LXXV.

DORINDA'S sparkling wit and eyes
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies;
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight.

Love is a calmer, gentler joy:

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace;

Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

LXXVI.

WRITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAR THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT.

To all you ladies now on land,
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:

The muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

For tho' the muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind,
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea.

Then, if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind;
Our tears we'll send a speedier way:
The tide shall bring them twice a day.

The king with wonder and surprise,

Will swear the seas grow bold;

Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:

But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind?

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.

To pass our tedious hours away,
We throw a merry main:
Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.

But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our wo,
Sit careless at a play:

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note,

As if it sigh'd with each man's care
For being so remote:

Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'd,

In justice, you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose
Our certain happiness;

All these designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

LXXVII.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free

Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinèd, I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage:

!

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace.

LXXVIII.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

(Written when a prisoner in the Tower, during Cromwell's usurpation.)

BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth plainly show

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me;
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

Here sin, for want of food, must starve
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve

To keep rogues out, not keep me in.
Malice is now grown charitable, sure:
I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure.
And whilst I wish to be retired,

Into this private room I'm turn'd;
As if their wisdom had conspired

The salamander should be burn'd.

Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish,
I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic hugs his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness;

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus.

Contentment feels no smart; stoics, we see,

Make torments easy by their apathy.

I'm in the cabinet lock'd up,

Like some high-prizèd margarite; Or like the great Mogul or Pope,

I'm cloister'd up from public sight. Retiredness is a part of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan! I am great as thee. These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ankles warm,

I have some iron shackles there.

These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking to make his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to his cure : Malice, we see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event.

Altho' I cannot see my king

Neither in person-nor in coin !—

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders that I have not, mine.
My king from me no adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart.

Have you not heard the nightingale,
A prisoner close kept in a cage,
How she doth chaunt her wonted tale,
In that her narrow hermitage?

Even then her melody doth plainly prove
Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove.

My soul is free as ambient air,

Which doth my outward parts include; Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair

T'accompany my solitude.

What tho' they do with chains my body bind,

My king alone can captivate my mind.

I am that bird whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
And tho' they may my corpse confine,
Yet, maugre that, my soul is free: