As all things were but one nothing, dull and weak, Until this raw disorder'd heap did break, And several desires led parts away,

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Water declin'd with earth, the air did stay,
Fire rose, and each from other but unty'd,
Themselves unprison'd were and purify'd;
So was love, first in vast confusion hid,
An unripe willingness which nothing did;
A thirst, an appetite which had no ease,
That found a want, but knew not what would please.
What pretty innocence in that day mov❜d,
Man ignorantly walk'd by her he lov'd!
Both sigh'd and interchang'd a speaking eye,
Both trembled and were sick, yet knew not why.
That natural fearfulness that struck man dumb,
Might well (those times consider'd) man become,
As all discoverers, whose first essay

Finds but the place, after the nearest way;
So passion is to woman's love, about,
Nay, farther off, than when we first set out,
It is not love that sues or doth contend;
Love either conquers, or but meets a friend.
Man's better part consists of purer fire,
And finds itself, allow'd ere it desire.

Love is wise here, keeps home, gives reason sway,
And journies not till it find summer-way.

A weather-beaten lover, but once known,
Is sport for every girl to practise on.

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Who strives thro' woman's scorns women to know
Is lost, and seeks his shadow to outgo;
It is mere sickness after one disdain,
Tho' he be call'd aloud to look again.
Let others sin and grieve; one cunning slight.
Shall freeze my love to crystal in a night..
I can love first, and (if I win) love still,
And cannot be remov'd, unless she will.
It is her fault if I unsure remain;
She only can unty, I bind again.
The honesties of love with ease I do,
But am no porter for a tedious woo.

But, Madam, I now think on you; and here,
Where we at our heights, you but appear.
We are but clouds, you rise from our noon-ray,
But a foul shadow, not your break of day.
You are at first-hand all that's fair and right,
And others' good reflects but back your light:
You are a perfectness, so curious hit,
That youngest flatteries do scandal it;
For what is more doth what you are restrain,
And tho' beyond, is down the hill again..
We have no next way to you, we cross to 't;
You are the straight line, thing prais'd, attribute:
Each good in you's a light; so many a shade
You make, and in them are your motions made,
These are your pictures to the life. From far
We see you move, and here your zances are

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So that no fountain good there is doth grow
In you but our dim actions faintly show.

Then find I, if man's noblest part be love,
Your purest lustre must that shadow move.
"The soul with body is a heav'n combin'd
With earth, and for man's ease nearer join'd.
Where thoughts, the stars of soul, we understand,
We guess not their large natures, but command; 100
And love in you that bounty is of light,

That gives to all, and yet hath infinite;
Whose heat doth force us thither to intend,
But soul we find too earthly to ascend,
Till slow access hath made it wholly pure,
Able immortal clearness to endure.

Who dare aspire this journey with a stain,
Hath weight will force him headlong back again.
No more can impure man retain and move.
In that pure regioh of a worthy love,

Than earthly substance can unforc'd aspire,
And leave his nature to converse with fire.

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Such may have eye and hand, may sigh, may speak, But like swoln bubbles, when they're high'st they Tho' far remov'd northern isles scarce find [break. The sun's comfort, yet some think him too kind. There is an equal distance from her eye; Men perish too far off, and burn too nigh. But as air takes the sun-beams equal, bright From the rays first to his last opposite, .. Volume IM.

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So happy man, blest with a virtuous love,
Remote or near, or howsoe'er they move,
Their virine breaks all clouds that might annoy;
There is no emptiness, but all is joy.

He much profanes (whom valiant heats do move)
To stile his wand'ring rage of passion Love.
Love, that imports in every thing delight,
Is fancied by the soul, not appetite;
Why love among the virtues is not known
Is, that love is them all contract in one.

TO MR. J. W.

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ALL hail, sweet Poct! and full of more strong fire
Than hath or shall enkindle my dull spirit,

I lov'd what Nature gave thee, but thy merit
Of wit and art I love not but admire.

Who have before or shall write after thee,
Their works, tho' toughly laboured, will be
Like infancy or age to man's firm stay,
Or early and late twilights to mid-day.

Men say, and truly, that they better be
Which be envy'd than pitied; therefore I,
Because I wish the best, do thee envy.
O! wouldst thou by like reason pity me,
But care not for me, I, that ever was
In Nature's and in Fortune's gifts, alas!

.

(But for thy grace got in the Muse's school) A monster and a beggar, am a fool.

Oh! how I grieve that late-born modesty

Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts,

That men may not themselves their own good parts Extol without suspect of surquedry:

For but thyself no subject can be found

Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound

Thy worth but thine. How good it were to see
A poem in thy praise, and writ by thee!

Now if this song be too harsh for rhyme, yet as
The painter's bad god made a good devil,
It will be good prose, altho' the verse be evil.
If thou forget the rhyme as thou dost pass,
Then write, that I may follow, and so be
Thy echo, thy debtor, thy foil, thy zanee.
I shall be thought (if mine like thine I shape)
All the world's lion, tho' I be thy ape.

TO MR. T. W.

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HASTE thee, harsh Verse! as fast as thy lame measure Will give thee leave, to him; my pain and pleasure I've given thee, and yet thou art too weak,

Feet and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.

Donne.]

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