Arm'd with thy will, (despite of fear)
I'll seek them, as if thou wert there.
But, if thou wilt I die, and that,
By, worse than thousand deaths, thy hate;
When I am dead, if thou but pay
My tomb a tear, and sighing say,
Thou dost my timeless fall deplore,
Wishing thoud'st known my truth before
My dearest dear, thou mak'st me then,
Or sleep in peace, or live again.
ON HIS PICTURE OF THE EXCELLENTLY VIRTUOUS
LADY, THE LADY ISABEI LA 'THYNN,
NATURE and art are here at strife;
This shadow comes so near the life:
Sit still, (dear Lely) thou'st done that
Thyself must love and wonder at.
What other ages e'er could boast,
Either remaining yet, or lost,
Are trivial toys, and must give place
To this, that counterfeits her face:
Yet I'll not say, but there have been,
In every past age, paintings seen
Both good and like, from every hand,
That once had mast'ry and command,
But none like her! Surely she sat
Thy pencil thus to celebrate
Above all others that could claim
An echo from the voice of Fame.
For he, that most, or with most cause,
Speaks, or may speak, his own applause,
Can't, when he shows his master-piece,
Brag, he e'er did a face like this.
Such is thy chance to be the man,
None, but who shares thy honour, can:
If such another do arise,
To steal more glory from her eyes;
But 'twould improvident bounty show
To hazard such a beauty so:
'Tis strange thy judgment did not err,
Or want a hand, beholding her,
Whose awing graces well might make
Th' assured'st pencil to mistake.
To her and truth, then, what a crime,
To us, to all the world, and time,
(Who most will want her copy) 'twere
To have it then unlike appear!
But she's preserved from that fate,
Thou know'st so well to imitate,
And in that imitation show
What oil and colour mixt can do,
So well, that had this piece the grace
Of motion, she and none else has;
Or, if it could the odour breathe,
That her departing sighs bequeath,
And had her warmth, it then would be
Her glorious self, and none but she.
So well 'tis done! But thou canst go
No farther than what art can do:
And when all's done, this, thou hast made,
Is but a nobler kind of shade;
And thou, though thou hast play'd thy part,
A painter, no creator, art.
FAREWEI, my sweet, until I come,
Improv'd in merit, for thy sake,
With characters of honour, home,
Such as thou canst not then but take.
To loyalty my love must bow,
My honour too calls to the field, Where, for a lady's busk, I now
Must keen, and sturdy iron wield. Yet, when I rush into those arms,
Where death and danger do combine, I shall less subject be to harms,
Than to those killing eyes of thine. Since I could live in thy disdain, Thou art so far become my fate, That I by nothing can be slain,
Until thy sentence speaks my date.
But, if I seem to fall in war,
T'excuse the murder you commit, Be to my memory just so far,
As in thy heart t' acknowledge it: That's all I ask; which thou must give To hin, that dying, takes a pride It is for thee; and would not live
Sole prince of all the world beside.
THE day is set did Earth adorn,
To drink the brewing of the main; And, hot with travel, will ere morn Carouse it to an ebb again.
Then let us drink, time to improve, Secure of Cromwell and his spies; Night will conceal our healths and love, For all her thousand thousand eyes.
Then let us drink, secure of spies,
To Phoebus, and his second rise.
Without the evening dew and show'rs,
The Earth would be a barren place,
Of trees, and plants, of herbs, and flow'rs,
To crown her now enamell'd face:
Nor can wit spring, or fancies grow,
Unless we dew our heads in wine,
Plump Autumn's wealthy overflow,
And sprightly issue of the vine.
Then let us drink, secure of spies, To Phœbus, and his second rise. Wine is the cure of cares and sloth,
That rust the metal of the mind; The juice that man to man does both In freedom and in friendship bind. This clears the monarch's cloudy brows, And cheers the hearts of sullen swains, To wearied souls repose allows,
And makes slaves caper in their chains.
Comer had the first abuse,
Which admitted no excuse;
But, since Hill so ill did treat him,
Dick, in wrath, resolv'd to beat him.
Lampon, &c.
Straight a broom-staff was prepar'd,
Which Don Hill no little scar'd;
But he resolv'd, if Dick did baste him,
That his patience should out-last him.
Lampon, &c.
Whilst (good Christian) thus he meant
To despise his punishment,
And first to appease his foe send,
Lo! in sight was Dick's fierce nose-end.
Lampon, &c.
Whom, in terrour, Hill did ask,
If he durst perform his task;
Dick, in wrath, reply'd, "God damn me!
To that purpose now come am I."
Lampon, &c.
And withal, with main and might,
Up he trips this proper knight,
And with such fury he quell'd Hill,
That to the ground he levell'd Hill.
Lampon, &c.
This shows music discord has,
Which the cause of this war was;
And, that Hill's beaten, is a token
That their string of friendship's broken.
Lampon, &c.
Now behold! this mortal cause
Is referr'd to Harry Laws;
And since he's beaten Hill does tell though, Law shall give him salve for's elbow. Lampon, &c.
FALSE one, farewel, thou hast releas'd
The fire imprison'd in my breast;
Your beauties make not half the show
They did a year or two ago:
For now I find
The beauties those fair walls enshrin'd,
Foul and deform'd appear,
Ah! where
In woman is a spotless mind?
I would not now take up thine eyes,
But in revenge to tyrannize;
Nor should'st thou make me blot my skin
With the black thou wear'st within:
If thou would'st meet,
As brides do, in the nuptial sheet,
I would not kiss nor play;
But say,
Thou nothing hast that can be sweet.
I was betray'd by that fair sign
To entertainment cold within;
But found that fine built fabric lin'd
With so ill contriv'd a mind,
For ever (Chloe) leave to trust
The face that so beguiles
With smiles;
Falsehood's a charm to love or lust.
TO CHLORIS FROM FRANCE.
Piry me, Chloris, and the flame
Disdain and distance cannot tame;
And pity my necessity,
That makes my courtship, wanting thee,
Nothing but fond idolatry.
In dark and melancholy groves,
Where pretty birds discourse their loves,
I daily worship on my knee
Thy shadow, all I have of thee,
And sue to that to pity me.
I vow to it the sacred vow,
To thee, and only thee, I owe;
When (as it knew my true intent)
The silent picture gives consent,
And seems to mourn my banishment.
Presaging thence my love's success,
I triumph in my happiness,
And straight consider how each grace.
Adorns thy body, or thy face;
Surrender up to my embrace.
I think this little tablet now,
Because less cruel, fair as thou;
I do from it mercy implore,
"Tis the sole saint I do adore;
I do not think I love thee more.
Yet be not jealous, though I do
Thus doat of it, instead of you;
I love it not, for any line
Where captivating beauties shine;
But only (Chloris) as 'tis thine.
And, though thy shadow here take place,
By intimating future grace,
It goes before, but to impart
To thee how beautiful thou art,
And show a reason for my smart.
Nor is 't improper, sweet, since thou
Art in thy youthful morning now,
Whilst I, depriv'd of thine eye's light,
Do drooping live a tedious night
In Paris, like an anchorite.
Recal me, then, that I may see,
Once more, how fair and kind you be ;
Into thy sunshine call again
Him thus exil'd by thy disdain,
And I'll forget my loss and pain.
AN INVITATION TO PHILLIS.
COME, live with me, and be my love,
And thou shalt all the pleasures prove,
The mountains' tow'ring tops can show,
Inhabiting the vales below.
From a brave height my star shall shine
T'illuminate the désart clime.
Thy summer's bower shall overlook
The subtle windings of the brook,
For thy delight which only springs,
And cuts her way with turtle's wings.
The pavement of thy rooms shall shine
With the bruis'd treasures of the mine;
And not a tale of love but shall
In miniature adorn thy wall.
Thy closet shall queens' caskets mock
With rustic jewels of the rock;
And thine own light shall make a gem
As bright of these, as queens of them.
From this thy sphere thou shalt behold
Thy snowy ewes troop o'er the mold,
Who yearly pay my love a-piece
A tender lamb, and silver fleece.
And when Sol's rays shall all combine
Thine to out-burn though not outshine,
Then, at the foot of some green hill,
Where crystal Dove runs murm'ring still,
We'll angle for the bright-ey'd fish,
To make my love a dainty dish;.
Or, in a cave, by Nature made,
Fly to the covert of the shade,
Where all the pleasures we will prove,
Taught by the little god of love,
And when right Phoebus' scorching beams
Shall cease to gild the silver streams,
Then in the cold arms of the flood
We'll bathing cool the factious blood;
Thy beauteous limbs the brook shall grace,
Like the reflex of Cynthia's face;
Whilst all the wond'ring fry do greet
The welcome light, adore thy feet,
Supposing Venus to be come
To send a kiss to Thetis home.
And following night shall tried be,
Sweet, as thou know'st 1 promis'd thee:
Thus shall the summer's days and nights
Be dedicate to thy delights.
Then live with me, and be my love,
And a these pleasures shalt thou prove.
But when the sapless season brings
Cold winter on her shivering wings,
Freezing the river's liquid face
Into a crystal looking-glass,
And that the trees their naked bones
Together knock like skeletons,
Then, with the softest, whitest locks,
Spun from the tribute of thy flocks,
We will o'ercast thy whiter skin,
Winter without, a spring within.
At the first peep of day I'll rise.
To make the sullen hare thy prize;
And thou with open arms shall come,
To bid thy hunter welcome home.
The partridge, plover, and the poot,
I'll with the subtle mallard shoot;
The fell-fare and the greedy thrush
Shall drop from ev'ry hawthorn bush;
And the slow heron down shall fall,
To feed my fairest fair withal;
The feather'd people of the air
Shall fall to be my Phillis' fare:
No storm shall touch thee, tempest move;
Then live with me, and be my love.
But from her cloister when I bring
My Phillis to restore the spring,
The ruffling Boreas shall withdraw,
The snow shall melt, the ice shall thaw
The aguish plants fresh leaves shall show,
The Earth put on her verdant hue;
And thou (fair Phillis) shalt be seen
Mine and the summer's beauteous queen.
These, and more pleasures, shalt thou prove;
Then live with me, and be my love.
THE ENTERTAINMENT TO PHILLIS.
Now Phoebus is gone down to sleep
In cold embraces of the deep,
And night's pavillion in the sky
(Crown'd with a starry canopy)
Erected stands, whence the pale Moon
Steals out to her Endymion;
Over the meads and o'er the floods,
Thorough the ridings of the woods,
Th' enamour'd huntress scours her ways,
And through night's veil her horns displays.
I have a bower for my love
Hid in the centre of a grove
Of aged oaks, close from the sight
Of all the prying eyes of night.
The polish'd walls of marble ba
Pilaster'd round with porphyry,
Casements of crystal, to transmit
Night's sweets to thee, and thine to it;
Fine silver locks to ebon doors,
Rich gilded roofs, and cedar floors,
With all the objects may express
A pleasing solitariness.
Within my love shall find each room
New furnish'd from the silk-worm's loom,
Vessels of the true antique mold,
Cups cut in anıber, myrrh, and gold;
Quilts blown with roses beds with down,
More white than Atlas' aged crown;
Carpets where flowers woven grow,
Only thy sweeter steps to strew,
Such as may emulation bring
To the wrought mantle of the Spring.
There silver lamps shall silent shine,
Supply'd by oils of jessamine;
And mists of odours shall arise
To air thy little Paradise.
I have such fruits, too, for thy taste,
As teeming Autumn never grac'd;
Apples as round as thine own eyes,
Or, as thy sister beauties prize,
Smooth as thy snowy skin, and sleek
And ruddy as the morning's cheek ;
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple wear,
The sprightly matrons of the year,
Such as Lyæus never bare
About his drowsy brows so fair;
So plump, so large, so ripe, so good,
So full of flavour and of blood.
There's water in a grot hard by
To quench thee, when with dalliance dry,
Sweet as the milk of sand-red cow,
Brighter than Cynthia's silver bow;
Cold as the goddess' self e'er was,
And clearer than thy looking-glass.
But, oh! the sum of all delight
For which the day submits to night,
Is that, my Phillis, thou wilt find,
When we are in embraces twin'd.
Pleasures that so have tempted Jove
To all his masquerades of love;
From the bustle of the town,
And the knavish tribe o' th'
From long bills where we are debtors,
From bum-bailiffs and their setters;
From the tedious city lectures,
And thanksgivings for protectors,
Libera nos, &c.
From ill victuals when we dine,
And a tavern with ill wine;
From vile smoke in a short pipe,
And a landlord that will gripe;
From long reck'nings, and a wench
That claps in English, or in French,
Libera nos, &c.
From demesnes, whose barren soil
Ne'er produc'd the barley oil;
From a friend for nothing fit,
That nor courage has, nor wit;
From all liars, and from those
POETS are great men's trumpets, poets feign, Create them virtues, but dare hint uo stain: This makes the fiction constant, and doth show You make the poets, not the poets you.
'TO THE MEMORY OF MY WORTHY FRIEND, COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE. To pay my love to thee, and pay it so, As honest men should what they justly owe, Were to write better of thy life than can Th' assured'st pen of the most worthy man: Such was thy composition, such thy mind Improv'd to virtue, and from vice refin'd. Thy youth, an abstract of the world's best parts, Enur'd to arms, and exercis'd in arts; Which with the vigour of a man became Thine, and thy country's pyramids of flame; Two glorious lights to guide our hopeful youth Into the paths of honour and of truth.
These parts (so rarely met) made up in thee, What man should in his full perfection be: So sweet a temper into every sense,
And each affection, breath'd an influence,
As smooth'd them to a calm, which still withstood
The raffling passions of untamed blood,
Without a wrinkle in thy face, to show
Thy stable breast could a disturbance know.
In fortune humble, constant in mischance,
Expert of both, and both serv'd to advance
Thy name, by various trials of thy spirit,
And give the testimony of thy merit;
Valiant to envy of the bravest men,
And learned to an undisputed pen,
Good as the best in both, and great; but yet
No dangerous courage, nor offensive wit:
These ever serv'd, the one for to defend,
The other nobly to advance thy friend;
Under which title I have found my name
Fix'd in the living chronicle of Fame
To times succeeding; yet I hence must go,
Displeas'd I cannot celebrate thee so.
But what respect, acknowledgment, and love,
What these together, when improv'd, improve}
Call it by any name, (so it express
Aught like a tribute to thy worthiness,
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