We now think Alabaster true, and look A suddain trump should antedate his book; For whiles we suffer this, ought we not fear The world shall not survive to a fourth year? And sure we may conclude weak Nature old And crazed now, being shee's grown so cold.
But frost's not all our grief: we that so sore Suffer its stay, fear its departure more :
For when that leaves us, which so long hath stood, 'Twill make a new accompt from th' second Floud.
AT THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD.
Y'ARE now transcrib'd, and publike view Perusing finds the copy true, Without erratas new crept in, Fully compleat and genuine : And nothing wanting can espy, But only bulk and quantity: The text in letters small we see, And the arts in one epitome. O what pleasure do you take
To hear the nurse discovery make, How the nose, the lip, the eye, The forehead full of majesty, Shews the father? how to this The mother's beauty added is: And after all with gentle numbers To wooe the infant into slumbers.
And these delights he yields you now, The swath, and cradle, this doth show: But hereafter when his force Shall wield the rattle, and the horse; When his ventring tongue shall speak All synalæphaes', and shall break
This word short off, and make that two, Pratling as obligations do; "Twill ravish the delighted sense To view these sports of innocence, And make the wisest dote upon Such pretty imperfection.
These hopeful cradles promise such Future goodness, and so much, That they prevent my prayers, and I Must wish but for formality.
I wish religion timely be Taught him with his A B C.
I wish him good and constant health, His father's learning, but more wealth ; And that to use, not hoard; a purse Open to bless, not shut to curse. May be have many, and fast friends, Meaning good-will, not private ends, Such as scorn to understand,
When they name love, a peece of land. May the swath and whistle be The hardest of his bonds. May he Have no sad cares to break his sleep, Nor other cause, than now, to weep. May he ne'r live to be again, What he is now, a child: may pain If it do visit, as a guest
Only call in, not dare to rest.
FOR A YOUNG LORD TO HIS MISTRIS,
WHO HAD TAUGHT HIM A SONG.
TAUGHT from your artfull strains, my fair, I've only liv'd e'r since by air; Whose sounds do make me wish I were Either all voice, or else all eare. If souls (as some say) musick be I've learnt from you there's one in me; From you, whose accents make us know That sweeter spheres move here below; From you, whose limbs are so well met That we may swear your bodie's set: Whose parts are with such graces crown'd, That th'are that musick without sound.
I had this love perhaps before,
But you awak'd and made it more: As when a gentle ev'ning showre Calls forth, and adds sent to the flower; Henceforth Pl think my breath is due No more to nature, but to you. Sing I to pleasure then, or fame,
I'l know no antheme, but your name; This shall joy life, this sweeten death: You that have taught, may claim my breath.
ON MR. STOKES
HIS BOOK ON THE ART OF VAULTING.
IN LIBRUM VERE CABALISTICUM DE ASCENSU CORPORUM GRAVIUM H. E. IN TRACTATU DE ARTE SALIENDI EDITUM A GUIL. STOKES ALME ACADEMIE HIPPARCHO, ET SOLO TEMPORUM HORUM EPHIALte. CARMEN DE SULTORIUM.
READER, here is such a book,
Will make you leap before you look, And shift, without being thought a rook. The author's airy, light, and thin; Whoin no man saw e'r break a shin, Or ever yet leap out of's skin.
When e'r he strain'd at horse, or bell, Tom Charles himself who came to smell His faults, still swore 'twas clean and well
His tricks are here in figures dim, Each line is heavier than his limb, And shadows weighty are to him. Were Dee alive, or Billingsly, We shortly should each passage see Demonstrated by A. B. C.
How would they vex their mathematicks, Their ponderations, and their staticks, To shew the art of these volaticks?
Be A the horse, and the man B. Parts from the girdle upwards C. And from the girdle downward D.
If the parts D. proportion'd weigh To the parts C. neither will sway, But B lye equall upon A.
Thus would bis horse and all his vectures, Reduc'd to figures, and to sectures,
Produce new diagrams and lectures
And justly too, for the pomado, And the most intricate strapado, He'l do for naught in a bravado.
The Herculean leap he can with slight, And that twice fifty times a night, To please the ladies: Will is right. 'The Angelica ne'r put him too't, Then for the Pegasus, he'l do't, And strike a fountain with his foot.
When he the stag-leap does, you'd swear The stag himself, if he were there, Would like the unwieldy oxe appear. He'l fit his strength, if you desire, Just as his horse, lower or higher, And twist his limbs like nealed wyer. Had you, as I, but seen him once, You'd swear that Nature for the nonce, Had made his body without bones. For arms, sometimes hee'l lye on one, Sometimes on both, sometimes on none, And like a meteor hang alone.
Let none henceforth our eares abuse, How Dædalus 'scap'd the twining stewes, Alas that is but flying news. He us'd wax plumes, as Ovid sings, Will scorns to tamper with such things, He is a Dædalus without wings.
Good faith, the Mewes had best look to't, Lest they go down, and Sheen to boot, Will and his wooden horse will do't. The Troian steed let souldiers scan, And praise th' invention you that can, Will puts 'em down both horse and man. At once six horses Theutobocchus Leap'd o'r, if Florus' do not mock us, 'Twas well, but let him not provoke us; For were the matter to be tri'd, "Twere gold to silver on Will's side, He'd quell that Theutobocchus' pride, I'I say but this to end the brawle, Let Theutobocchus in the fall Cut Will's cross caper, and take all. Then go thy ways, brave Will, for one, By Jove 'tis thou must leap, or none, To pull bright honour from the Moon.
Philippus Stoicus e Societate Porta Borealis Oxon.
I DREAM'D I saw my self lye dead, And that my bed my coffin grew; Silence and sleep this strange sight bred, But wak'd, I found I liv'd anew. Looking next morn on your bright face,
Mine eyes bequeath'd mine heart fresh pain;
A dart rush'd in with every grace,
And so I kill'd my self again:
O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do, If open you can kill, if shut you view.
WHO can hide fire? If't be uncover'd, light, If cover'd, smoake betraies it to the sight: Love is that fire, which still some sign affords, If hid, the'are sighs; if open, they are words.
THE TEARES.
IF souls consist of water, I
May swear yours glides out of your eye: If they may wounds receive, and prove Festred through grief, or ancient love, Then fairest, through these christall doores Teares flow as purgings of your sores. And now the certain cause I know Whence the rose and lilly grow,
In your fair cheeks: the often showres Which you thus weep, do breed these flowers. If that the flouds could Venus bring, And warlike Mars from flowers spring, Why may not hence two gods arise,
This from your cheeks, that from your eyes?
One of so stiff a temper, that she might Have call'd him spouse upon the marriage night; Whose flames consum'd him, lest some one might Seduc'd hereafter by his heresie: [be
That you are fair and spotless, makes you prove Fitter to fall a sacrifice to Love:
On towards his altar then, vex not the priest ; 'Tis ominous if the sacrifice resist. Who conquers still, and ransacks, we may say Doth not affect, but rather is in pay. But if there must be reall lists of love, And our embracing a true wrestling prove, Bare, and anoint you then: for, you'l do As wrestlers use, you must be naked too.
GIVE me a girle (if one I needs must meet) Or in her nuptiall, or her winding sheet: I know but two good houres that women have, One in the bed, another in the grave. Thus of the whole sex all I would desire, Is to enjoy their ashes, or their fire.,
THOU, who didst never see the light, Nor knowst the pleasure of the sight, But alwaies blinded, canst not say Now it is night, or now 'tis day, So captivate her sense, so blind her eye, That still she love me, yet she ne't know why. Thou, who dost wound us with such art, We see no bloud drop from the heart, And subt'ly cruell leav'st no sign
To tell the blow or hand was thine. O gently, gently wound my fair, that shee May thence beleeve the wound did come from thee.
At last, one frosty morning I did spy This subtile wand'rer journeying in the sky; At sight of me it trembled, then drew neer, Then grieving fell, and dropt into a tear: I bore it to my saint, and pray'd her take This new born of-spring for the master's sake: She took it, and prefer'd it to her eare, And now it hears each thing that's whisper'd there. O how I envy grief, when that I see
My sorrow makes a gem, more blest than me! Yet, little pendant, porter to the eare, Let not my rivall have admittance there; But if by chance a mild access he gain, Upon her lip inflict a gentle pain Only for admonition: so when she
Gives eare to him, at least shee'l think of me.
WHILES I this standing lake,
Swath'd up with ewe and cypress boughs, Do move by sighs and vows, Let sadness only wake;
That whiles thick darkness blots the light, My thoughts may cast another night: In which double shade,
By heav'n, and me made, O let me weep,
And fall asleep,
And forgotten fade.
Heark! from yond' hollow tree Sadly sing two anchoret owles,
Whiles the hermit wolf howls, And all bewailing me, The raven hovers o'r my bier, The bittern on a reed I hear Pipes my elegy,
And warns me to dye; Whiles from yond' graves My wrong'd love craves My sad company.
Cease, Hylas, cease thy call; Such, O such was thy parting groan, Breath'd out to me alone
When thou disdain'd didst fall. Loe thus unto thy silent tomb, In my sad winding sheet, I come, Creeping o'r dead bones, And cold marble stones, That I may mourn
Over thy urn,
And appease thy groans.
CORINNA'S TOMB.
HERE fair Corinna buri'd lay, Cloath'd and lock'd up in silent clay; But neighb'ring shepheards every morn With constant tears bedew'd her urn, Until with quickning moysture, she At length grew up into this tree: Here now unhappy lovers ineet, And changing sighs (for so they greet) Each one unto some conscious bough Relates this oath, and tels that vow,
Thinking that she with pittying sounds Whispers soft comfort to their wounds: When 'tis perhaps some wanton wind, That striving passage there to find, Doth softly move the trembling leaves Into a voice, and so deceives. Hither sad lutes they nightly bring, And gently touch each querulous string, Till that with soft harmonious numbers They think th' have woo'd her into slumbers; As if, the grave having an eare,
When dead things speak the dead should hear. Here no sad lover, though of fame, Is suff'red to engrave his name, Lest that the wounding letters may Make her thence fade, and pine away : And so she withering through the pain May sink into her grave again.
O why did Fates the groves uneare? Why did they envy wood should hear? Why, since Dodona's holy oake, Have trees been dumb, and never spoke; Now lovers' wounds uncured lye, And they wax old in misery; When, if true sense did quicken wood, Perhaps shee'd sweat a balsom floud, And knowing what the world endures, Would weep her moysture into cures.
MEMORY OF A SHIPWRACKT VIRGIN.
WHETHER thy well-shap'd parts now scattered far Asunder into treasure parted are;
Whether thy tresses, now to amber grown, Still cast a softer day where they are shown; Whether those eyes be diamonds now, or make The carefull goddess of the flouds mistake, Chiding their ling'ring stay, as if they were Stars that forgot t' ascend unto their sphere; Whether thy lips do into corall grow, Making her wonder how 't came red below; Whether those orders of thy teeth, now sown In several pearls, enrich each channell one; Whether thy gentle breath in easie gales Now flies, and chastly fils the pregnant sailes; Or whether whole, turn'd syren, thou dost joy Only to sing, unwilling to destroy;
Or else a nymph far fairer dost encrease The virgin train of the Nereides;
If that all sense departed not with breath, And there is yet some memory in death, Accept this labour, sacred to thy fame, Swelling with thee, made poem by thy name.
Hearken O winds (if that ye yet have eares Who were thus deaf unto my fair one's tears) Fly with this curse; may cavernes you contain Sitll strugling for release, but still in vain.
Listen O flouds; black night upon you dwell, Thick darkness still enwrap you; may you sa ell Ouly with grief; may ye to every thirst Flow bitter still, and so of all be curst.
And thon unfaithfull, ill-compacted pine, That in her nuptials didst refuse to shine, Blaze in her pile. Whiles thus her death I weep, Swim down, my murmuring lute; move thou the Into soft numbers, as thou passest by, And make her fate become her elegy.
A PAINTER'S HANDSOME DAUGHTER.
SUCH are your father's pictures, that we do Beleeve they are not counterfeits, but true; So lively, and so fresh, that we may swear Instead of draughts, he hath plac'd creatures there; People, not shadows; which in time will be Not a dead number, but a colony: · [arts, Nay, more yet, some think they have skill and That th' are well-bred, and pictures of good parts; And you your self, faire Julia, do disclose Such beauties, that you may seem one of those; That having motion gain'd at last, and sense, Began to know it self, and stole out thence. Whiles thus his æmulous art with Nature strives, Some think h' hath none, others he hath two wives.
If you love none, fair maid, but look on all, You then among his set of pictures fall; If that you look on all, and love all men, The pictures too will be your sisters then, For they as they have life, so th' have this fate, In the whole lump either to love or hate; Your choice must shew you're of another fleece, And tell you are his daughter, not his piece : All other proofs are vain; go not about; We two'l embrace, and love, and clear the doubt. When you've brought forth your like, the world will know
You are his child; what picture can do so.
A GNAT mistaking her bright eye For that which makes, and rules the day, Did in the rayes disporting fly, Wont in the sun-beams so to play.
Her eye whose vigour all things draws, Did suck this little creature in,
As warmer jet doth ravish straws, And thence ev'n forc'd embraces win. Inviting heat stream'd in the rayes, But hungry fire work'd in the eye;
Whose force this captive gnat obeys, And doth through it her martyr dye.
The wings went into air; the fire Did turn the rest to ashes there :
But ere death, strugling to retire, She thence enforc'd an easie teare. Happy, O gnat, though thus made nought, We wretched lovers suffer more,
Our sonnets are thy buzzings thought, And we destroy'd by what w' adore. Perhaps would she but our deaths mourn, We should revive to dye agen:
Thou gain'd'st a tear, but we have scorn; She weeps for flies, but laught at men.
AT A DRY DINNER.
CALL for what wine you please, which likes you best;
Some you must drink your venison to digest. Why rise you, sir, so soon: you need not doubt, He that I do invite sits my meal out;
Most true but yet your servants are gay men, I'l but step home, and drink, and come agen.
EXPECT no strange, or puzzling meat, no pye Built by confusion, or adultery,
Of forced nature; no mysterious dish Requiring an interpreter, no fish Found out by modern luxury: our corse board Press'd with no spoyls of elements, doth afford Meat, like our hunger, without art, each mess Thus differing from it only, that 'tis less.
Imprimis, some rice porredge, sweet, and hot, Three knobs of sugar season the whole pot. Item, one pair of eggs in a great dish,
So ordered that they cover all the fish. Item, one gaping haddock's head, which will At least afright the stomach, if not fill.
Item, one thing in circles, which we take Some for an cele, but th' wiser for a snake.
We have not still the same, sometimes we may Eat muddy plaise, or wheate; perhaps next day
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