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Scorning the unexempt condition

By which all mortal frailty must subsist,
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain,
That have been tir'd all day without repast,
And timely rest have wanted; but, fair virgin,
This will restore all soon.

Lady. "Twill not, false traitor!
"Twill not restore the truth and honesty
That thou hast banish'd from thy tongue with lies.
Was this the cottage, and the safe abode

Thou told'st me of? What grim aspécts are these,
These ugly-headed monsters? Mercy guard me!
Hence with thy brew'd inchantments, foul deceiver!
Hast thou betray'd my credulous innocence
With visor'd falsehood, and base forgery?
And would'st thou seek again to trap me here
With liquorish baits fit to insnare a brute?
Were it a draught for Juno when she banquets,
I would not taste thy treasonous offer; none
But such as are good men can give good things,
And that which is not good is not delicious
To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.

Comus. O foolishness of men! that lend their ears
To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur,
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub,
Praising the lean and sallow abstinence.
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand,
Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,
But all to please and sate the curious taste?
And set to work millions of spinning worms,

It is for homely features to keep home;
They had their name thence; coarse complexions,
And cheeks of sorry grain, will serve to ply
The sampler, and to tease the housewife's wool.
What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that,
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
There was another meaning in these gifts;
Think what, and be advis'd; you are but young yet.
Lady. I had not thought to have unlock'd my lips
In this unhallow'd air, but that this juggler
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules, prankt in reason's garb.
I hate, when vice can bolt her arguments,
And virtue has no tongue to check her pride.
Impostor, do not charge most innocent nature,
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance; she, good cateress,
Means her provision only to the good,
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictate of spare temperance:
If every just man, that now pines with want,
Had but a moderate and beseeming share
Of that which lewdly-pamper'd luxury
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,
Nature's full blessings would be well dispens'd
In unsuperfluous even proportion,

And she no whit encumber'd with her store;
And then the giver would be better thank'd,
His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony
Ne'er looks to Heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast,
But with besotted base ingratitude

Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go on?

Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words
Against the sun-clad pow'r of chastity,
Fain would I something say, yet to what end?
Thou hast nor ear nor soul to apprehend
The sublime notion, and high mystery,
That must be utter'd to unfold the sage
And serious doctrine of virginity;

That in their green shops weave the smooth-hair'd silk, Or have I said enough? To him that dares
To deck her sons; and, that no corner might
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins
She hutch'd th' all worship'd ore, and precious gems
To store her children with: if all the world
Should in a pet of temp'rance feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,
Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be un-
prais'd;

Not half his riches known, and yet despis'd,
And we should serve him as a grudging master,
As a penurious niggard of his wealth,
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons,
Who would be quite surcharg'd with her own weight,
And strangled with her waste fertility. [plumes,
Th' earth cumber'd, and the wing'd air darkt with
The herds would over-multitude their lords;
The sea o'erfraught would swell; and th' unsought
diamonds

Would so imblaze the forehead of the deep,
And so bestud with stars, that they below
Would grow inur'd to light, and come at last
To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows.
List, lady: be not coy, and be not cozen'd
With that same vaunted name, virginity.
Beauty is nature's coin, must not be hoarded,
But must be current, and the good thereof
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss,
Unsavoury in th' enjoyment of itself;
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose
It withers on the stalk with languish'd head.
Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shewn
In courts, in feasts, and high solemnities,
Where most may wonder at the workmanship;

And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know
More happiness than this thy present lot.
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric,
That hast so well been taught her dazzling fence,
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinc'd;
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits
To such a flame of sacred vehemence,
That dumb things would be mov'd to sympathize,
And the brute earth would lend her nerves, and shake,
Till all thy magic structures, rear'd so high,
Were shatter'd into heaps o'er thy false head.

Comus. She fables not; I feel that I do fear
Her words set off by some superior power;
And though not mortal, yet a cold shudd'ring dew
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus,
To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble,
And try her yet more strongly. Come, no more;
This is mere moral babble, and direct
Against the canon laws of our foundation;

I must not suffer this, 'tis but the lees

And settlings of a melancholy blood:

But this will cure all straight; one sip of this
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste.

The Brothers rush in with swords drawn, wrest his glass out of his hand, and break it against the ground; his rout make sign of resistance, but are all driven in; the attendant Spirit comes in.

Spirit. What, have you let the false inchanter scape!
O ye mistook, ye should have snatch'd his wand,
And bound him fast; without his rod revers'd,
And backward mutters of dissevering power,
We cannot free the lady that sits here,
In stony fetters fix'd, and motionless:

Yet stay, be not disturb'd; now I bethink me,
Some other means I have, which may be us'd,
Which once of Melibœus old I learnt,
The soothest shepherd that e'er pip'd on plains.

There is a gentle nymph not far from hence,
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream,
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;

Whilome she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from his father Brute.
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged stepdame Guendolen,
Commended her fair innocence to the flood,
That stay'd her flight with his cross-flowing course.
The water-nymphs, that in the bottom play'd,
Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in,
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall,
Who, piteous of her woes, rear'd her lank head,
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectar'd lavers strow'd with asphodil,
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she reviv'd,
And underwent a quick immortal change,
Made Goddess of the river; still she retains
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs
That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make,
Which she with precious vial'd liquors heals;
For which the shepherds at their festivals
Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream
Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils.
And, as the old swain said, she can unlock

The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell,
If she be right invok'd, in warbled song;
For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift
To aid a virgin, such as was herself,
In hard-besetting need; this will I try,

And add the power of some adjuring verse.

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By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And the old soothsaying Glaucus' spell;
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands;
By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the songs of Syrens sweet;
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb;
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks;
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams, with wily glance;
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head
From thy coral-paven bed,

And bridle in thy headlong wave,

Till thou our summons answer'd have. Listen and save.

Sabrina riscs, attended by Water-nymphs, and sings.

By the rushy-fringed bank,

Where grows the willow, and the osier dank,
My sliding chariot stays,

Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen
Of turkis blue and emerald green,

That in the channel strays;
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread;
Gentle swain, at thy request,
I am here.

Spi. Goddess dear,

We implore thy powerful hand
To undo the charmed band

Of true virgin here distrest,

Through the force, and through the wile,
Of unblest inchanter vile.

Sab. Shepherd, 'tis my office best
To help insnared chastity:
Brightest lady, look on me;
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast
Drops that from my fountain pure
I have kept of precious cure,
Thrice upon thy finger's tip,
Thrice upon thy rubied lip;
Next this marble venom'd seat,
Smear'd with gums of glutinous heat,

I touch with chaste palms moist and cold:
Now the spell hath lost his hold;
And I must haste ere morning hour
To wait on Amphitrite's bower.

Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her scat.

Spi. Virgin, daughter of Locrine,
Sprung from old Anchises' line,
May thy brimmed waves for this
Their full tribute never miss
From a thousand petty rills,

That tumble down the snowy hills:
Summer drouth, or singed air,
Never scorch thy tresses fair,
Nor wet October's torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mud;
May thy billows roll ashore
The beryl, and the golden ore;

May thy lofty head be crown'd
With many a tower and terras round,
And here and there thy banks upon
With groves of myrrh and cinnamon.
Come, lady, while Heav'n lends us grace,
Let us fly this cursed place,
Lest the sorcerer us entice
With some other new device.
Not a waste or needless sound,
Till we come to holier ground;
I shall be your faithful guide
Through this gloomy covert wide,
And not many furlongs thence
Is your father's residence,
Where this night are met in state
Many a friend to gratulate
His wish'd presence, and beside
All the swains, that near abide,
With jigs and rural dance resort;
We shall catch them at their sport,
And our sudden coming there

Will double all their mirth and cheer.
Come, let us haste, the stars grow high,
But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.

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Noble lord, and lady bright,

I have brought you new delight;
Here behold so goodly grown
Three fair branches of your own;
Heav'n hath timely tried their youth,

Their faith, their patience, and their truth, And sent them here through hard assays With a crown of deathless praise,

To triumph in victorious dance O'er sensual folly and intemperance.

The dance ended, the Spirit epiloguizes.
Spi. To the ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid air,
All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring;

That there eternal summer dwells,
And west-winds with musky wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List, mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of hyacinths and roses,
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,
Holds his dear Psyché sweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love virtue; she alone is free:
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if virtue feeble were,

Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

ON SHAKESPEAR, 1630.

WHAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

For whilst to the shame of slow endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

SONNETS.

To the Nightingale.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon blos'my spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:

Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

On his being arrived at the Age of Twenty-three. How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arriv'd so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely happy spirits indu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which time leads me, and the will of Heav'n; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great task-master's eye.

To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Airs. Harry, whose tuneful and well-measur'd song First taught our English music how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Midas' cars, committing short and long; Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, With praise enough for envy to look wan; To after-age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air could'st humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire, That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story. Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing, Met in the milder shades of purgatory.

To the Lord General Fairfax.

Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,
And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings;
Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their hydra heads, and the false North displays
Her broken league to imp their serpent wings.
O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,
(For what can war, but endless war still breed?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,

And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

To the Lord General Cromwell.

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith, and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than war: new foes arise Threat'ning to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

To Sir Henry Vane the younger.

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms repell'd
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd,
Then to advise how War may best upheld
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

In all her equipage: besides to know Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou'st learn'd, which few have done: The bounds of either sword to thee we owe; Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

On the late Massacre in Piemont.

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worship'd stocks and stones,
Forget not; in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

On his Blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; Doth God exact day labour, light denied, I fondly ask? but patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.

To Mr. Lawrence. Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen ocean, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise

To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air:
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

To Cyriac Skinner.

Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench

Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench; To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that after no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know • Tow'rd solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in shew, That with superfluous burden loads the day,

And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

To the same.

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

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Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclin'd,

I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

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