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serve that writers have many enemies, such inward | Give it Endimion's love, whose glorious eyes
Boast all the wonders which the seas bring forth,
Would more enrich the skilful jeweller.
How I command ! how slowly they obey ! Wight, October 22,
The churlish Tartar will not hunt to day: 1650.
Nor will that lazy, sallow Indian strive
To climbe the rock, nor that dull Negro dive.
Tbus poets, like to kings, (by trust deceiv'd)
Give oftener what is heard of, than receiv'd.
ON FRANCIS EARLE OF RUTLAXD.
Call not the winds! nor bid the rivers stay!
Captives and saints have breath'd away and shed;
W bom like brave ancestors in battaile lost,
T'observe their lawes of faction, place, and time,
In the deep breast, i' th' shallow brow, or eyes?
Tho' titles, and thy blood, made thee appeare
(Oft ’gainst thy ease) where these state-rabbins Beware (delighted poets !) when you sing,
Yet their philosophy thou knew'st was fit [were, To welcome Nature in the early spring,
For thee to pity, more than study it. Your num'rous feet not tread
Safely thou valu’dst cunning, as 't had been The banks of Avon ; for each powre
Wisdome, long since distemper'd into sin: (As it nere knew a Sun or showre)
And knew'st the actions of th'ambitious are Hangs there the pensive head.
But as the false alarines in running warre,
Like forlorne scouts (that raise the coyle) they keep Each tree, whose thick and spreading growth hath Themselves awake, to hinder others sleep: made
And all they gaine by vex'd expence of breath, Rather a night beneath the boughs than sbade, Unquietness, and guilt, is, at their death, (Unwilling now to grow)
Wonder and mighty noise; whilst things that be Jooks like the plume a captain weares,
Most deare and pretious to mortalitie, Whose rified falls are steppt i' th' teares
(Time, and thy self) impatient here of stay, Which from his last rage flow.
With a grave silence, seeme to steal away; The pitious river wept it self away
Depart from us unheard, and we still mourge Long since (alas !) to such a swift decay,
In vaine (though piously) for their returne. Tbat reach the inap, and look
Thy bounties if I name, I'le not admit, If you a river there can spie:
kings, when they love or wooe, to equall it : And for a river your inock'd eve
It shew'd like Nature's self, wben she doth bring
All she can promise by an early spring ;
And as the wise Sun silently imployes
His lib'ral beames, and ripens without noise ;
As precious dewes doe undiscover'd fall,
And growth insensibly doth steale on all;
[found / Suspect, truth and thy fame immortall are?)
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
What peed thy noble brother, or faire she,
Our mules are come! dissolve the club! That is thy self, in purest innagrie; [iame, The word, till term, is, “Rub, O rub!!” Whose breath, and eyes, the fun'rall spie, and Now gamster poor, in cloak of stammel, Continue still, of gentle Buckingham;
Mounted on steed, as slow as cammel, What ored they send poore pioners to grone,
Battoone of crab in luckless hand, In lower quarriss, for Corinthian stone ?
(Which serves for bilboe and for wand) To lig in Parian hills? since statues must,
Early in morne does sneak from town,
On crown, wbich he in pouch does keep,
For he in journey nought does eat.
He calls for room, and down he lies.
Quoth host, “No supper, sir?" He cryes,
“ I eate no supper, fling on rug! The lark now leaves his watry nest,
I'm sick, d'you hear? yet bring a jug!” And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
Now damsel young, that dwels in Cheap, He takes this window for the east;
For very joy begins to leap: And to implore your light, he sings :
Her elbow small she oft does rub, Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise, Tickled with bope of sillabub! Till she can dress her beauty at your eics.
For mother (who does gold maintain
On thumbe, and keys in silver chaine) “ The merchant bowes onto the seaman's star,
In snow white clout, wrapt nook of pye, The ploughman from the Sun his season takes ;
Fat capon's wing, and rabbet's thigh, But still the lover wonders what they are,
And said to hackney coachman, Who look for day before his mistriss wakes.
Take shillings six, say I, or no." Awake, awake! break thro' your vailes of lawne !
“ Whither ?” says he. Quoth she, “ Thy teame Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawne.”
Shall drive to place where groweth creame."
But husband gray now comes so stall,
“ Where's dame?" quoth he. Quoth son of shop, SONG.
“ She's gone her cake in milk to sop."
“ Ho, ho! to Islington! enough! THE SOULDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.
Fetch Job, my son, and our dog Roffe ! Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girle !
For there in pond, through mire and muck, To purifie the ayre;
We'l cry, 'Hay, duck! there, Ruffe! bay, duck !! » Thy teares to thrid, instead of pearle,
Now Turnbal-dame, by starving paunch, On bracelets of thy hair.
Bates two stone weight in either haunch:
On branne and liver she must dine,
And sits at dore instead of signe.
She softly says to roaring Swash,
Who wears long whiskers, “Go, fetch cash!
There's gown,” quoth she, “speak broaker fair, For I must go where lazy Peace
Till term brings up weak countrey heir:
Whom kirtle red will much amaze,
Whilst clown b's man on signes does gaze, The number of the dead.
In liv'ry short, galloome on cape,
With cloak-bag mounting high as nape."
Now man that trusts, with weary thighs,
Seeks garret where small poet lies :
He comes to Lane, finds garret shut;
Then, not with knuckle, but with foot,
He rudely thrusts, would enter dores;
Though poet sleeps not, yet he snores :
Cit chafes like beast of Libia; then
Sweares, he'l not come or send agen. O then with speed resign
From little lump triangular My own seduced heart to me,
Poor poets' sighs are heard afar.
Quoth he, “ Do noble numbers choose
To walk on feet, that have no shoose ?
Fach ode a bond, each madrigal,
Or that he had protected bin
At court, ia list of chamberlain;
For wights near Thrones care not an ace " Transcribe apace all thou hast pen'd;
For Woodstreet friend, that wieldeth mace. For I in journey hold it fit,
Courts pay no scores but when they list,
And treasurer still has cramp in fist;
And man in chimney hid to dress,
Now man of war with visage red,
But stay my frighted pen is Aed; My self through fear creep under bed; For just as Muse would scribble more, Fierce city dunne did rap at door.
“ Dear heart!
TO MR. GEORGE PORTER.
Then forth be steales; to Globe does run;
Now wight that acts on stage of Bull,
Now London's chief, on sadle new,
Now aiderinan in field does stand,
Now Spyuie, Ralph, and Gregorie small, And short hayr'd Stephen, whay-fac'd Paul, (Whose times are ont, indentures torn) Who seaven long years did never skorne, To fetch up coales for maid to use, Wipe inistresses', and children's shooes) Do jump for joy they are made free; Hire meagre steeds, to ride and see, Their parents old who dwell as near, As place call's Peake in Derby-shire. There they alight, old croanes are milde; Each weeps on cragg of pretty childe: They portions give, trades up to set, That babes may live, serve God and cheat,
Near house of law by Temple-Bar, Now man of mace cares not how far, In stockings blew he marcheth on, With velvet cape his cloack upon; In girdle, scrowles, where names of some, Are written down, whom touch of thumbe, On shoulder left must safe convoy, Anoying wights with name of roy. Poor prisner's friend that sees the touch, Cries out, aloud,“ I thought as much."
Now vaulter good, and dancing lass, On rope, and may that cryes“ Hey, pass,” And tumbler young that needs but stoop, Lay head to heel to creep through hoope;
No victor, when in battel spent,
When he at night asleep doth lie, Rich in a conquer'd monarch's tent,
Ere had so vaine a dreame as I. Me-thought I saw the early'st shade,
And sweetest that the spring can spread; Of jęsmyn, bry’re, and woodbine made,
And there I saw Clorinda dead. Though dead she lay, yet could I see
No cypress nor no mourning ewe; Nor yet the injur'd lover's tree;
No willow near her coffin grew. But all shew'd unconcern'd to be;
As if just Nature there did strive To seem as pittiless as she
Was to her lover when alive, And now methought I lost all care
In losing her; and was as free As birds let loose into the ayre,
Or rivers that are got to sea. Methought love's monarchy was gone;
And whilst elective numbers sway Our choice, and change makes pow'r our own,
And those court us whom we obey. Yet soon, now from my princess free,
I rather frantick grew than glad: For subjects, getting liberty,
Got but a licence to be mad. Birds that are long in cages aw'd,
If they get out, a while will roame, But straight want skill to live abroad.
Then pine and hover near their home.
And to the ocean rivers run
From being pent in banks of flowers, Not knowing that th' exhaling Sun
Will send them back in weeping showers. Soon thus for pride of liberty
I low desires of bondage found; And vanity of being free,
Bred the discretion to be bound. But as dúll subjects see too late
Their safety in monarchal reign, Finding their freedome in a state
Is but proud strutting in a chaine.
In winter's nights sad stories sing
To whom their bells they yearly ring.
Whose single pow'r did govern me,
To find the harm of liberty.
Number to change our hearts prepares,
To lay a world of handsome snares. And I, love's secretary now,
(Ray'd in my dreame to that grave stile) The dangers of love's state to showe,
Wrote to the lovers of this isle. For lovers correspond, and each,
Though, states-man like, he th' other hate, Yet slily one another teach
By civil love to save the state. And as in interreigne men draw
Pow'r to themselves of doing right, When generous reason, not the law,
They think restraines their appetite:
Fiven so the lovers of this land
(Love's empire in Clorinda gone) Thought they were quit from love's command,
And beautie's world was all their own. But lovers (who are Nature's best
Old subjects) never long revolt; They soon in passions' warr contest;
Yet in their march soon make a halt.
Near dead Clorinda) ceast to boast
Of their delightful bondage lost.
Or sadly night's close mourning wore ; All maids for one another mourn’d,
That lovers now could love no more. All lovers quickly did perceive
They had on Earth no more to doe; But civilly to take their leave
As worthys that to dying goe. And now all quires her dirges sing;
lo shades of cypress, and of ewe; The bells of ev'ry temple ring,
Where maids their wither'd garlands strew. To such extreames did sorrow rise
That it transcended speech and forme;
As seamen sinking in a storme.
Did now for vital freedome strive;
The fair Clorinda still alive. Yet she's to me but such a light
As are the stars to those who know We can at most but guess their height,
And hope they minde us here below.