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CONSISTING OF DIVERS POEMS.
TO THE READER.
With the same leave the ancients called that kind of body Sylva, or stay, in which there were workes of divers nature, and matter congested; as the multitude call timbertrees, promiscuously growing, a wood or forrest : so am I bold to entitle these lesser poems, of later growth, by this of Under-wood, out of the analogie they hold to the Forrest, in my former booke, and no otherwise.
Eternall God the Sonne, who not denyd'st
“ All's done in me.”
O HOLY, blessed, glorious Trinitie
Of persons, still one God, in unitie.
Helpe, helpe to lift
O take my gift.
An offring meet,
Eternall Spirit, God from both proceeding,
For acts of grace.
Increase those acts, ô glorious Trinitie
Of seeing your face.
Beholding one in three, and three in one,
ON THE NATIVITIE OF MY SAVIOUR.
I sing the birth was born to night,
The Author both of life and light; Father, and Sonne, and Holy Ghost, you three
The angels so did sound it, All coeternall in your majestie,
And like the ravish'd sheep'erds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,
Yet search'd, and true they found it.
The Sonne of God, th' Eternall King, My Maker, Saviour, and my sanctifier.
That did us all salvation bring, To heare, to meditate, sweeten my desire,
And freed the soule from danger; With grace, with love, with cherishing intire, Hee whom the whole world could not take, O, then how blest; The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger. Among thy saints elected to abide,
The Father's wisedome will'd it so, And with thy angels placed side by side,
The Sonne's obedience knew no no, But in thy presence, truly glorified
Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisedome had decreed,
And tooke on him our nature.
To make us heires of glory? HYMNE TO GOD THE FATHER. To see this babe all innocence;
A martyr borne in our defence;
Can man forget this storie? HEARE mee, O God!
A broken heart
Is my best part:
That I may prove
CELEBRATION OF CHARIS,
IN TEN LYRICK PRECES.
I. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING,
Let it not your wonder move,
Keepe the middle age at stay,
Sinne, Death, and Hell,
His glorious name
And slight the same.
But i'le come in,
Before my losse
Me farther tosse,
Under his crosse.
II. HOW HE SAW HER.
Parre I was from being stupid,
That they still were to run by her side, ride. For I rap and callid on Cupid ;
Through swords, through seas, whether she would “ Love, if thou wilt ever see Marke of glorie, come with me;
Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light Where's thy quiver ? bend thy bow :
All that Love's world compriseth! Here's a shaft, thou art too slow !”
Doe but looke on her haire, it is bright And (withall) I did untie
As Love's starre when it riseth ! Every cloud about his eye;
Doe but marke, ber forhead's smoother
Then words that sooth her!
And from her arched browes, such a grace
Sheds it selfe through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life Letting bow and arrow fall;
All the gaine, all the good, of the elements' strife. Nor for any threat, or call, Could be brought once back to looke.
Have you seene but a bright lillie grow, I, foole-hardie, there up tooke
Before rude hands have touch'd it? Both the arrow he had quit,
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow And the bow, which thought to hit
Before the soyle hath smutch'd it? This my object. But she threw
Ha' you felt the wooll of bever?
Or swan's downe ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white ! O so soft! O so sweet is she !
V. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID,
NOBLEST Charis, you that are
And doe governe more my blood,
Then the various Moone the flood !
Heare, what late discourse of you, Which the prouder beauties please,
Love and I have had; and true. She content was to restore
'Mongst my Muses finding me, Eyes and limbes; to hurt me more:
Where he chanc't your name to see And would, on conditions, be
Set, and to this softer straine; Reconcil'd to love and me:
“ Sure," said he, “ if I have braine, First, that I must kneeling yeeld
This here sung can be no other, Both the bow and shaft I held
By description, but my mother! Unto her; which Love might take
So bath Homer prais'd her haire; At her hand, with oath, to make
So Anacreon drawne the ayre Mee the scope of his next draught,
Of her face, and made to rise, Aymed with that selfe-same shaft.
Just about her sparkling eyes, He no sooner heard the law,
Both her browes, bent like my bow. But the arrow home did draw,
By her lookes I doe her know, And (to gaine her by his art)
Which you call my shafts. And see! Left it sticking in my heart :
Such my mother's blushes be, Which when she beheld to bleed,
As the bath your verse discloses She repented of the deed,
In her cheekes, of milke and roses; And would faine have chang'd the fate,
Such as oft I wanton in. But the pittie comes too late.
And, above her even chin, Looser-like, now, all my wreake
Have you plac'd the bankè of kisses, Is, that I have leave to speake,
Where you say, men gather blisses, And in either prose, or song,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet, To revenge me with my tongue,
Then when flowers and west-winds meet. Which how dexterously I doe,
Nay, ber white and polish'd neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
And betweene each rising breast
Lyes the valley, cald my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings Wherein my lady rideth!
After Alight; and put new stings Each that drawes is a swan, or a dove,
To my shafts ! Her very name, And well the carre Love guideth.
With my mother's is the same."As she goes, all hearts do duty
“ I confesse all," I replide, Unto her beauty;
“ And the glasse hangs by her side, And,'enamour'd, doe wish so they might
And the girdle 'bout her waste,
All is Venus : save unchaste.
But, alas! thou seest the least
I will but mend the last, and tell Of her good, who is the best
Where, how, it would have relish'd well; Of her sex; but could'st thou, Love,
Joyne lip to lip, and try : Call to minde the formes, that strove
Each suck other's breath, For the apple, and those three
And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Make in one, the san:e were shee.
Let who will thinke us dead, or wish our death. For this beauty yet doth hide Something more then thou hast spi'd. Outward grace weake love beguiles: Shee is Venus when she smiles,
VIU. URGING HER OF A PROMISE. But shee's Juno when she walkes,
Charis one day in discourse
Had of Love, and of his force,
What a man she could love well:
And that promise set on fire
All that heard her with desire. Charis, guesse, and doe not miss,
With the rest, I long expected Since I drew a morning kisse
When the worke would be effected: From your lips, and suck'd an ayre
But we find that cold delay
And excuse spun every day,
As, untill she tell her one,
We all feare she loveth none. If by us the oddes were laid,
Therefore, Charis, you must do't, That the bride (allow'd a maid)
For I will so urge you to't, Look'd not halfe so fresh and faire,
You shall neither eat, nor sleepe, With th' advantage of her haire,
No, nor forth your window peepe, And her jewels, to the view
With your emissarie eye,
To fetch in the formes goe by:
And pronounce, which band or lace You were more the eye and talke
Better fits him then his face; Of the court, to day, then all
Nay, I will not let you sit Else that glister'd in White-hall;
'Fore your idoll glasse a whit, So, as those that had your sight,
To say over every purie Wisht the bride were chang'd to night,
There; or to reforme a curle; And did thinke such rites were due
Or with secretarie Sis
To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last :
All your sweet of life is past, Of your peeres you were beheld,
Make account anlesse you can, That at every motion sweld
(And that quickly) speake your man. So to see a lady tread, As might all the Graces leade, And was worthy (being so seene) To be envi’d of the queene.
IX. HER MAN DESCRIBED BY HER OWNE
Of your trouble, Ben, to ease me,
I will tell what man would please me. To have left all sight for you:
I would have him, if I could,
Noble; or of greater blood :
Titles, I confesse, doe take me,
And a woman God did make me.
Young I'd have him too, and faire, VII. BEGGING ANOTHER, ON COLOUR OF MENDING
Yet a man; with crisped haire,
Cast in thousand snares and rings,
For Love's fingers, and his wings : I long, and should not beg in vaine,
Chestnut colour, or more slack
Gold, upon a ground of black.
Venus and Minerva's eyes,
For he must looke wanton-wise. That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.
Eye-brows bent like Cupid's bow,
Front, an ample field of snow; Once more, and (faith) I will be gone.
Even nose, and cheeke (withall) Can he that loves aske lesse then one?
Smooth as is the billiard ball :
Chin, as woolly as the peach;
And his lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherish'd too much beard, What w'are but once to doe, we should doe long. And make Love or me afeard.