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He would have a hand as soft As the downe, and show it oft ;
What need of mee? doe you but sing, Skin as sinooth as any rush,
Sleepe and the grave will wake, And so thin to see a blush
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting, Rising through it e're it came;
But what those lips doe make.
They say the angells marke each deed, What we harmonie doe call
And exercise below, In a body should be there.
And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.
O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall againe, at such a feast,
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
Nay, rather both our soules bee strayn'd As to doe nothing too much.
To meet their high desire; Nor o're-praise, nor yet condemne;
So they in state of grace retain'd,
May wish us of their quire.
Oh, doe not wanton with those eyes, But of one if short he came,
Lest I be sick with seeing; I can rest me where I am.
Nor cast them downe, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being. X. ANOTHER LADYE'S EXCEPTION, PRESENT AT O, be not angry with those fires, THE HEARING.
For then their threats will kill me; For his mind, I doe not care,
Nor looke too kinde on my desires, That's a toy, that I could spare:
Por then my hopes will spill me. Let his title be but great,
O, do not steepe them in thy teares, His clothes rich, and band sit neat,
For so will sorrow slay me; Himselfe young, and face be good,
Nor spread them as distract with feares, All I wish is understood :
Mine owne enough betray me. What you please, you parts may call, 'Tis one good part I'd lie withall.
I'le tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet, no,
One un-becomming thought doth move
From either heart, I know ;
But so exempt from blame,
As it would be to each a fame,
If love, or feare, would let me tell his name. Hang up those dull and envious fooles
That talke abroad of woman's change, We were not bred to sit on stooles,
Our proper vertue is to range: Take that away, you take our lives,
THE HOURE-GLASSE. We are no women then, but wives.
Doe but consider this small dust, Such as in valour would excell
Here running in the glasse, Doe change, though man, and often fight,
By atomes mov'd; Which we in love must doe as well,
Could you beleeve, that this If ever we will love aright.
The body was The frequent varying of the deed,
Of one that lov'd ? Is that which doth perfection breed.
And in his mistress flame, playing like a fiye,
Turn'd to cinders by her eye? Nor is't inconstancie to change
Yes; and in death, as life, unblest, For what is better, or to make
To have't expresst, (By searching) what before was strange,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
MY PICTURE LEFT IN SCOTLAND.
I now thinke, love is rather deafe then blind, Our pleasure ; but preserves us more
For else it could not be, From being forsaken, then doth worth:
That she, For were the worthiest woman curst
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, To love one man, hee'd leave her first.
And cast my love bebind :
And every close did meet
In sentence, of as subtile feet,
As hath the youngest hee,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. I love, and he loves me againe,
Oh, but my conscious feares, Yet dare I not tell who;
That fie my thoughts betweene, For if the nymphs should know my swaine,
Tell me that she hath secne
My hundreds of gray haires,
Told seven and fortie yeares,
Read so much waste, as she cannot imbrace For that's a narrow joy is but our owne.
My mountaine belly, and my rockie face,
And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares. I'le tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envie me:
How cainst thou thus to enter me?
In're was of thy kind; And fresh and fragrant too,
Nor have I yet the narrow mind As summer's sky, or purged ayre,
To vent that poore desire, And lookes as lillies doe,
That others should not warme them at my fire. That are this morning blowne,
I wish the Sun should shine, Yet, yet I doubt he is not knowne,
On all men's fruit, and flowers, as well as mine. And feare much more, that more of him be showne.
But under the disguise of love But he hath eyes so round and bright,
Thou sai'st thou onely cam'st to prove As make away my doubt,
What my affections were, Where Love may all his torches light,
Think'st thou that love is help'd by feare? - Though Hate had put them out
Goe, get thee quickly forth,
Love's sicknesse, and his noted want of worth, What nymph so e're his voyce but heares
Seeke doubting men to please, Will be my rivall, though she have but eares. I ne're will owe my health to a disease.
AN OR score, or pittie on me take,
EPISTLE TO SIR EDWARD SACKVILE,
NOW EARLE OF DORGET.
If Sackvile, all that have the power to doe
Great and good turns, as wel could time them too, Nor will he tell me for whose sake
And knew tbeir how, and where: we should have then
Lesse list of proud, hard, or ingratefull men.
For benefits are ow'd with the same mind
As they are done, and such returnes they find :
You then, whose will not only, but desire
To succour my necessities tooke fire,
Not at my prayers, but your sense; which laid As since he dares not come within my sight.
The way to meet what others would upbraid;
The smallest courtesies with thankes, I make EPITAPH ON MASTER VINCENT CORBET. Yet choyce from whom I take them; and would
shame I have my pietie too, which could
To have such doe me good, I durst not name: It veat it selfe, but as it would,
They are the noblest benefits, and sinke Would say as much, as both have done
Deepest in man, of which when he doth thinke, Before me here, the friend and sonne ;
The memorie delights him more, from whom For I both lost a friend and father,
Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stinke from some, Of him whose bones this grave doth gather ;
They are so long a comming, and so hard ; Deare Vincent Corbet, who so long
Where any deed is forc't, the grace is mard. Had wrestled with diseases strong,
Can I owe thankes, for courtesies receiv'd That though they did possess each limbe,
Against his will that does 'hem? that hath weay'd Yet he broke them, e're they could him,
Excuses, or delayes? or done 'hem scant, With the just canon of his life,
That they bave more opprest me, then my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,
But by meere chance for interest? or to free All order, and disposure, still
Himselfe of farther trouble, or the weight His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
Of pressure, like one taken in a streight? As were his nourceries; and swept
All this corrupts the thankes, lesse hath he wonne, So of uncleannesse, or offence,
That puts it in his debt-booke e're 't be done; That never came ill odour thence:
Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call And adde his actions unto these,
His groomes to witnesse; or else lets it fall They were as specious as his trees.
In that proud manner: as a good so gain'd, 'Tis true, he could not reprehend
Must make me sad for what I have obtain'd. [face, His very manners, taught t'amend,
No! gifts and thankes should have one cheerefull They were so even, grave, and holy;
So each, that's done, and tane, becomes a brace. No stubbornnesse so stiffe, nor folly
He neither gives, or does, that doth delay To licence ever was so light,
A benefit, or that doth throw't away, As twice to trespasse in his sight,
No more then he doth thanke, that will receive His lookes would so correct it, when
Nought but in corners; and is loath to leave, It chid the vice, yet not the men.
Lest ayre, or print, but flies it: such men would Much from him I professe I wonne,
Run from the conscience of it if they could, And more, and more, I should have done,
As I have seene some infants of the sword But that I understood him scant,
Well knowne, and practiz'd borrowers on their word, Now I conceive him by my want,
Give thankes by stealth, and whispering in the eare, And pray who shall my sorrowes read,
For what they straight would to the world forsweare; That they for me their teares will shed;
And speaking worst of those from whom they went For truly, since he left to be,
But then fist fill’d, to put me off the sent. I feele, I'm rather dead than be?
Now dam'mee, sir, if you shall not command
My sword ('tis but a poore sword understand) Reader, whose life, and name, did e're become
As farre as any poore sword i' the land:
Then turning unto him is next at band, An epitaph, deserv'd a tombe:
Damns whom he damn’d too, is the veriest gull, Nor wants it here through penurie, or sloth,
H'as feathers, and will serve a man to pull.
Are they not worthy to be answerd so,
Like money-brokers, after names, and hire
Their bounties forth to him that last was made, In time 'twill be a beape ; this is not true
Yet we must more then move still, or goe on, Their thoughts and meanes to making loude the cry; We must accomplish; 'tis the last key-stone But one is bitten by the dog he fed,
That makes the arch, the rest that there were put And hurt, seeks cure; the surgeon bids take bread, Are nothing till that comes to bind and sbut. And spunge-like with it dry up the blood quite, Then stands it a triumphall marke! then men Then give it to the hound that did hin bite: Observe the strength, the height, the wby, and when, Pardon, saves he, that were a way to see
It was erected; and still walking under All the towne-curs take each their snatch at me. Meet some new matter to looke up and wonder! O, is it so ? knowes he so much ? and will Such notes are vertuous men! they live as fast Feed those, at whom the table points at still? As they are high; are rooted and will last. I not deny it, but to helpe the need
They need no stilts, vor rise upon their toes, Of any, is a great and generous deed:
As if they would belie their stature, those Yea, of th' ingratefull: and lie forth must tell Are dwarfes of honour, and have neither weight Many a pound and piece will place one well; Nor fashion; if they cbance aspire to height, But these men ever want : their very trade 'Tis like light caues, that first rise big and brave, Is borrowing; that but stopt, they doe invade Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces; have All as their prize, turne pyrats here at land, But few and fair divisions : but being got Ha'their Berinudas, and their Streights i' th’Strand; Aloft, grow lesse and streightned, full of knot, Man out of their boates to th’ Temple, and not shift And last, goe out in nothing: you that see Now, but command; make tribute what was gift; Their difference, cannot choose which you will be. And it is paid 'hem with a trembling zeale You know (without my flatt'ring you) too much And superstition, I dare scarce reveale
For me to be your indice. Keep you such, If it were cleare, but being so in cloud
That I may love your person (as I doe) Carryed and wrapt, I only am aloud
Without your gift, though I can rate that too, My wonder! why? the taking a clownes purse, By thanking thus the courtesie to life, Or robbing the poore market-folkes, should nurse Which you will bury, but therein, the strife Such a religious horrour in the brests
May grow so great to be example, when Of our towne gallantry! or why there rests (As their true rule or lesson) either men, Such worship due to kicking of a punck!
Donnars or donnees, to their practise shall Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer drunke; Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all. Or feats of darknesse acted in mid-sun, And told of with more licence then th' were done! Sure there is misterie in it, I not know That men such reverence to such actions show! And almost deifie the authors ! make Lowd sacrifice of drinke, for their health-sake; Rearesuppers in their names! and spend whole nights EPISTLE TO MASTER JOHN SELDEN. Unto their praise, in certaine swearing rites: Cannot a man be reck’ned in the state
I know to whom I write here, I am sure,
Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:
Your booke, my Selden, I have read, and much Or science of a discerning good and ill.
Was trusted, that you thought my judgement such And you, sir, know it well, to whom I write, To aske it: though in most of workes it be
That with these mixtures we put out her light; A pennance, where a man may not be free,
Rather then office, when it doth or may
Pernitious enemie. We see before And feeles it; else he tarries by the beast.
A many of bookes, even good judgements wound Can I discerne how shadowes are decreast, Themselves through favouring what is there not Or growne, by beight or low nesse of the sunne? But I on yours farre otherwise shall doe, (found: And can I lesse of substance? when I runne, Not flie the crime, but the suspicion too: Ride, saile, am coach'd, know I how farre I have gone, Though I confesse (as every Muse hath err'd, And my minds motion not ? or have I none: And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd (much, No! he must feele and know, that will advance; Men, past their termes, and prais'd some names to Men have been great, but never good by chance, But 'twas with purpose to have made them such, Or on the sudden. It were strange that he Since being deceiv'd, I turne a sharper eye Who was this morning such a ove, should be C'pon my selfe, and aske to whom ? and why? Sydney e'er night? or that did goe to bed And wbat I write ? and vexe it many dayes Coriat, should rise the most sufficient head Before men get a verse, much lesse a praise; Of Christendome? And neither of these know, So that my reader is assur'd, I now Were the rack offer'd them, how they came so; Meane what I speake, and still will keepe that row. Tis by degrees that men arrive at glad
Stand forth my object, then, you that have beeve Profit; in ought each day some little adde, Ever at home, yet have all countries seene :
And like a compasse, keeping one foot still It is a call to keepe the spirits alive,
That gaspe for action, and would yet revive
All other acts of worldlings are but toyle Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will In dreames, begun in hope, and end in spoile. Tinstruct and teach? or your unweary'd paine
Looke on th' ambitious man, and see him nurse, Of gatheriog? bountie in pouring out againe? His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse) What fables have you vext! what truth redeem'd! Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse, Antiquities search'd! opinions dis-esteem'd ! Till he become both their, and his owne curse! Impostures branded! and authorities urg'd,
Looke on the false and cuoning man, that loves Whatblots and errours, have you wat::h'd and purg'd No person, nor is lov’d; what wayes he proves Records and authors of! how rectified
To gaine upon his belly; and at last Times, manners, customes! innovations spide ! Crush'd in the snakie brakes, that he had past! Sought out the fountaines, sources, creekes, paths, See, the grave, sower, and supercilious sir And noted the beginnings and decayes! (wayes, In outward face, but inward, light as furre, Where is that nominall marke, or call rite,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show, Forme, act, or ensigne, that hath scap'd your sight? Till envie wound, or maime it at a blow! How are traditions there examin'd! how
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest man, Conjectures retriev'd | and a storie now
Honour'd at once, and envi'd (if it can And then of times (besides the bare conduct Be honour is so mixt) by such as would, Of what it tells us) wéay'd in to instruct.
For all their spight, be like him if they could: I wonder'd at the richnesse, but am lost,
No part or corner man can looke upon, To see the workmanship so 'xceed the cost ! But there are objects bid him to be gone To marke the excellent seas'ning of your stile ! As farre as he can flie, or follow day, And manly elocution,'not one while
Rather then here so bogg'd in vices stay: With horrour rough, then rioting with wit !
The whole world here leaven'd with madnesse swells; But to the subject still the colours fit,
And being a thing blowne out of nought, rebells In sharpnesse of all search, wisdome of choise, Against his Maker; high alone with weeds, Newnesse of sense, antiquitie of voice!
And impious ranknesse of all sects and seeds: I yeeld, 1 yeeld, the matter of your praise
Not to be checkt, or frighted now with fate, Flowes in upon me, and I cannot raise
But more licentious made, and desperate! A banke against it. Nothing but the round
Our delicacies are growne capitall, Large claspe of nature, such a wit can bound. And even our sports are dangers! what we call Monarch in letters ! 'mongst the titles showne Friendship is now mask'd hatred ! justice fled, Of others honours, thus, enjoy thy owne.
And shamefastnesse together! all lawes dead I first salute thee so; and gratulate
That kept man living! pleasures only sought! With that thy stile, thy keeping of thy state;
Honour and honestie, as poore things thought In offering this thy worke to no great name, (same, as they are made ! pride and stiffe clownage mixt That would, perbaps, have prais’d, and thank'd the To make up greatnesse! and man's whole good fix'd But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,
In bravery, in gluttony, or coyne, Thy learned chamber-fellow, knowes to doe
All which he makes the servants of the groine, It true respects. He will not only love,
Thither it flowes: how much did Stallion spend Embrace, and cherish ; but he can approve
To have his court-bred-fillie there commend And estimate thy paines; as having wrought
His lace and starch; and fall upon her back In the same mines of knowledge; and thence brougbt In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack Humanitie enough to be a friend,
Of lust, to his rich suit, and title, lord ? And strength to be a champion, and defend I, that's a charme and halfe! she must afford Thy gift 'gainst envie, O how I doe count That all respect; she must lie downe : pay more Among my commings in, and see it mount,
'Tis there civilitie to be a whore;
Who can behold their manners, and not clowd-
And every dressing for a pitfall set
To catch the flesh in, and to pound a
Be at their visits, see 'hem squemish, sick,
And then leape mad on a neat pickardill;