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At last, one frosty morning I did spy
Thinking that she with pittying sounds
That striving passage there to find,
Hither sad lates they nightly bring,
Till that with soft harmonious numbers
As if, the grave having an eare,
When dead things speak the dead should hear. But if by chance a mild access he gain,
Here no sad lover, though of fame, Upon her lip inflict a gentle pain
Is suff'red to engrave his name, Only for admonition : so when she
Lest that the wounding letters may
And so she withering through the pain
O why did Pales the groves uneare?
Why did they envy wood should hear?
Why, since Dodona's holy oake, Whiles I this standing lake,
Have trees been dumb, and never spoke; Swath'd up with eve and cypress boughs,
Now lovers' wounds uncured lye, Do move by sighs and vows,
And they wax old in misery; Let sadness only wake;
When, if true sense did quicken wood, That whiles thick darkness blots the light,
Perhaps shee'd sweat a balsom floud, My thoughts may cast another night:
And knowing what the world endures, In which double shade,
Would weep her moysture into cures. By heav'n, and me made,
O let me weep,
And fall asleep,
MEMORY OF A SHIPWRACKT VIRGIA. Sadly sing two anchoret ow)
WHETHER thy well-shap'd parts now scattered far Whiles the bermit wolf howls,
Asunder into treasure parted are; And all bewailing me,
Whether thy tresses, now to amber grown, The raven hovers o'r my bier,
Still cast a softer day where they are shown; The bittern on a reed I hear
Whether those eyes be diamonds now, or make Pipes my elegy,
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, nok sown Such, O such was thy parting groan,
In several pearls, enrich each chanoell one;
Whether thy gentle breath in easie gales
Now fies, and chastly fils the pregnant sailrs ; Loe thus unto thy silent tomb,
Or whether whole, turn'd syren, thou dost joy In my sad winding sheet, I come,
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,
Hearken ( winds (if that ye yet hare eares
Who were thus deaf into my fair one's tears) CORINNA'S TOMB.
Fly with this curse; may cavernes you contain
Sitll strugling for release, but still in vain. Here fair Corinna buri'd lay,
Listen O Rouds; black night upon you dwell, Cloath'd and lock'd up in silent clay;
Thick darkness still enwrap you; may you swell But neighb'ring shepheards every morn
Ouly with grief; may ye to every thirst With constant tears bedew'd her urn,
Flow bitter still, and so of all be curst. Until with quickning moysture, she
And thou unfaithfull, ill-compacted pine, At length grew up into this tree:
That in ber nuptials didst refuse to shine, Here now unhappy lovers ineet,
Blaze in her pile. Wbiles thus her death I weep. And changing sighs (for so they greet)
Swim down, my murmuring lute; move thou the Each one unto some conscious bough
Into soft numbers, as thou passest by, [deep Relates this oath, and tels that row,
and make her fate become her elegy.
A PAINTER'S HANDSOME DAUGHTER.
THE GNAT. Such are your father's pictures, that we do
A gnat mistaking her bright eye Beleeve they are not counterfeits, but true;
For that which makes, and rules the day, So lively, and so fresh, that we may swear
Did in the rayes disporting fly,
Her eye whose vigour all things draws,
As warmer jet doth ravish straws,
And thence ev'n forc'd embraces win.
Inviting heat stream'd in the rayes,
The 'wings went into air; the fire
Did turn the rest to ashes there : If you love none, fair maid, but look on all,
But ere death, strugling to retire, You then ainong his set of pictures fall;
She thence enforc'd an easie teare. If that you look on all, and love all men,
Happy, O gnat, though thus made nought, The pictures too will be your sisters then,
We wretched lovers suffer more,
And we destroy'd by what w'adore.
Thou gain'd'st a tear, but we have scorn;
LOVE - TEARES.
Cupid descends in showers as well as thee.
AT A DRY DINNER.
Call for what wine you please, which likes you He would chirp and fatter me,
best; He would hang the wing awhile,
Some you must drink your venison to digest. Till at length he saw me smile,
Why rise you, sir, so soon : you need not doubt, Lord how sullen he would be ?
He that I do invite sits my meal out; He would catch a crumb, and then
Most true : but yet your servants are gay men, Sporting let it go agen,
I'I but step home, and drink, and come agen.
Would moysture sip,
A BILL OF FARE.
ct no strange, or puzzling meat, no pye O whose heart can choose but bleed?
Built by confusion, or adultery, O how eager would he fight?
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, dotb afford He would sit, and mark, and do
Meat, like our hunger, without art, each mess What I did, now rule all
Thus differing from it only, that 'tis less. His feathers o'r, now let 'em fall,
Imprimis, some rice porredge, sweet, and hot, And then straightway sleek 'em too.
Three knobs of sugar season the whole pot. Whence will Cupid get his darts
Item, one pair of eggs in a great dish,
So ordered that they cover all the fish.
Item, one gaping baddock's head, which will
At least afright the stomach, if not fill. Now this faithfull bird is gone,
Item, one thing in circles, which we take Olet mournfull turtles joyn
Some for an cele, but th' wiser for a snake. With loving red-breasts, and combins
We have not still the same, sometimes we may To sing dirges o'r his stone.
Eat muddy plaise, or whcate; perhaps next day
Red, or white herrings, or an apple pye:
The ingredients were divers, and most of them sex, There's some variety in misery.
No vertue was judg'd in an antient thing: To this come twenty men, and though apace, In the garden of Leyden some part of them gter, We bless these gifts, the meal's as shurt as grace. And some did our own universities bring. Nor eat we yet in tumult; but the meat Is broke in order; hunger here is neat;
Imprimis, two handfull of long digressions, Division, subdivision, yet two more
Well squeezed and press'd at Ainsterdam, Members, and they divided as before.
They cured Buchanan's dangerous passions, O what a fury would your stomach feel
Each grocer's shop now will afford you the same. To see us vent our logick on an tele?
Two ounces of Calvinisme not yet refin'd, And in one herring to revive the art
By the better physicians not thought to be good; Of Keckerman, and shew the eleventh part?
But 'twas with the seal of a conventicle sign'd, Hunger in armes is no great wonder, we Suffer a siege without an enemy.
And approv'd by the simpling brotherhood. On Midlent Sunday, when the preacher told One quarter of practicall piety next, The prodigal's return, and did unfold
With an ounce and a half of bistrio-mastrix, His tender welcome, how the good old man
Three sponfull of T. C's confuted text, (Styx Sent for new rayment, how the servant ran
Whose close-noated ghost hath long ago past To kill the fatling calf, O how each ear List ned unto him, greedy ev'n to hear
Next stript whipt abuses were cast in the pot, The bare relation; how was every eye
With the worm eaten motto not now in fashion,
All these in the mouth are wondrous hot,
But approvedly cold in operation.
Next Clever and Doddisme both mixed and fine, Happy the Jews cry we, when quailes came down With five or six scruples of conscience cases, In dry and wholsome showers, though from the Three drams of Geneva's strict discipline, frown
All steept in the sweat of the silenc'd faces. Of Heaven sent, though bought at such a rate; To perish full is not the worst of fate;
One handfull of doctrines, and uses, or more, We fear we shall dye empty, and enforce
With the utmost branch of the fifteenth point, The grave to take a shaddow for a corse :
Then Juties enjoyn'd and motives yoord store, For, if this fasting hold, we do despair
All boyld to a spoonfull, though from a siz'd Of life; all needs must vanish into air;
piut. Air, which now only feeds us, and so be
These all have astringent and hard qualities,
And for notable binders received be,
She allay'd them with Christian liberty.
The cruinbs of comfort did thicken the mess,
'Twas turn'd by the frownof a bowre fac'd brother, Without the help of a dissection.
But that you will say converts wickedness, In the aboundance of this want, you
'Twill serve for the one as well as the other.' Wonder perhaps how I can use my quill?
An ell London-measure of tedious grace, Troth I am like small birds, which now in spring,
Was at the same time conceiv'd, and said, When they have nought to eat do sit and sing.
'Twas eat with a spoon defii'd with no face,
Nor the imag'ry of an apostle's head.
Sir John after this could have stood down the Sun, THE CHAMBERMAID'S POSSET.
Dividing the pulpit and text with one fist,
The glass was compe!l'd still rubbers to run,
The pig that for haste, much like a devout
Entranced brother, was wont to come in My lady stood up and still preach'd 'em out.
With white staring eyes, not quite roasted out, The red-hatted vertues in number but four,
Came now in a black persecution skin. With grief be rememb’red, for one was not: Stale mistris Priscilla her apron-strings straite The habits divine, not yet in our power,
Let down for a line just after his cure: Were faith, hope, and (brethren) the third I ha' Sir John did not nibble, but pouch'd the deceit: forgot.
An advouzon did bait him to make all sure. Sir John was resolved to suffer a drench,
To furnish his spirit with better provision A posset was made by a leviticall wench,
It was of the chambermaid's own composition. ON A GENTLEWOMAN'S SILK-ROOD. The milk it came hot from an orthodox cow Is there a sanctity in love begun
Ne'r rid by the pope, nor yet the pope's bull; That every wonian veils, and turns lay-nun? The heat of zeal boyled it, God knows how : Alas your guilt appears still through the dress;
'Twas the milk of the word; beleeve it who will. You do not so much cover as confess:
To me 'tis a memoriall, I begin
If when her teares I haste to kiss,
They dry up, and deceivę my bliss,
May not I say the waters sink,
Instead of them I grasp her dress,
May not I say the apples then
Are set down, and snatch'd up agen?
Sleep was not thus Death's brother meant;
'Twas made an ease, no punishment.
As then that's finish'd by the Sun,
My fancy shall run o'r sleep's themes,
And so make up the web of dreams:
Awak'd howe'r I'I think the rest.
But I prophane, like one whose strange desires
Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veyl'd god throws ?
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various lores;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:
I will annoiut and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heale the harm.
Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane eye
The flights of angels part
Not aire with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasly red;
A subt'le taking smile
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.
but as the feathers in the wing,
Unblemish'd are and no wounds bring,
So lights of Bowing graces
Only adorn the parts,
• Till we that make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and guils :
We give them shape, and force for ills.
Beautic's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore;
Like heathen we the image crown,
And undiscreetly then fall down :
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
And beating back that false, and cruell name, We turn those lights to fires.
Did comfort and revenge my flame. Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
Then faithless whither wilt thou ty?
Stones dare not harbour cruelty.
And tell me, wretch, why thou
Mad'st not thy self more true ?
Beauty from him may copies take,
And more majestique heroes make,
And falshood learn a wile,
From him too, to beguile.
Restore my clew
'Tis here most due,
Por 'tis a labyrinth of more subtile art,
To have so fair a face, so foul a heart.
The ravenous vulture tear his breast, Ye pay to nien more jitst than you
The rowling stone disturb his rest, O dye Parthenia, nothing now remains
Let him next feel Of all thy Argalus, but his wounds and stains.
And add one fable more
To cursing poets' store ;
And then-yet rather let him live, and twine I grasp'd thee in my dream,
His woof of daies, with some thred stolo from minez And loe thou meltd'st into a stream; But when they will surprise,
But if you'l torture him, how e'r, They shew the fate, and blind the eyes.
Torture my heart, you'l find him there.
Till my eyes drank up his,
And his drank mine,
I ne'r thought souls might kiss,
And spirits joyn:
Pictures till then And drank each other's soul, and so have dy'd.
Took me as much as men,
Nature and art
Moving alike my heart,
But his fair visage made me find
Pleasures and fears,
Hopes, sighs, and tears,
As severall seasons of the mind.
Should thine eye, Venus, on his dwell,
Thou wouldst invite him to thy shell,
And caught by that live jet
Venture the second net,
And after all thy dangers, faithless he,
Shouldst thou but slumber, would forsake ev'n thee
The streames so court the yeelding banks, And something to thy story give.
And gliding thence ne'r pay their thanks;
The winds so wooe the flow'rs,
Whisp'ring among fresh bow'rs,
And having rob'd them of their smels,
Fly thence perfum'd to other cels.
This is familiar hate to sinile and kill,
Though nothing please thee yet my ruine will By these thy wounds (my wounds) I vow,
Death, horer, hover o'r me then, And by thy ghost, my griefe's god now,
Waves, let your christall womb l'l not revoke a thouglit. Or to thy tomb
Be both my fate, and tomb,
l'l sooner trust the sea, than men. My off"ring he, or I bis crime will come.
Yet for revenge to Heaven l'l call
And breath one curse before I fall,
Proud of two conquests Minotaure, and me, ARIADNE DESERTED BY THESEUS, That by thy faith, this by thy perjury,
Mayst thou forget to wing thy ships with white, AS SHE SITS UPON A ROCK IN THE ISLAND NAXOS, THUS That the black say, may to the longing sight
Of thy gray father, tell thy fate, and be Theseus! O Theseus heark! but yet in vain, Bequeath the sea his name, falling like me: Alas deserted I complain,
Nature and love thus brand thee, whiles I dye It was some neighbouring rock, more soft than he, 'Cause thou forsak'st, Ægeus 'cause thou drawest Whose hallow bowels pittied me,