TO ÆLIA.

OUT OF MARTIAL.

Four teeth thou hadst that rank'd in goodly state,
Kept thy mouth's gate.

The first blast of thy cough left two alone,

The second, none.

This last cough, Ælia, cough'd out all thy fear,
Th' hast left the third cough now no business here.

Epigrams.

UPON FORD'S TWO TRAGEDIES, "LOVE'S SACRIFICE" AND "THE BROKEN HEART."

Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by art : What is Love's Sacrifice but The Broken Heart?

ON MARRIAGE.

I would be married, but I'd have no wife;
I would be married to a single life.

UPON THE FAIR ETHIOPIAN SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.

Lo, here the fair Chariclia! in whom strove

So false a fortune, and so true a love!

Now, after all her toils by sea and land,

O may she but arrive at your white hand.
Her hopes are crown'd, only she fears that then
She shall appear true Ethiopian.

UPON VENUS PUTTING ON MARS'S ARMS.

What? Mars's sword? fair Cytherea say,
Why art thou armed so desperately to-day?
Mars thou hast beaten naked, and, O then,
What need'st thou put on arms against poor men?

UPON THE SAME.

Pallas saw Venus armed, and straight she cried, 'Come if thou dar'st, thus, thus let us be tried.' 'Why, fool!' says Venus, 'thus provok'st thou me, That being naked, thou know'st could conquer thee?'

ON NANUS MOUNTED UPON AN ANT.

High mounted on an ant, Nanus the tall
Was thrown, alas! and got a deadly fall:

Under th' unruly beast's proud feet he lies,

All torn; with much ado yet ere he dies,
He strains these words: 'Base Envy, do, laugh on,
Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaethon.'

Steps to the Temple.

Sospetto d'herode.
[The Suspicion of Herod.]

LIBRO PRIMO.

ARGOMENTO.

Casting the times with their strong signs,
Death's master his own death divines;
Struggling for help, his best hope is
Herod's suspicion may heal his.
Therefore he sends a fiend to wake

The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake,

Who fears (in vain) that He Whose birth

Means Heaven, should meddle with his Earth.

I.

Muse! now the servant of soft loves no more,

Hate is thy theme, and Herod, whose unblest Hand (O, what dares not jealous greatness ?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast, The blooms of martyrdom. O, be a door

Of language to my infant lips, ye best

Of confessors; whose throats answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words.

II.

Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,
Thou mighty branch of emperors and kings;
The beauties of whose dawn what eye may bide?
Which with the Sun himself weighs equal wings;
Map of heroic worth! whom far and wide

To the believing world Fame boldly sings :

Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows,
To be the sacred honour of thy brows.

III.

Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their own blest beauties bring; They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers, That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring, Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean frost deflowers:

From whence heaven-labouring bees with busy wing, Suck hidden sweets, which, well digested, proves Immortal honey for the hive of loves.

IV.

Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth,
Holds high the reign of fair Parthenope,

That neither Rome, nor Athens can bring forth
A name in noble deeds rival to thee!

Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient Earth,
Far more than matter for my Muse and me.

The Tyrrhene Seas and shores sound all the same,
And in their murmurs keep thy mighty name.

V.

Below the bottom of the great Abyss,

There where one centre reconciles all things,
The World's profound heart pants; there placed is
Mischief's old master: close about him clings
A curled knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings.
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties

Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

VI.

The judge of torments, and the king of tears,
He fills a burnish'd throne of quenchless fire:
And for his old fair robes of light he wears

A gloomy mantle of dark flames; the tire
That crowns his hated head on high appears;
Where seven tall horns (his empire's pride) aspire ;
And to make up Hell's Majesty, each horn
Seven crested Hydras horribly adorn.

VII.

His eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night,
Startle the dull air with a dismal red:

Such his fell glances as the fatal light

Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead.
From his black nostrils and blue lips, in spite

Of Hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread.
His breath Hell's lightning is: and each deep groan
Disdains to think that Heaven thunders alone.