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Pardon me, that with thy blest memory

I mingle mine own former miserie : ELEGIE ON THE LADY MARKHAM. Yet dare I not excuse the fate that brought

These crosses on me, for then every thought As unthrifts groan in straw for their pawn'd beds; That tended to thy lore was black and foule, As women weep for their lost maiden-heads; Now all as pure as a new-baptiz'd soule: When both are without hope or remedy,

For I protest for all that I can see, Such an untimely griefe I have for thee.

I would not lie one night in bed with thee; I never saw thy face, nor did my heart

Nor am I jealous, but could well abide l'rge forth mine eyes unto it whilst thou wert; My foe to lie in quiet by thy side. But being lifted hence, that which to thee

You wormes (my rivals) whilst she was alive, Was Death's sad dart, prov'd Cupid's shaft to me.

How many thousands were there that did strive Whoever thinkes me foolish that the force

To have your freedome? For their sake forbeare Of a report can make me love a coarse,

Unseemly hole: in her soft skin to weare : Kouw he, that when with this I do compare But if you must, (as what worms can abstaine The love I do a living woman beare,

To taste her tender body?) yet refraine I find my selfe most happy: now I know

With your disordered eatings to deface her, Where I can find my mistris, and can go

But feed your selves so as you most may grace her. Unto her trimm'd bed, and can lift away

First, through her ear-tips see you make a paire Her grasse-greene mantle, and her sheet display, Of holes, which, as the moist inclosed aire And touch her naked, and though th' envious mould Turnes into water, may the cleane drops take, In which she lies uncovered, moist and cold, And in her eares a paire of jewels make. Strive to corrupt her, she will not abide

Have ye not yet enough of that white skin, With any art her blemishes to hide,

The touch whoreof, in times past, would have been As many living do, and know their need,

Enough t' have ransom'd many a thousand soule Yet cannot they in sweetness her exceed;

Captive to love? If not, then upward roule, But make a stinke with all their art and skill, Your little bodies, where I would you have Which their physicians warrant with a bill, This epitaph upon her forehead grave. Nor at her doore doth hcapes of coaches stay, Foot-men and midwives to bar up my way:

“ Living, she was young, faire, and full of wit ; Nor needs she any maid or page to keep,

Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writ.”
To knock me early from my golden sleep,
With letters that her honour all is gone,
If I not right her cause on such a one.
Her heart is not so hard to make me pay

For every kisse a supper and a play:
Nor will she ever open her pure lips

Can my poore lines no better office have,
To utter oaths, enough to drown our ships, But like scriech-uwis still dwell about the grave ?
To bring a plagne, a famine, or the sword,

When shall I take some pleasure for my paine, l'pon the land, though she should keep her word; By praising them that can yeeld praise againe? Yet, e're an houre te past, in some new vaine When shall my Muse in love-sick lines recite Break them, and sweare them double o’re againe. Some lady's worth? which she of whom I write,

With thankfull smiles, may read in her own daies ; | Wonder and perfection must be led
Or, when shall I a breathing woman praise? A bridall captive unto Tithon's bed ?
Never; I am ambitious in my strings,

Ag'd, and defurined Tithon! must thy twine
They never sound but of eternall things,

Circle and blast at once what care and time Such as freed soules: but had I thought it fit Had made for wonder? must pure beauty have To praise a soul unto a body knit,

No other soile but ruine and a grave? I would confesse, I spent my time amiss

So have I seene the pride of Nature's store, When I was slow to give due praise to this. The orient pearle, chain’d to the sooty Moore. Thus when all sleep my time is come to sing, So bath the diamond's bright ray been set And from her ashes must my porms spring ; lu night, and wedded to the negro-jet. Though in the race I see some swiftly run,

See, see, how thick those flowers of pearle do fall
I will not crown them till the goale be won. To weep her ransome, or her funerall,
They that have fought, not they that are to fight, Whose every treasur'd drop, congeal’i, might bring
May claimc the glorious garland as their right'. Freedome and ransome to a fettered king,

While tyrant wealth stands by, and lauglis to see
How he can wed, love, and antipathy •
Hymen, thy pine burnes with adulterate fire;

Thou and thy quiverid boy did once conspire

To mingle equall fames, and then no shine
Sleer, old man, let silence charme thee,

Of gold, but beauty, dress'd the Paphian shrine,

Roses and lillies kiss'd ; the amorous vinc, Dreaming slumbers overtake thee,

Did with the faire and straight limb'd elme entwine, Quiet thoughts and darknesse arme thee,

That no creaking do awake thee. Phoebe hath put out her light,

All her shadows c!osing; Phæbe lend her hornes to night

THE GLANCE, To thy head's disposing.

Cold vertue guard me, or I shall endure Let no fatall bell nor clock

From the next glance a double calenture Pierce the hollow of thy eare:

Of fire and lust; two fames, two Semelcis Tongulesse be the early cock,

Dwell in those eyes, whose looser glowing raies Or what else may adde a feare,

Would thaw the frozen Russian into lust, Let no rat, nor silly monse,

And parch the negroe's hotter blood to dust. Move the sense lesse rushes,

Dart not your balls of wild-fire hcre, go throw

Those fakes upon the cunuch's colder snow, Nor a cough disturbe this house

Till he in active bloud do boile as high Till Aurora blushes.

As he that made him so in jealousie. Come, my sweet Corrinna, come;

When the loose queene of love did dresse her eyes Laugh, and leave thy late deploring:

In the most taking flame to win the prize Sable midnight makes all dumbe,

At Ida; that faint glare to this desire But thy jealous husband's snoring.

Burnt like a taper to the zone of fire :

And could she then the lustfull youth have crown'd And with thy sweet perfumed kisses Entertaine a stranger:

With thee, his Hellen, Troy had nerer found

Her fate in Sinon's fire, thy hotter eyes
Love's delight, and sweetest blisse, is
Got with greatest danger.

Had made it burne a quicker sacrifice
To lust, wbilst every glance in subtile uiles
Hail shot it selfe like lightning through the piles.

Go blow upon some equall blood, and let
Farth's hotter ray engender and beget
New flames to dresse the aged Paphians' quire,

And lend the world new Cupids borne on fire.

Dart no more here those llames, nor strive to throw WITH AN ANCIENT MAN.

Your fire on him who is immur'd in snow :

Those glances werke on me like the weake shine Fondly, too curious Nature, to adorno

The frosty Sun throwes on the Appennine, Aurora with the blushes of the morne :

When the bill's active coldnesse doth go neere Why do her rosie lips breath gums, and spice,

To freeze the glimmering taper to his spheare : Unto the east, and sweet to paradice ?

Each ray is lost on me like the faint light Why do her eyes open the day? her hand,

The glow-worine shoots at the cold breast night. And voice entrance the panther, and command

Thus vertue can secure, but for that name Incensed winds : her breasts, the tents of love,

I had been now sin's martyr, and your flame. Smooth as the godded swan, or Venus' dove; Soft as the balmy dew, whose every touch Is pregnant; but why those rich spoiles, when such


I These lines are part of Sir John Beaumont's

A SONNET. Elegy on the lady Marquesse of Winchester, and inserted here probably from an prersight of the Flattering hope away and leaye me, editor. C.

She'll not come, thou dost deceive me ;

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Harke the cock crows, th’ envious light
Chides away the silent night ;
Yet she comes not, oh how I tyre
Betwixt cold feare ad hot desire.
Here alone enforc'd to tarry
While the tedious minutes marry,
And get houres; those daies and yecres
Which I count with sighs and feares:
Yet she comes not, oh how I tyre
Betwixt cold feare and hot desire.
Restlesse thoughts a while remové
Unto the bosome of my love,
Let her languish in my paine,
Feaæ, and hope, and feare againe ;
Then let her tell me in love's fire,
What torment's like unto Jesire.
Endlesse wishing, tedious longing,
Hopes and feares together thronging;
Rich in dreames, yet poore in waking,
let her be in such a taking
Then let her tell me in love's fire,
What torment's like unto desire.
Come then, love, prevent day's eyeing,
My desire would faine be dying :
Smother me with breathlesse kisses,
Let me dreame no more of blisses;
But tell me which is in love's fire
Best, to enjoy, or to desire.

LOVE'S FREEDOME. Why should man be only ty'd

To a foolish female thing, When all creatures else beside, Birds and beasts, change every spring ?

Who would then to one be bound,

When so many may be found ? Why should I my sel'e confine

To the limits of one place, When I have all Europe mine, Where I list to run my race.

Who would then to one be bound,

When so many may be found ? Would you thinke him wise that now

Still one sort of meat doth eat, When both sea and land allow Sundry sorts of other meat ?

Who would then to one be bound,

When so many may be found?
E're old Saturne chang'd his throne,

Freedome raign'd and banish'd strife,
Where was he that knew his own,
Or who call'd a woman wife?

Who would then to one be bound,

When so many may be found ?
Ten times happier are those men

That enjoy'd hose golden dajes :
Untill time redresse 't againe
I will never Hymen praise.

Who would then to one be bound,
When so many may be found ?

TRUE BEAUTY, May I find a woman faire, And her mind as cleare as aire, If her beauty goe alone, 'Tis to me as if 't were none. May I find a woman rich, And not of too high a pitch: If that pride should cause disdaine, Tell me, lover, where's thy gaine? May I find a woman wise, And her falschood not disguise; Hath she wit as she hath will, Double armnd she is to ill. May I find a woman kind, And not wavering like the wind : How should I call that love mine, When 'tis his, and his, and thine ? May I find a woman true, There is beauty's fairest hue ; There is beauty, love, and wit, Happy be can compasse it.

ON THE LIFE OF MAX. Lire to the falling of a star, Or as the fights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy bue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood : Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight call'd in and paid to night: The wind blowes out, the babble dies, The spring intomb'd in autumn lies : The dew's dry'd up, the star is shot, The flight is past, and man forgot'.

Never more will I protest
To love a woman but in jest:
For as they cannot be true,
So to give each man his due,

When the woing fit is past,
Their affection cannot last.

* These lines are in bishop King's poems, 1657.


AN EPITAPH. Here she lies, whose spotlesse fame, Invites a stone to learne her name : The rigid Spartan that denied An epitaph to all that died, Unlesse for war, on charity Would here vouchsafe an elegie: She died a wife, but yet her mind, Beyond virginity refin'd, From lawlesse fire remain'd as free, As now from heat her ashes be: Her husband, yet without a sin, Was not a stranger, but her kin, That her chaste love might seeme no other To her husband than a brother. Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest, Till it be call'd for let it rest; For while this jewell here is set, The grave is like a cabinet.

Who riggs a ship sailcs with the wind,
Who digs a mine doth treasure find;
The wound by wholesome tent hath ease,
The boxe porfum'd the senses please :

Such is the virgin in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, e're she dies. Like marrow bone was never broken, Or commendations and no token ; Like a fort and none to win it, Or like the Moone and no man in it: Like a schoole without a teacher, Or like a pulpit and no preacher :

Just such as these may she be said,

That lives, ne're loves, but dies a maid. The broken marrow-bone is sweet, The token doth adorne the greet; There's triumph in the fort, being woon, The man rides glorious in the Moon; The schoole is by the teacher stillid, The pulpit by the preacher fillid:

Such is the virgin, ju my eyes,

That lives, loves, marrics, e're she diese Like a cage without a bird, Or a thing too long deferr'd; Liko the gold was never tryed, Or the ground unoccupied; Like a house that's not possessed, Or the book was never pressed :

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne're loves, but dies a maid,
The bird in cage doth sweetly sing,
Due season prefers every thing;
The gold that's try'd from drosse is pur'd,
There's profit in the ground mannur'di
The house is by possession graced,
The book when press’d is then embraced :

Such is the virgin in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marrics, e're she dics.

Like a ring without a finger,
Or a bell without a ringer ;
Like a horse was never ridden,
Or a feast and 10 guest bidden ;
Like a well without a bucket,
Or a rose if no man pluck it :

Just such as these may she be said

'That lives, ne're loves, but djes a maid,
The ring, if worne, the finger decks,
The bell pull'd by the ringer speakes;
The borse doth ease if he be ridden,
The feast doth please if guest be bidden;
The bucket draws the water forth,
The rose when pluck'd is still most worth :

Such is the virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, e're she dies.
Like to a stock not grafted on,
Or like a lute not play'd upon ;
Like a jack without a weight,
Or a barque without a fraight;
Like a lock without a key,
Or a candle in the day :

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne're loves, but dics a maid. The graffed stock doth beare best fruit, There's music in the fingered lute; The weight doth make the jack go ready, The fraught doth make the barque go steady; The key the lock doth open right: The candle's usefull in the night:

Such is the virgin, in my eyes,

'That lives, loves, marries, e're she dies.
Like a call without Anon, sir,
Or a question and no answer;
Like a ship was never rigg'd,
Or a mine was never digg'd;
Like a wound without a tent,
Or civet hoxe without a scent:

Just such as these may she be said

That lives, ne're loves, but dies a maid,
Th’Anon, sir, doth obey the (all,
The question answered pleascth all;

A DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, Love is a region full of fires, And burning with extreame desires ; An object seeks, of which possest, The wheeles are fix'd, the motions rest, The names in ashes lie opprest; This meteor striving high to rise, The fewell spent, fals down and dies. Much sweeter, and more pure delights Are drawn from faire alluring sights, When ravisht minds attempt to praise. Commanding eyes like heavenly raies, Whose force the gentle heart obeys; Than where the end of this pretence Descends to base inferiour sencc. Why then should lovers (most will say) Expect so much th' enjoying day; Love is like youth, he thirsts for age, He scores to be bis niother's page ; But when proceeding tiines asswage The former heat, he will complaine, And wish those pleasant houres againe. We know that hope and love are twins, Hope gone, fruition pow begins;

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