Tell him all questions which men have defended
Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;-
And 't is decreed our hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this earth's habitation;
And 't is where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meet.
Live I or die, by you my love is sent;
You are my pawns, or else my testament.
PREGNANT again with th' old twins, Hope and Fear,
Oft' have I ask'd for thee, both how and where
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;
As in our streets sly beggars narrowly
Watch motions of the giver's hand or eye,
And ever more conceive some hope thereby.
And now thy alms is giv'n, the letter 's read,
The body risen again the which was dead,
And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.
After this banquet my soul doth say grace,
And praise thee for 't, and zealously embrace
Thy love; tho' I think thy love in this case
To be as gluttons, which say, amidst their meat,
They love that best of which they most do eat.
AT once from hence my lines and I depart,
I to my soft still walks, they to my heart;
I to the nurse, they to the child of Art.
Yet as a firm house, tho' the carpenter
Perish, doth stand; as an ambassador
Lies safe, howe'er his king be in danger;
So, tho' I languish, press'd with melancholy,
My verse, the strict map of my misery,
Shall live to see that for whose want I die.
Therefore I envy them, and do repent
That from unhappy me things happy' are sent:
Yet as a picture or bare sacrament
Accept these lines, and if in them there be
Merit of love, bestow that love on me.
THY friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain, Urg'd by this unexcusable occasion,
Thee and the saint of his affection
Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain;
And let the love I bear to both sustain
No blot nor maim by this division;
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one,
And strong that love pursu'd with amorous pain.
But tho' besides myself I leave behind,
Heav'n's liberal and the thrice fair sun,
Going to where starv'd winter aye doth won,
Yet love's hot fires, which martyr my sad mind,
Do send forth scalding sighs, which have the art
To melt all ice but that which walls her heart.
THOU! which to search out the secret parts
Of th' India, or rather Paradise
Of knowledge, hast with courage and advice
Lately launch'd into the vast sea of arts,
Disdain not in thy constant travelling
To do as other voyagers, and make
Some turns into less creeks, and wisely take
Fresh water at the Heliconian spring.
I sing not Siren-like to tempt, for I
Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you,
Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;
But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry,
I, tho' I brought no fuel, had desire
With these articulate blasts to blow the fire.
Is not thy sacred hunger of science
Yet satisfy'd? is not thy brain's rich hive
Full fill'd with honey, which thou dost derive
From the arts' spirits and their quintessence?
Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw
From Cambridge, thy old nurse; and as the rest
Here toughly chew and sturdily digest
Th' immense vast volumes of our Common Law;
And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,
Which is that which I should have begun
In my youth's morning, now late must be done;
And I, as giddy travellers must do,
Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost
Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride post.
If thou unto thy Muse be married,
Embrace her ever, ever multiply;
Be far from me that strange adultery
To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood.
My nurse, (for I had one) because I'm cold,
Divorc'd herself; the cause being in me,
That I can take no new in bigamy;
Not my will only, but pow'r doth withhold:
Hence comes it that these rhymes, which never had
Mother, want matter; and they only have.
A little form, the which their father
They are prophane, imperfect, oh! too bad
To be counted children of Poetry,
Except confirm'd and bishopped by thee.
IF, as mine is, thy life a slumber be,
Seem, when thou read'st these lines, to dream of me: Never did Morpheus nor his brother wear
Shapes so like those shapes whom they would appear, As this my letter is like me, for it
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, mind, and
It is my Deed of Gift of me to thee;
It is my will, myself the legacy;
So thy retirings I love, yea envy,
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy;
That I rejoice that unto where thou art,
Tho' I stay here, I can thus send my heart,
As kindly as any enamour'd patient
His picture to his absent love hath sent.
All news I think sooner reach thee than me; Havens are heav'ns, and ships wing'd angels be,. The which both gospel and stern threat'nings bring Guiana's harvest is nipt in the spring,
I fear; and with us (methinks) Fate deals so,
As with the Jews' guide God did; he did show 420
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