. That ever grac'd a reed: what e'er befal me, Or Myrtil, (so 'for Fusca fair did thral me, Thy strains to hear, old Chamus from his cell Most was I known) or now poor Thirsil Comes guarded with an hundred nymphs around; name me,

An hundred nymphs, that in his rivers dwell, Thirsil, for so my Fusca pleases frame me: About him flock, with water-lillies crown'd. But never mounting Colin; Colin's high style will For thee the Muses leave their silver well, shame me.

And marvel where thou all their art hast found:

TO MR. JO. TOMKINS.

TO THOMALIN.

There sitting, they admire thy dainty strains,
And while thy sadder accent sweetly plains,
Feel thousand sugar'd joys creep in their melting

THOMALIN, since Thirsil nothing has to leave thee veins.

And leave thee must; pardon me, (gentle friend) How oft have I, the Muses' bow'r frequenting,

If nothing but my love I only give thee; Miss'd them at home, and found them all with

Yet see how great this nothing is, I send :' thee!

For though this love of thine I sweetest prove, Whether thou sing'st sad Eupathus' lamenting,

Nothing's more sweet than is this sweetest love. Or tunest notes to sacred harmony, The ravish'd soul with thy sweet notes consenting, Nothing toss'd sailors equal with the shore:

The soldier nothing like his prey esteems; Scorning the Earth, in heav'nly extasy

Nothing before his health the sick man deems; Transcends the stars, and with the angels' train

The pilgrim hugs his country; nothing more: Those courts surveys; and now come back again,

The miser hoarding up his golden wares, Finds yet another Heaven in thy delightful strain.

This nothing with his precious wealth compares Ah! could'st thou here thy humble mind content, Our thoughts' ambition only nothing ends;

Lowly with me to live in country cell,
And learn suspect the court's proud blandishment, The prodigal, that all so lavish spends,

Nothing Hills up the golden-dropsied mind :
Here might we safe, here might we sweetly
dwell.

Yet nothing cannot; nothing stays behind : Live Pallas in her tow'rs and marble tent;

The king, that with bis life a kingdom buys,

Than life or crown doth nothing higher prize. But, ah! the country bow'rs please me as well:

Who all enjoys, yet nothing now desires; There with my Thomalin I safe would sing,

Nothing is greater than the highest Jove : And frame sweet ditties to thy sweeter string;

Who dwells in Heav'n, (then) nothing more reThere would we laugh at spite, and fortune's thun

quires;

[love : dering.

Love, more than honey; nothing more sweet than

Nothing is only better than the best ;
No flattery, hate, or envy, lodgeth there;

Nothing is sure: nothing is ever blest.
There no suspicion, wall'd in proved steel,
Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear:

I love my health, my life, my books, my friends, Pride is not there; no tyrant there we feel;

Thée, (dearest Thomalin) nothing above thee: No clamorous laws shall deaf thy music ear;

For when my books, friends, health, life, fainting They know no change, por wanton fortune's

ends, wheel :

When thy love fails, yet nothing still will love me: Thousand fresh sports grow in those dainty places; When heav'n, and air, the earth, and floating Light fawns and nymphs dance in the woody

mains spaces,

Are gone, yet nothing still untouch'd remains. And little Love himself plays with the naked Gracts.

Since then to other streams I must betake me,

And spiteful Cham of all has quite bereft me; But seeing fate my happy wish refuses,

Since Muses' selves (false Muses) will forsake me, Let me alone enjoy my low estate.

And but this nothing, nothing else is left me; Of all the gifts that fair Parnassus uses,

Take thou my love, and keep it still in store: Only scorn'd poverty and fortune's hate

That given, nothing now remaineth more.
Cornton I find to me, and to the Muses;

But with the Muses welcome poorest fate.
Safe in my humble cottage will I rest;
And lifting up from my untainted breast
A quiet spirit to Heaven, securely live and blest.

If well thou view'st us with no squinted eye,
To thee I here bequeath the courtly joys,

No partial judgment, thou wilt quickly rate Seeing to court my Thomalin is bent:

Thy wealth no richer than my poverty ; Take from thy Thirsil these his idle toys;

My want no poorer than thy rich estate: Here I will end my looser merriment:

Our ends and births alike; in this, as I; And when thou sing'st them to the wanton boys, Poor thou wert born, and poor again shalt die.

Among the courtly lasses' blandishment, Think of thy Thirsil's love that never spends;

My little fills my little-wishing mind; And softly say, his love still better mends:

Thou having more than much, yet seekest more: Ah! too unlike the love of court, or courtly

Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks to find; friends!

Who wishes, wants; and who so wants, is poor:

Then this must follow of necessity ; Go, little pipe; for ever I must leave thee,

Poor are thy riches, rich my poverty. My little, little pipe, but sweetest ever: Go, go, for I have vow'd to see thee never: Though still thou gett'st, yet is thy want not spent,

Never, ah! never must I more receive thee : But as thy wealth, so grows thy wealthy itch: But he in better love will still persever ;

But with my little I have much content; Go, little pipe, for I must have a new.

Content bath all; and who hath all, is rich: Farewell, ye Norfolk maids, and Ida crew;

Then this in reason thou must needs confess, Thirsil will play no more; for ever now adieu ! If I have little, yet that thou hast less,

AGAINST A RICH MAN DESPISING POVERTY.

Whatever man possesses, God hath lent,

Disdain'd, where most I lov'd, to thee I plain me, And to his audit liable is ever,

Who truly lovest those, who (fools) disdain thee. To reckon, how, and where, and when he spent: Then thus thou bragg'st, thou art a great receiver: Thou death of death, oh, in thy death engrave

Little my debt, when little is my store: (more. Thou hated Love, with thy firm love respect me; The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the

Thou freest servant, from this yoke unslave me: But seeing God himself descended down

Glorious salvation, for thy glory save me. T enrich the poor by his rich poverty ;

So neither lore, nor hate, scorn, death, shall His meat, his house, his grave, were not his own,

[thee. Yet all is bis from all eternity:

But with thy love, great Love, I still shall love Let me be like my head, whom I adore: Be thou great, wealthy, I still base and poor.

move me;

ON WOMEN'S LIGHTNESS.

Who sows the sand? or ploughs the easy shore? CONTEMNENTI.

Or strives in nets to prison in the wind? CONTINUAL burning, yet no fire or fuel,

Yet I, (fond 1) more fond, and senseless more, Chill icy frosts in midst of summer's frying, Thought in sure love a woman's thoughts to bind. A bell most pleasing, and a heav'n most cruel, Fond, too fond thoughts, that thought in love A death still living, and a life still dying,

to tie And whatsoever pains poor hearts can prove,

One more inconstant than inconstancy! I feel, and utter, in one word, I love:

Look as it is with some true April day, [fiowers; Two fires, of love and grief, each upon either,

Whose various weather stores the world with And both upon one poor heart ever feeding:

The Sun his glorious beams doth fair display, Chill cold despair, most cold, yet cooling neither,

Then rains, and shines again, and straight it lowers, In midst of fires his icy frosts is breeding :

And twenty changes in one hour doth prove; So fires and frosts, to make a perfect hell,

So, and more changing is a woman's love. Meet in one breast, in one house friendly dwell.

Or as the hairs which deck their wanton heads, Tir'd in this toilsome way (my deep affection)

Which loosely fly, and play with every wind,

And with each blast turn round their golden threads; I ever forward run, and never ease me: I dare not swerve, her eye is my direction:

Such as their hair, such is their looser mind: A heavy grief, and weighty love oppress me, [me:

The difference this, their hair is often bound; Desire and hope, lwo spurs, that forth compell’d

But never bonds a woman might embound. But awful fear, a bridle, still withheld me. False is their flattering colour, false and fading;

Palse is their flattering tongue; false every part, Twice have I plung'd, and Aung, and strove to cast This double burden from my weary heart:

Their hair is forg'd, their silver foreheads shading; Past though I run, and stop, they sit as fast :

False are their eyes, but falsest is their heart:

Then this in consequence must needs ensue; Her looks my bait, which she doth seld' impart:

All must be false, when every part's untrue. , Thus fainting, still some inn I wish and crave; Either her maiden bosom, or my grave.

Fond then my thoughts, which thought a thing

so vain ! Fond hopes, that anchor on so false a ground! Fond love, to love what could not love again! Fond heart, thus fir'd with love, in hope thus drown'd:

[est I, By hope and fear, by grief and joy opprest,

Fond thoughts, fond heart, fond hope; but fondWith deadly hate, more deadly love infected ;

To grasp the wind, and love inconstancy!
Without, within, in body, soul, distrest;
Little by all, least myself respected, [ed;
But most, most there, where most I lov'd, neglect-

Hated, and hating life, to death I call;
Who scorns to take what is refus'd by all.

A DAINTY maid, that draws her double name
Whither, ab, whither then wilt thou betake thee, From bitter sweetness, (with sweet bitterness)
Despised wretch, of friends, of all forlorn, (thee? Did late my skill and faulty rerses blame,
Since hope, and love, and life, and death forsake And to her loviug friend did plain confess,
Poor soul, thy own tormenter, others' scorn! That I my former credit foul did shame,
Whether, poor soul, ah, whither wilt thou turn? And might no more a poet's name profess:
What inn, what host (scorn'd-wretch) wilt thou The cause that with my verse she was offended,
now choose thee?

[fuse thee. For women's levity I discommended. The common host, and inn, death, grave, re

Too true you said, that poet I was never, To thee, great love, to thee I prostrate fall, And I cor fess it (fair) if that content ye, That righ:'st in love the heart in false love swerved :| That when I play'd, the poet less than ever; On thee, true Love, on thee I weeping call; Nut, for of such a verse I now repent me, 1, who am scorn'd, where with all truth I served, (Poets to feign, and make fine lies endeavour) On thee, so wrong'd, where thou hast so deserved : | But I the truth, truth (ah!) too certain sent yo:

A VOW.

A REPLY UPON THE FAIR M. S.

TO MY ONLY CHOSEN VALENTINE AND WIFE.

ANAGRAM.

}

Then that I am no poet i deny not ;

Therefore, still moving, as the fair they loved, For when their lightness I condemn, I lie not. Most do they move, by being most unmoved. But if my verse had lied against my mind, But women, when their lovers change their graces, And praised that which truth cannot approre,

What first in them they lov'd, love now in others, And falsely said, they were as fair as kind, Affecting still the same in divers places;. As true as sweet, their faith could never move, So never change their love, but change their lovers: But sure is link'd where constant love they find, Therefore their mind is firm and constant prov'd, That with sweet braving they vie truth and love ; Seeing they ever love what first they lov’d. If thus I write, it cannot be deny'd

'Their love tied to some virtue, cannot stray, But I a poet were, so foul I lied.

Shifting the outside oft, the inside never: But give me leave to write as I have found : But mien (when now their loves dissolvd to clay Like ruddy apples at their outsides bright, Indeed are nothing) still in love persever: Whose skin is fair, the core or heart unsound; How then can such fond med be constant made, W'hose cherry-cheek the eye doth much delight, That nothing love, or but (a nothing) shade? But inward rottenness the taste doth wound:

What fool commends a stone for never moving ? Ah! were the taste so good as is the sight,

Or blames the speedy heav'ns for ever ranging? To pluck such apples (lost with self same price)

Cease then, foud men, to blaze your constant Would back restore as part of Paradise.

loving ; But truth bath said it, (truth who dare deny !) Love's fiery, winged, light, and therefore changing: Men seldom are, more seldom women sure:

Fond man, that thinks such fire and air to fetter! But if (fair sweet) thy truth and constancy

All change; men for the worse, women for better.
To better faith thy thoughts and mind procure,
If thy firm truth could give firm truth the lie,
If thy first love will first and last endure; [thee,

Thou more than woman art, if time so proves
And he more than a man, that loved loves thee.

ŞMaystress Elizabeth Vincent

2 Is my breast's chaste Valentine.

Think not (fair love) that chance my hand directed AN APOLOGY FOR THE PREMISES TO THE 1.ADY

To make my choice my chance; blind chance and CULPEPPER.

hands Who with a bridle strives to curb the waves? Could uever see what most my mind affected; Or in a cypress chest locks flaming fires ?

But Heav'n (that ever with chaste true lore stands) So when love anger'd in thy bosom raves,

Lent eyes to see what most my heart respected ; And grief with love a double fame inspires,

1 hen do not thou resist what Heav'n commands; By silence thou may'st add, but never less it:

But yield thee his, who must be ever thine ; The way is by expressing to repress it.

My heart thy altar is, my breast thy shrine ;

Thy name for ever is, My breast's chaste Valentine, Who then will blame affection not respected, To vent in grief the grief that so torments him? Passion will speak in passion, if neglected : Love that so soon will chide, as soon repents him ;

A TRANSLATION OF BOETHIUS, THE TUIRD BOOK AN) And therefore boyish love's too like a boy,

With a toy pleas'd, displeased with a toy.
Have you not seen, when you have chid or sought,

Happy man, whose perfect sight
That lively picture of your lovely beauty,

Views the overflowing light ! Your pretty child, at first to lowr or pout,

Happy man, that canst unbind But soon again reclaim'd to love and duty ;

Tir earth-bars pounding up the mind ! Forgets the rod, and all her anger ends,

Once bis wife's quick fate lamenting Plays on your lap, or on your neck depends : Orpheus sat, his hair all renting,

While the speedy woods came running, Too like that pretty child is childish love,

And rivers stood' to hear his cunning;
That when in anger he is wrongd, or beat,

And the lion with the hart
Will rave and chide, and every passion prove, Join'd side to side to hear his art :
But soon to smiles and fxwns turns all his beat,

Hares ron with the dogs along,
And prays, and swears he never more will do it; Not from dogs, but to his song.

Such one is love : alas, that women know it! But when all his verses turning But if so just excuse will not content ye,

Only fano'd his poor heart's burning, But still you blame the words of angry love,

And his grief came but the faster, Here I recant, and of those words repent me:

(His verse all easing, but his master) In sign hereof I offer now to prove,

Of the higher puwers complaining,

Down he went to Hell disdaining:
That changing women's love is constant ever,
And men, though ever firm, are constant never.

There his silver lutestrings bitting,

And his potent verses fitting, For men that to one fair their rassions bind,

All the sweets that e'er he took
Must ever change, as do those changing fairs; From his sacred mother's brook,
So as she alters, alters still their mind,

What his double sorrow gives him,
And with their fading loves their love impairs : And love, that doubly double grieves him,

LAST VERSE.

When with time's shadows this false glory wanes,
You die again; but this your glory gains.

U PON MY BROTHER MR. G. F. MIS BOOK INTITUTED

There he spends to move deaf Hell,
Charming devils with his spell,
And with sweetest asking leave
Does the lords of ghosts deceive.
The dog, whose never quiet yell.
Affrights sad souls in night that dwell,
Pricks up now his thrice two ears ;
To howl, or bark, or whine he fears:
Struck with dunub wonder at those songs,
He wish'd more ears, and fewer tougues.
Charon amaz'd his oar foreslows,
While the boat the sculler rows.
Tantal might have eaten now
The fruit as still as is the bough;
But he (fool!) no bunger fearing,
Starr'd his taste, to feed his bearing.
Ixion, though his wheel stood still,
Still was rapt with music's skill.
At length the judge of souls with pity
Yields, as conquer'd with his ditty;
Let's give back his spouse's hearse,
Purchas'd with so pleasing verse:
Yet this law shall bind our gift,
He tura not, till h’as Tartar left.
Who to laws can lovers draw?
Love in love is only law:
Now almost be left the night,
When he first turn'd back his sight;
And at once, while her he ey'd,
His love he saw, and lost, and dy'd.
So, who strives out of the night
To bring his soul to joy in light,
Yet again turns back his eye
To view lift Hell's deformity;
Though he seems enlighteu'd more,
Yet is blacker than afore.

CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPII.
Fond lads, that spend so fast your posting time,
(Too posting time, that spends your time as fast)
'To chant light toys, or frame some wanton rhyme,
Where idle boys may glut their lustful taste;
Or else with praise to clothe some feshly slime
With virgin roses, and fair lilies chaste :
While itching bloods, and youthful cares ados e
it;

(abhor it.
Bat wiser men, and once yourselves will most
But thou, (most ncar, most dear) in this of thine
Hast prov'd the Muses not to Venus bound;
Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine:
Or thou such grace with Mercy's self bast found,
That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine;
Oi stol'n from Heav'ı, thou brought'st this verse to
ground,

(thunder, Which frights the numbed soul with fearful And soon with honeyed dews that's it 'twixt joy

and wouder.
Theu do not thou malicious tongues esteem;
(The glass, through which an envious eye doth

gaze,
Can eas'ly make a mole-bill mountain seem)
His praise dispraises; his dispraises praise ;
Enough, if best men best thy labours deem,
And to the highest pitch thy merit raise ;

Wbile all the Muses to thy son, decree
Victorious triumph, triumphant victory,

U PON

& TRANSLATION OF BOETILIUS, BOOK SECOND, VERSE SEVENTH.

THIE BISHOP OF EXON, DR. HALL, HIS MEDITATIONS.
Who only honour seeks with prone affection,
And thioks that glory is his greatest bliss; (tion, Most wretched soul, that here carousing pleasure,
First let him view the Heav'n's wiiie-stretched sec Hath all his Heav'n on Earth ; and ne'er distressed
Then in some map the Earth's short narrowness: Enjoys these fond delights withont all measure,

Well may he blush to see his name not able And freely living thus, is thus deceased !
To fill one quarter of so brief a table.

Ah, greatest curse, so to be ever blessed !

For where to live is Heav'n, 'tis Hell to die. Why then should high-grown winds so much re

Ah, wretch! that here begins Hell's misery! joice To draw their stubborn necks from man's subjec Most blessed soul, that, lifted up with wings tion:

(voice of faith and love, leaves this base babitation, Por though loud fame stretch high her prattling And scorning sluggish Earth, to Heav'o up springs; To blaze abroad their virtue's great perfection; On Earth, yet still in Heav'n by meditation ;

Though goodly titles of their house adorn them With the soul's eye foreseeing th' heavenly station : With ancient heraldry, yet death doth scorn Then 'gins his life, when he's of life bereaven. them:

Ah, blessed soul! that here begins his Heaven ! The highi and base lie in the self same grave;

No difference there between a king and slave. Where now are true Fabricius' bones remaining: Who knows where Brutus, or rough Cato lives! THE CONTEMPLATIONS OF THE BISHOP OF EXCESTER, Only a weak report, their names sustaining,

GIVEN TO THE LADY B. W. AT NEW-YEAR'S TIDE. In records old a slender knowledge gives:

This little world's two little stars are eyes, Yet when we read the deeds of men inhumed,

And he that all eyes framed, fram'd all others Can we by that know them long since consumed?

Downward to fall, but these to climb the skies, Now therefore lie you buried and forgotten; There to acquaint them with their starry brothers; Nor can report frustrate encroaching death:

Planets fix'd in the head, (their sphere of sense) Or if you think when you are dead and rotten,

Yet wand'ring still thro' Heav'n's circumference, You live again by faqe, and vulgar brcath:

The intellect being their intelligence. VOL. VI.

M

UPON