Oh! tell her how I sigh away
The tedious hours of the day;
Hating all light that does not rise
From the gay morning of her eyes.
Tell her that friends, which were to be
Welcome to men in misery,
To me, I know not how, of late
Are grown to be importunate.
My books which once were wont to be
My best beloved company.
Are (save a prayer-book for form)
Left to the canker or the worm.
My study's grief, my pleasure care,
My joys are woe, my hope despair,
Fears are my drink, deep sighs my food,
And my companion's solitude.
Night too, which Heav'n ordain'd to be
Man's chiefest friend's my enemy.
When she her sable curtain spreads,
The whole creation make their beds,
And every thing on Earth is bless'd
With gentle and refreshing rest ;
But wretched I, more pensive made
By the addition of that shade,
Am left alone, with sorrow roar
The grief I did but sigh before;
And tears, which, check'd by shame and light,
Do only drop by day, by night
(No longer aw'd by nice respects,)
Gush out in floods and cataracts.
Jll life, ah love, why is it so !
To me is measur'd out by woe,
Whilst she, who is that life's great light,
Conceals her glories from my sight.
Say, fair Clorinda, why should he,
Who is thy virtue's creature, be
More wretched than the rest of men,
Who love and are belov'd again?
I know my passion, not desert,
Has giv'n me int'rest in a heart,
Truer than ever man possess d,
And in that knowledge I am bless'd :
Yet even thence proceeds my care,
That makes your absence hard to bear;
For were you cruel, I should be
Glad to avoid your cruelty;
But happy in an equal flame,
I, sweetest, thus impatient am.
Then since your presence can restore
My heart the joy it had before;
Since lib'ral Heaven never gave
To woman such a pow'r to save;
Practise that sovereign pow'r on one
Must live or die for you alone.
TAKING LEAVE OF CHLORIS. SHE sighs as if she would restore The life she took away before; As if she did recant my doom, And sweetly would reprieve me home: Such hope to one condemn'd appears From every whisper that he hears:
But what do such vain hopes avail, If those sweet sighs compose a gale, To drive me hence, and swell my sail? See, see, she weeps! who would not swear That love descended in that tear, Boasting him of his wounded prize Thus in the bleeding of her eyes?
Or that those tears with just pretence Would quench the fire that cane from thence? But oh! they are (which strikes me dead) Chrystal her frozen heart has bred, Neither in love nor pity shed. Thus of my merit jealous grown, My happiness I dare not own, But wretchedly her favours wear, Blind to my self, unjust to her Whose sighs and tears at least discover She pities, if not loves her lover: And more betrays the tyrant's skill, Than any blemish in her will, That thus laments whom she doth kill. Pity still (sweet) my dying state, My flame may sure pretend to that, Since it was only unto thee I gave my life and liberty; Howe'er my life's misfortune's laid, By love I'm pity's object made. Pity me then, and if thou hear I'm dead, drop such another tear, And I am paid my full arrear.
FIE, pretty Doris! weep no more,
Damon is doubtless safe on shore,
Despite of wind and wave:
The life is fate-free that you cherish,
And 'tis unlike he now should perish
You once thought fit to save.
Dry (sweet) at last, those twins of light,
Which whilst eclips'd, with us 'tis night,
And all of us are blind:
The tears that you so freely shed,
Are both too precious for the dead,
And for the quick too kind.
Fie, pretty Doris! sigh no more,
The gods your Damon will restore,
From rocks and quicksands free ;
Your wishes will secure his way,
And doubtless he for whom you pray,
May laugh at destiny.
Still then those tempests of your breast,
And set that pretty heart at rest,
The man will soon return;
Those sighs for Heav'n are only fit,
Arabian gums are not so sweet,
Nor off'rings when they burn.
On him you lavish grief in vain,
Can't be lamented, nor complain,
Whilst you continue true:
That man's disaster is above,
And needs no pity, that does love,
And is belov'd by you.
ON MY PRETTY MARTEN. COME, my pretty little Muse, Your assistance I must use, And you must assist me too Better than you use to do, Or the subject we disgrace Has oblig'd us many ways. Pretty Matty is our theme, Of all others the supreme; Z z
Should we study for't a year,
Could we choose a prettier ?
Little Mat, whose pretty play
Does divert us ev'ry day,
Whose caresses are so kind,
Sweet, and free, and undesign'd,
Meekness is not more disarming,
Youth and modesty more charming;
Nor from any ill intent
Nuns or doves more innocent:
And for beauty, Nature too
Here would show what she could do;
Finer creature ne'er was seen,
Half so pretty, half so clean.
Eyes as round and black as sloe,
Teeth as white as morning snow ;
Breath as sweet as blowing roses,
When the morn their leaves discloses,
Or, what sweeter you'll allow,
Breath of Vestals when they vow,
Or, that yet doth sweeter prove,
Sighs of maids who die for love.
Next his feet my praise commands,
Which methinks we should call hands,
For so finely they are shap'd,
And for any use so apt,
Nothing can so dext'rous be,
Nor fine handed near as he.
These, without though black as jet,
Within are soft and supple yet
As virgin's palm, where man's deceit
Seal of promise never set.
Back and belly soft as down,
Sleeps which peace of conscience crown,
Or the whispers love reveal,
Or the kisses lovers steal :
And of such a rich perfume,
As, to say I dare presume,
Will out-ravish and out-wear
That of th' fulsome milliner.
Tail so bushy and so long,
(Which t' omit would do him wrong)
As the proudest she of all
Proudly would he fann'd withal.
Having given thus the shape
Of this pretty little ape,
To his virtues next I come,
Which amount to such a sum,
As not only well may pass
Both my poetry and dress
To set forth as I should do't,
But arithmetic to boot.
Valour is the ground of all
That we mortals virtues call;
And the little cavalier
That I do present you here,
Has of that so great a share,
He might lead the world to war.
What the beasts of greater size
Tremble at, he does despise,
And is so compos'd of heart,
Drums nor guns can make him start:
Noises which make others quake,
Serve his courage to awake.
Libyan lions make their feasts
Of subdu'd plebeian beasts,
And Hyrcanian tigers prey
Still on creatures less than they,
Or less arm'd; the Russian bears
Of tamer beasts make massacres.
Irish wolves devour the dams,
English foxes prey on lambs.
These are all effects of course,
Not of valour, but of force;
But my Matty does not want
Heart t' attack an elephant.
Yet his nature is so sweet,
Mice may nibble at his feet,
And may pass as if unseen,
If they spare his magazine.
Constancy, a virtue then
In this age scarce known to men,
Or to womankind at least,
In this pretty little beast
To the world might be restor'd,
And my Matty be ador'd.
Chaste he is as turtle doves,
That abhor adult'rate loves;
True to friendship and to love,
Nothing can his virtue move,
But his faith in either giv'n,
Seems as if 'twere seal'd in Heaven.
Of all brutes to him alone
Justice is, and favour known.
Nor is Matty's excellence
Merely circumscrib'd by sense,
He for judgment what to do,
Knows both good and evil too,
But is with such virtue blest,
That he chooses still the best,
And wants nothing of a wit
But a tongue to utter it:
Yet with that we may dispense,
For his signs are eloquence.
Then for fashion and for mien,
Matty's fit to court a queen;
All his motions graceful are,
And all courts outshine as far
As our courtiers Peakish clowns,
Or those Peaknils northern loons,
Which should ladies see, they sure
Other beasts would ne'er endure;
Then no more they would make suit
For an ugly pissing-coat
Rammish cat, nor make a pet
Of a bawdy mamoset.
Nay, the squirrel, though it is
Pretty'st creature next to this,
Would henceforward be discarded,
And in woods live unregarded.
Here sweet beauty is a creature
Purposely ordain'd by Nature,
Both for cleanness and for shape
Worthy a fair lady's lap.
Live long, my pretty little boy,
Thy master's darling, lady's joy,
And when fate will no more forbear
To lay his hands on him and her,
E'en then let fate my Matty spare,
And when thou dy'st then turn a star.
HARK, the cock crows, and yon bright star, Tells us the day himself's not far;
And see where, breaking from the night,
He gilds the western hills with light.
With him old Janus does appear,
Peeping into the future year
With such a look as seems to say
The prospect is not good that way.
Thus do we rise ill sights to see,
And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy,
When the prophetic fear of things
A more tormenting mischief brings,
More full of soul-tormenting gall
Than direst mischiefs can befall.
But stay! but stay!. methinks my sight,
Better inform'd by clearer light,
Discerns sereneness in that brow,
That all contracted seem'd but now:
His reverse face may show distaste,
And frown upon the ills are past;
But that which this way looks is clear,
And smiles upon the new-born year.
He looks too from a place so high,
The
year lies open to his eye,
And all the moments open are
To the exact discoverer;
Yet more and more he smiles upon
The happy revolution.
Why should we then suspect or fear
The influences of a year
So smiles upon us the first morn,
And speaks us good so soon as born?
Pox on't! the last was ill enough,
This cannot but make better proof;
Or at the worst, as we brush'd through
The last, why so we may this too;
And then the next in reason should
Be superexcellently good:
For the worst ills we daily see,
Have no more perpetuity
Than the best fortunes that do fall;
Which also bring us wherewithal
Longer their being to support,
Than those do of the other sort;
And who has one good year in three,
And yet repines at destiny,
Appears ingrateful in the case,
And merits not the good he has.
Then let us welcome the new guest,
With lusty brimmers of the best;
Mirth always should good fortune meet,
And renders e'en disaster sweet :
And though the princess turn her back,
Let us but line ourselves with sack,
We better shall by far hold out,
The next year she face about.
How uneasy is his life
Who is troubled with a wife!
Be she ne'er so fair or comely,
Be she ne'er so foul or homely,
Be she ne'er so young and toward,
Be she ne'er so old ani froward,
Be she kind with arms cufolding,
Be she cross and always scolding,
Be she blithe or melancholy,
Have she wit or have she folly,
Be she wary, be she squand'ring,
Be she staid, or be she wand'ring,
Be she constant, be she fickle,
Be she fire, or be she ickle,
Be she pious or ungodly,
Be she chaste or what sounds oddly:
Lastly, be she good or evil,
Be she saint, or be she devil;
Yet uneasy is his life,
Who is marry'd to a wife.
If fair, she's subject to temptation,
If foul, herself's solicitation,
If young and sweet, sae is too tender,
If old and cross, no man can mend her,
If too too kind, she's over clinging,
If a true scold, she's ever ringing,
If blithe, find fiddles, or y' undo her,
If sad, then call a casuist to her,
If a wit, she'll still be jeering,
If a fool, she's ever fleering,
If too wary, then she'll shrew thee,
If too lavish, she'll undo thee,
If staid, she'll mope a year together,
If gadding, then to London with her,
If true, she'll think you don't deserve her,
If false, a thousand will not serve her,
If lustfull, send her to a spittle,
If cold, she is for one too little,
If she be of th' reformation,
Thy house will be a convocation,
If a libertine, then watch it,
At the window thou may'st catch it,
If chaste, her pride will still importune,
If a whore, thou know'st thy fortune:
So uneasy is his life
Who is marry'd to a wife.
These are all extremes I know,
But all womankind is so,
And the golden mien to none
Of that cloven race is known;
Or to one if known it be,
Yet that one's unknown to me.
Some Ulyssean traveller
May perhaps have gone so far,
As t' have found (in spite of Nature)
Such an admirable creature.
If a voyager there be
Has made that discovery,
He the fam'd Odcombian gravels,
And may rest to write his travels.
But alas! there's no such woman,
The calamity is common,
The first rib did bring in ruin,
And the rest have since been doing,
Some by one way, some another,
Woman still is mischief's mother,
And yet cannot man forbear,
Though it cost him ne'er so dear.
Yet with me 'tis out of season
To complain thus without reason,
Since the best and sweetest fair
Is allotted to my share:
But alas! I love her so
That my love creates my woe;
For if she be out of humour,
Straight displeas'd I do presume her,
And would give the world to know
What it is offends her so:
Or if she be discontented,
Lord, how am I then tormented!
And am ready to persuade her
That I have unhappy made her:
But if sick, I then am dying,
Meat and med'cine both defying:
So uneasy is his life
Who is marry'd to a wife.
What are then the marriage joys
That make such a mighty noise?
All's enclos'd in one short sentence,
Little pleasure, great repentance;
Yet it is so sweet a pleasure,
To repent we scarce have leisure,
Till the pleasure wholly fails,
Save sometimes by intervals;
But those intervals again,
Are so full of deadly pain,
That the pleasure we have got,
Is in conscience too dear bought.
Pox on't! would womankind be free,
What needed this solemnity,
This foolish way of coupling so,
That all the world (forsooth) must know?
And yet the naked truth to say,
They are so perfect grown that way,
That if't only be for pleasure
You would marry, take good leisure,
Since none can ever want supplies
For natural necessities;
Without exposing of his life
To the great trouble of a wife.
Why then all the great pains taking?
Why the sighing? why the waking?
Why the riding? why the running?
Why the artifice and cunning?
Why the whining? why the crying?
Why pretending to be dying?
Why all this clutter to get wives,
To make us weary of our lives.
If fruition we profess
To be the only happiness,
How much happier then is he,
Who with the industrious bee
Preys upon the several sweets
Of the various flow'rs he meets,
Than he who with less delight
Dulls on one his appetite?
Oh 'tis pleasant to be free! The sweetest Miss is liberty;
And though who with one sweet is bless'd May reap the sweets of all the rest.
In her alone, who fair and true,
As love is all for which we sue,
Whose several graces may supply
The place of full variety,
And whose true kindness or address
Sums up the all of happiness;
Yet 'tis better live alone,
Free to all than ty'd to one,
Since uneasy is his life
Who is marry'd to a wife.
GREAT Love, I thank thee, now thou hast Paid me for all my suff'rings past,
And you lose time in trampling o'er
One, whilst you inight make twenty more.
Your eyes have still the conqu’ring pow'r
They had in that same dang'rous hour
They laid me at your beauty's feet,
Your roses still as fair and sweet ;
And there more hearts are to subilue,
But, oh! not one that's half so true.
Dismiss me then t' eternal rest,
I cannot live but in your breast;
Where, banish'd by inconstancy,
The world has no more room for me.
The satisfaction flowing thence
All dolours would assuage,
And be sufficient recompence
For all the ills of age.
But very few, (my friend) I fear,
Whom this ill age has bred,
At need have such a comforter
To make their dying bed. 'Tis then high time we should prepare
In a new world to live, Since here we breathe but panting air,
Alas! by short reprieve.
Life then begins to be a pain,
Infirmity prevails,
Which, when it but begins to reign,
The bravest courage quails.
But could we, as I said, procure
To live our lives again,
We should be of the better sure,
Or the worst sort of men.
DIRECTED TO SIR ROBERT COK&.
Fair and cruel, still in vain
Must I adore, still, still persevere, Languish still, and still complain,
And yet a med'cine for my fever
Never, never must obtain ?
Chloris, how are you to blame,
To him that dies to be so cruel
Not to stay my falling frame,
Since your fair eyes do dart the fuel That still nourishes my flame? Shade those glories of thine eye,
Or let their influence be milder ; Beauty and disdain destroy
Alike, and make our passions wilder, Either let me live or die. I have lov'd thee (let me see,
Lord, how long a time of loving!) Years no less than three times three,
Still my flame and pain improving, Yet still paid with cruelty. What more wouldst thou have of me?
Sure l've serv'd a pretty season, And so prov'd my constancy,
That methinks it is but reason Love or death should set me free.
TO JOHN BRADSHAW,. ESQ. Could you and I our lives renew,
And be both young again,
Retaining what we ever knew
Of manners, times, and men,
We could not frame so loose to live,
But must be useful then,
· Ere we could possibly arrive
To the same age again :
But youth's devour'd in vanities
Before we are aware ;
And so grown old before grown wise,
We good for nothing are :
Or, if by that time knowing grown,
By reading books and men,
For others' service, or our own,
'Tis with the latest then. Happy's that man, in this estate,
Whose conscience tells hiin still, That though for good he comes too late,
He ne'er did any ill.
Bleak Winter is from Norway come, And such a formidable groom, With iscled beard and hoary bead, That, or with cold, or else with dread, Has frighted Phæbus out on's wit, And put him int' an ague fit : The Moon, too, out of rev'rend care To save her beauty from the air, And guard her pale complexion, Her hood and vizard mask puts on: Old gray-pate Saturn too is seen, Muffled up in a great bear's skin: And Mars a quilted cap puts on, Under bis shining morion : And in these posting luminaries It but a necessary care is, And very consonant to reason, To go well clad in such a season. The very Heaven itself, alas ! Is now so pav'd with liquid glass, That if they ha'n't (on th' other side) Learn'd in their younger days to slide, It is so slippy made withal, They cannot go two steps but fall. The nectar which the gods do troll, Is frozen i'th' celestial bowl; And the cup-bearer, Ganimede, Has capp'd his frizzled flaxed head. The naked Gemini, God wot, A very scurvy rheum have got ; And in this coldest of cold weathers, Had they not been warm wrapp'd in feathers, Mercury's heels had been, I trow, Pepper'd with running kibes ere now. Nor are these deities, whom love To men has tempted from above To pass their time on Earth, more free From the cold blast than th' others be. For Truth, amidst the blust'ring ront, Can't keep her torch from blowing out.
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