« PreviousContinue »
ON THE NATIVITIE OF MY SAVIOUR.
Beholding one in three, and three in one,
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 bad decreed,
And tooke on him our nature.
To make us heires of glory?
A martyr borne in our defence;
Can man forget this storie?
A broken heart
Is my best part:
That I may prove
CELEBRATION OF CHARIS,
IN TEN LYRICK PRECES.
If thou hadst not
Beene sterne to mee,
But left me free,
My selfe and thee.
For, sin's so sweet.
As minds ill bent
Who more can crave
Then thou hast done?
First made of nought;
I. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.
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.
Farre I was from being stupid,
That they still were to run by her side,' (ride. For I ran 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, her forhead's smoother But he had not gain'd his sight
Then words that sooth her! Sooner, then he lost his might,
And from her arched browes, such a grace Or his courage; for away
Sheds it selfe through the face, Strait hee ran, and durst not stay,
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, Conld be brought once back to looke,
Have you seene but a bright lillie grow, I, foole-hardie, there up tooke
Before rude bands 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 ? So that there I stood a stone,
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 hath 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 beard 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 banke 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, her 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 flight; 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 ber waste,
All is Venus : save unchaste.
But, alas! thou seest the least
I will but mend the last, and tell
Where, how, it would have relisb'd well;
Joyne lip to lip, and try :
Each suck other's breath,
And whilst our tongues perplexed lie,
Let who will thinke us dead, or wish our death.
VIII, URGING HER OF A PROMISE.
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.
With the rest, I long expected
When the worke would be effected :
But we find that cold delay
And excuse spun every day,
As, untill she tell her one,
We all feare she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do't,
For I will so urge you to't,
You shall neither eat, nor sleepe,
No, por forth your window peepe,
With your emissarie eye,
To fetch in the formes goe by :
And pronounce, which band or lace
Better fits him then his face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your idoll glasse a whit, -
To say over every purle
There; or to reforme a curle;
Or with secretarie Sis
To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last :
All your sweet of life is past,
Make account unlesse you can,
(And that quickly) speake your man.
IX. HER MAN DESCRIBED BY HER OWL
Op your trouble, Ben, to ease me,
I will tell what man would please me.
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,
Yet a man; with crisped haire,
Cast in thousand snares and rings,
For Love's fingers, and his wings :
Chestnut colour, or more slack
Gold, upon a ground of black.
Venus and Minerva's eyes,
For he must looke wanton-wise.
Eye-brows bent like Cupid's bow,
Front, an ample field of snow;
Even nose, and cheeke (withal)
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,
He would have a hand as soft As the downe, and show it oft ;
What need of mee? doe you but sing, Skin as smooth 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,
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.
Por 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 :
For 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.
Cone, with our voyces let us warre,
And challenge all the spheares,
Of reason emptie is !
What man but must lose his?
Nor doe we doubt, but that we can,
If wee would search with care and paine,
So, going thorow all your straine,
In any curious peece you see,
Then when 'tis made; why so will wee.
To stay the running floods;
And call the walking woods.
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 mor'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 lovd? Is that which doth perfection breed.
And in his mistress flame, playing like a flse,
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 worthjest woman curst
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, To love one man, hee'd leave her first.
And cast my love behind :
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 flie my thoughts betweene, For if the nymphs should know my swainc,
Tell me that she hath seene
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 camst thou thus to enter me?
I n'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
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.