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Who from the influence of thine eye Hath suck'd the deep divinity.

O free them then, that they may teach
The centaur and the horseman; preach
To beasts and birds, sweetly to rest
Each in his proper lare and nest:
They shall convey it to the flood,
Till there thy law be understood.

So shalt thou, with thy pregnant fire,
The water, earth, and air inspire.

TO THE NEW YEAR,

FOR THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE,

GIVE Lucinda pearl nor stone,
Lend them light who else have none:
Let her beauty shine alone.

Gums nor spice bring from the east,
For the phenix in her breast
Builds his funeral pile and nest.

No rich 'tire thou canst invent
Shall to grace her form be sent;
She adorns all ornament.

Give her nothing, but restore
Those sweet smiles which heretofore
In her cheerful eyes she wore.
Drive those envious clouds away,
Veils that have o'ercast my day,
And eclips'd her brighter ray,

Let the royal Goth mow down
This year's harvest with his own
Sword, and spare Lucinda's frown.

Janus, if, when next I trace
Those sweet lines, I in her face
Read the charter of my grace;

Then, from bright Apollo's tree,
Such a garland wreath'd shall be
As shall crown both her and thee.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND,

MASTER THOMAS MAY2,

UPON HIS COMEDY, THE HEIR.

THE Heir being born, was in his tender age
Rock'd in a cradle of a private stage,
Where, lifted up by many a willing hand,
The child did from the first day fairly stand.

This was Anne, daughter of Edward lord Howard of Escrick, and wife of Charles Howard, first earl of Carlisle.

2 These complimentary verses must be considered rather as a tribute to friendship than to genius; for though May was a competitor with sir William D'Avenant for the royal laurel, his abilities were much less splendid. He translated the Georgics of Virgil and Lucan's Pharsalia, and was the historian of the Oliverian parliament.-These verses were written in 1620.

Since, having gather'd strength, he dares prefer
His steps into the publick theatre,

The world; where he despairs not but to find
A doom from men more able, not less kind.
I but his usher am, yet if my word
May pass, I dare be bound he will afford
Things must deserve a welcome, if well known,
Such as best writers would have wish'd their own.
You shall observe his words in order meet,
And, softly stealing on with equal feet,
Slide into even numbers with such grace
As each word had been moulded for that place.
You shall perceive an amorous passion spun
Into so smooth a web, as had the Sun,
When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid',
Courted her in such language, she had stay'd.
A love so well exprest must be the same
The author felt himself from his fair flame.
The whole plot doth alike itself disclose
Through the five acts, as doth the lock that goes
With letters; for till every one be known,
The lock's as fast as if you had found none:
And where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread
Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read.
Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal
My want of art, dear friend, than to conceal
My love. It did appear I did not mean
So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene,
As men might judge my aim rather to be,
To gain praise to myself, than give it thee;
Though I can give thee none, but, what thou hast
Deserv'd, and what must my faint breath out last.
Yet was this garment (though I skilless be
To take thy measure) only made for thee;
And if it prove too scant, 't is 'cause the stuff
Nature allow'd me was not large enough.

I

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND,

MASTER GEORGE SANDS',

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE PSALMS.

PRESS not to the choir, nor dare I greet The holy place with my unhallowed feet; My unwasht Muse pollutes not things divine, Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine: Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays. So, devout penitents of old were wont, Some without door, and some beneath the font, To stand and hear the church's liturgies, Yet not assist the solemn exercise: Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain, To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train: Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy lark, Her lyric feet may dance before the ark.

3 Alludes to the fable of Apollo and Daphne.

This was Mr. George Sands, son of Edwin archbishop of York. Besides the Translation of the Psalms here mentioned, (which was the delight and amusement of Charles I. during his imprisonment in the Isle of Wight,) he translated Ovid's Metamorphoses and part of Virgil's Æneis. Drydes calls him the best versifier of his time.

Who knows, but that her wand'ring eyes that run, | Requires a satyr. What star guides the soul
Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the Sun:
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty pow'r
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour:
My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensual love did weep.
So (though 'gainst Nature's course) fire may be
quench'd

Of these our froward times, that dare controul,
Yet dare not learn to judge? When didst thou fly
From hence, clear, candid Ingenuity?

With fire, and water be with water drench'd;
Perhaps my restless soul, tir'd with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd,
Quench'd all her thirst, nor satisfy'd, though cloy'd;
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first fair may find th' immortal love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn,
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.

TO MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,

HENRY LORD CARY OF LEPINGTON,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI.
MY LORD,

In every trivial work, 't is known,
Translators must be masters of their own

And of their author's language; but your task
A greater latitude of skill did ask;

For your Malvezzi first requir'd a man
To teach him speak vulgar Italian:

His matter's so sublime, so new his phrase,
So far above the stile of Bembo's days,

Old Varchie's rules, or what the Trusca ' yet
For current Truscan mintage will admit,
As I believe your marquis by a good
Part of his natives hardly understood.
You must expect no happier fate; 't is true,
He is of noble birth, of nobler you:

So nor your thoughts nor words fit common ears;
He writes, and you translate, both to your peers.

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I have beheld, when perch'd on the smooth brow
Of a fair modest troop, thou didst allow
Applause to slighter works; but then the weak
Spectator gave the knowing leave to speak.
Now noise prevails, and he is tax'd for drowth
Of wit, that with the cry spends not his mouth.
Yet ask him reason why he did not like;
Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike
Thy soul with scorn and pity: mark the places
Provoke their smiles, frowns, or distorted faces,
When they admire, nod, shake the head, they'll be
A scene of mirth, a double comedy.

But thy strong fancies (raptures of the brain,
Drest in poetic flames) they entertain

As a bold, impious reach; for they'll still slight
All that exceeds Red Bull' and Cockpit flight.
These are the men in crouded heaps that throng
To that adulterate stage, where not a tongue
Of th' untun'd kennel can a line repeat
Of serious sense, but the lips meet like meat;
Whilst the true brood of actors, that alone
Keep nat❜ral, unstrain'd Action in her throne,
Behold their benches bare, though they rehearse
The terser Beaumont's or great Jonson's verse.
Repine not thou then, since this churlish fate
Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the state
Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good
Have by the rabble been misunderstood.
So was thy play; whose clear, yet lofty strain,
Wise men, that govern fate, shall entertain.

TO THE READER

OF MR. WILLIAM D'AVENANT'S PLAY1.

Ir hath been said of old, that plays are feasts,
Poets the cooks, and the spectators guests;
The actors, waiters: from this simile,

Some have deriv'd an unsafe liberty

To use their judgments as their tastes, which chuse,
Without controul, this dish, and that refuse :
But wit allows not this large privilege,
Either you must confess or feel its edge;
Nor shall you make a current inference,
If you transfer your reason to your sense:

3 After the restoration, there were two companies of players formed, one under the title of the king's servants, the other under that of the duke's company, both by patent from the crown; the first granted to Mr. Killigrew, and the latter to sir William D'Avenant. The king's servants acted first at the Red Bull in St. John's Street, and afterwards at the Cockpit in Drury Lane; to which place our poet here alludes. It seems, by the verses before us, that though Killigrew's company was much inferior to D'Avenant's, it was more successful; though the company of the latter, who performed at the duke's theatre in Lincoln-inn-Fields, acted the pieces of Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, and were headed by the celebrated Betterton.

The Just Italian, which did not meet with so much success as it ought to have had from a polite audience.

Things are distinct, and must the same appear
To every piercing eye or well-tun'd ear. [meet:
Though sweets with your's, sharps best with my taste
Both must agree, this meat's or sharp, or sweet.
But if I scent a stench, or a perfume,
Whilst you smell nought at all, I may presume
You have that sense imperfect: so you may
Affect a sad, merry, or humorous play;

If, though the kind distaste or please, the good
And bad be by your judgment understood:
But if, as in this play, where with delight
I feast my Epicurean appetite
With relishes so curious, as dispense

The utmost pleasure to the ravish'd sense,
You should profess that you can nothing meet
That hits your taste either with sharp or sweet,
But cry out, 'T is insipid; your bold tongue
May do its master, not the author wrong;
For men of better palate will by it
Take the just elevation of your wit.

TO

MY FRIEND WILLIAM D'AVENANT.

I CROWDED 'mongst the first, to see the stage
(Inspir'd by thee) strike wonder in our age,
By thy bright fancy dazzled; where each scene
Wrought like a charm, and forc'd the audience lean
To th' passion of thy pen: thence ladies went
(Whose absence lovers sigh'd for) to repent
Their unkind scorn; and courtiers, who by art
Made love before, with a converted heart,
To wed those virgins, whom they woo'd t' abuse;
Both render'd Hymen's pros'lites by thy Muse.

But others, who were proof 'gainst love, did sit
To learn the subtle dictates of thy wit;
And, as each profited, took his degree,
Master, or bachelor, in comedy.
We of th' adult'rate mixture not complain,
But thence more characters of virtue gain;
More pregnant patterns of transcendent worth,
Than barren and insipid fruit brings forth :
So, oft the bastard nobler fortune meets,
Than the dull issue of the lawful sheets.

Thy teeth in white do Leda's swan exceed;
Thy skin's a heavenly and immortal weed;
And when thou breath'st, the winds are ready straight
To filch it from thee; and do therefore wait
Close at thy lips, and, snatching it from thence,
Bear it to Heaven, where 't is Jove's frankincense.
Fair goddess, since thy feature makes thee one,
Yet be not such for these respects alone;
But as you are divine in outward view,
So be within as fair, as good, as true.

THE ENQUIRY.

AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,
Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd:
"Tell me, (said I in deep distress)
Where may I find my shepherdess?"

"Thou fool," (said Love) "know'st thou not this,

In every thing that's good she is?

In yonder tulip go and seek,

There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek.

"In yon enamel'd pansy by,

There thou shalt have her curious eye.
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood.

"In brightest lilies that there stand,
The emblems of her whiter hand.
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell."

"'T is true" (said I): and thereupon

I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts a union;

But on a sudden all was gone.

With that I stopt: said Love, "These be,
Fond man, resemblances of thee:
And, as these flow'rs, thy joys shall die,
Ev'n in the twinkling of an eye:
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets thus knit together '."

THE COMPARISON.

DEAREST, thy tresses are not threads of gold,
Thy eyes of diamonds, nor do I hold
Thy lips for rubies, thy fair checks to be
Fresh roses, or thy teeth of ivory:

Thy skin, that doth thy dainty body sheath,
Not alabaster is, nor dost thou breath
Arabian odours; those the earth brings forth,
Compar'd with which, would but impair thy worth.
Such may be others' mistresses, but mine
Holds nothing earthly, but is all divine.
Thy tresses are those rays that do arise,
Not from one sun, but two; such are thy eyes;
Thy lips congealed nectar are, and such
As, but a deity, there's none dare touch;
The perfect crimson that thy cheek doth cloath
(But only that it far exceeds them both)
Aurora's blush resembles, or that red
That Iris struts in when her mantle 's spread;

THE SPARK.

My first love, whom all beauties did adorn,
Firing my heart, supprest it with her scorn;
Sunlike to tinder in my breast it lies,
By every sparkle made a sacrifice.
Each wanton eye now kindles my desire,
And that is free to all, that was entire.
Desiring more by thee, desire I lost,

As those that in consumptions hunger most;
And now my wand'ring thoughts are not confin'd
Unto one woman, but to woman-kind :

This little poem, with the several little love verses and songs that follow, fully evince our poet's superior genius on the subject of love. We wish he had never sacrificed at any shrine but the shrine in Cyprus.

This for her shape I love; that for her face;
This for her gesture or some other grace;
And where I none of these do use to find,
I choose there by the kernel, not the rind:
And so I hope, since first my hopes are gone,
To find in many what I lost in one;
And, like to merchants after some great loss,
Trade by retail, that cannot now in gross.
The fault is hers that made me go astray;
He needs must wander that hath lost his way.
Guiltless I am; she did this change provoke,
And made that charcoal which to her was oak:
And as a looking-glass, from the aspect,
Whilst it is whole, doth but one face reflect,
But being crack'd or broken, there are shown
Many half-faces, which at first were one;
So love unto my heart did first prefer
Her image, and there planted none but her;

But since 't was broke and martyr'd by her scorn,
Many less faces in her face are born:

Thus, like to tinder, am I prone to catch
Each falling sparkle, fit for any match.

ON

SIGHT OF A GENTLEWOMAN'S FACE

IN THE WATER.

STAND still, you floods, do not deface

That image which you bear: So votaries, from every place, To you shall altars rear.

No winds but lovers' sighs blow here,
To trouble these glad streams,
On which no star from any sphere
Did ever dart such beams.

To crystal then in haste congeal,
Lest you should lose your bliss;
And to my cruel fair reveal,
How cold, how hard she is.

But if the envious nymphs shall fear
Their beauties will be scorn'd,
And hire the ruder winds to tear
That face which you adorn'd;

Then rage and foam amain, that we
Their malice may despise;
And from your froth we soon shall see
A second Venus rise.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties, orient deep These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SONG.

WOULD you know what 's soft, I dare
Not bring you to the down or air;
Nor to stars to show what 's bright,
Nor to snow to teach you white.

Nor, if you would music hear,
Call the orbs to take your ear;
Nor, to please your sense, bring forth
Bruised nard, or what's more worth.

Or, on food were your thoughts plac'd,
Bring you nectar for a taste:
Would you have all these in one,
Name my mistress, and 't is done.

THE HUE AND CRY.

IN Love's name, you are charg'd hereby,
To make a speedy hue and cry
After a face which t' other day,
Stole my wand'ring heart away.
To direct you, these, in brief,
Are ready marks to know the thief.

Her hair a net of beams would prove,
Strong enough to captive Jove
In his eagle shape; her brow
Is a comely field of snow;

Her eye so rich, so pure a grey,
Every beam creates a day;
And if she but sleep (not when
The Sun sets) 't is night again;
In her cheeks are .o be seen

Of flowers both the king and queen,
Thither by the Graces led,
And freshly laid in nuptial bed;
On whom lips like nymphs do wait,
Who deplore their virgin state;
Oft they blush, and blush for this,
That they one another kiss:
But observe, besides the rest,
You shall know this felon best
By her tongue; for if your ear
Once a heavenly music hear,
Such as neither gods nor men,
But from that voice, shall hear again,
That, that is she. O straight surprize,
And bring her unto Love's assize:

If you let her go, she may
Antedate the latter day,

Fate and philosophy controul,

And leave the world without a soul.

SONG.

TO HIS MISTRESS CONFINED.

O THINK not, Phœbe, cause a cloud Doth now thy silver brightness shrowd, My wand'ring eye

Can stoop to common beauties of the sky,
Rather be kind, and this eclipse
Shall neither hinder eye nor lips;
For we shall meet

With our hearts, and kiss, and none shall see 't.

Nor canst thou in thy prison be,
Without some living sign of me:

When thou dost spy

A sun-beam peep into the room, 't is I;
For I am hid within a flame,
And thus into thy chamber came,
To let thee see

In what a martyrdom I burn for thee.

When thou dost touch thy lute, thou mayst
Think on my heart, on which thou play'st;
When each sad tone

Upon the strings doth show my deeper groan.
When thou dost please, they shall rebound
With nimble airs, struck to the sound

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Sure that mistress, to whose beauty
First I paid a lover's duty,

Burnt in rage my heart to tinder;
That nor pray'rs, nor tears can hinder;
But wherever I do turn me,

Every spark let fall doth burn me.
Women, since you thus inflame me,
Flint and steel I'll ever name ye.

A SONG.

In her fair cheeks two pits do lie,
To bury those slain by her eye;
So, spight of death, this comforts me,
That fairly buried I shall be:

My grave with rose and lilly spread,
O't is a life to be so dead.

Come then and kill me with thy eye,
For if thou let me live, I die.

When I behold those lips again
Reviving what those eyes have slain
With kisses sweet, whose balsam pure
Love's wounds, as soon as made, can cure;
Methinks 't is sickness to be sound,
And there's no health to such a wound.
Come then, &c.

When in her chaste breast I behold, Those downy mounts of snow ne'er cold, And those blest hearts her beauty kills, Reviv'd by climbing those fair hills; Methinks there 's life in such a death, And so t' expire inspires new breath. Come then, &c.

Nymph, since no death is deadly, where
Such choice of antidotes are near,
And your keen eyes but kill in vain
Those that are sound; as soon as slain,
That I no longer dead survive,
Your way 's to bury me alive

In Cupid's cave, where happy I
May dying live, and living die:

Come then and kill me with thy eye,
For if thou let me live, I die.

Ask me why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears:
Ask me why this flow'r doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

THE TINDER.

Or what mould did Nature frame me?
Or was it her intent to shame me,
That no woman can come near me,
Fair, but her I court to hear me?

THE CARVER.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

A CARVER, having lov'd too long in vain,
Hew'd out the portraiture of Venus' son
In marble rock, upon the which did rain
Small drizzling drops that from a fount did run;
Imagining the drops would either wear

His fury out, or quench his living flame:
But when he saw it bootless did appear,

He swore the water did augment the same. So I, that seek in verse to carve thee out, Hoping thy beauty will my flame allay, Viewing my lines impolish'd all throughout,

Find my will rather than my love obey; That, with the carver, I my work do blame, Finding it still th' augmenter of my flame.

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