But think uponSome other pleasures: these to me are none.Why do I prateOf women, that are things against my fate!I never mean to wedThat torture to my bed:My Muse is sheMy love shall be.Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am goneAnd that great bugbear, grisly Death,Shall take this idle breath,If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.
Of this no more!We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.No fruit shall 'scapeOur palates, from the damson to the grape.Then, full, we'll seek a shade,And hear what music 's made;How PhilomelHer tale doth tell,And how the other birds do fill the quire;The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,Warbling melodious notes;We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.
Ours is the sky,Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:Nor will we spareTo hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;But let our hounds run looseIn any ground they'll choose;The buck shall fall,The stag, and all.Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,For to my Muse, if not to me,I'm sure all game is free:Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.
And when we meanTo taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,And drink by stealthA cup or two to noble Barkley's health,I'll take my pipe and tryThe Phrygian melody;Which he that hears,Lets through his earsA madness to distemper all the brain:Then I another pipe will takeAnd Doric music make,To civilize with graver notes our wits again.
Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668
301. Aubade
THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And climbing shakes his dewy wings.He takes this window for the East,And to implore your light he sings—Awake, awake! the morn will never riseTill she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes,But still the lover wonders what they areWho look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!
Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668
302. To a Mistress Dying
Lover. YOUR beauty, ripe and calm and freshAs eastern summers are,Must now, forsaking time and flesh,Add light to some small star.
Philosopher. Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd,Their light by hers relief might find;But Death will lead her to a shadeWhere Love is cold and Beauty blind.
Lover. Lovers, whose priests all poets are,Think every mistress, when she dies,Is changed at least into a star:And who dares doubt the poets wise?
Philosopher. But ask not bodies doom'd to dieTo what abode they go;Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy,It is not safe to know.
Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668
303. Praise and Prayer
PRAISE is devotion fit for mighty minds,The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice;Where Heaven divided faiths united finds:But Prayer in various discord upward flies.
For Prayer the ocean is where diverselyMen steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast;Where all our interests so discordant beThat half beg winds by which the rest are lost.
By Penitence when we ourselves forsake,'Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven;In Praise we nobly give what God may take,And are, without a beggar's blush, forgiven.
Edmund Waller. 1606-1687
304. On a Girdle
THAT which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair!Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!
Edmund Waller. 1606-1687
305. Go, lovely Rose
GO, lovely Rose—Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that 's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die—that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Edmund Waller. 1606-1687
306. Old Age
THE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;So calm are we when passions are no more.For then we know how vain it was to boastOf fleeting things, so certain to be lost.Clouds of affection from our younger eyesConceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:Stronger by weakness, wiser men becomeAs they draw near to their eternal home.Leaving the old, both worlds at once they viewThat stand upon the threshold of the new.
John Milton. 1608-1674
307. Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
IT was the Winter wilde,While the Heav'n-born-childe,All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in aw to himHad doff't her gawdy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.
Only with speeches fairShe woo's the gentle AirTo hide her guilty front with innocent Snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinfull blame,The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw,Confounded, that her Makers eyesShould look so neer upon her foul deformities.
But he her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyd Peace,She crown'd with Olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphearHis ready Harbinger,With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing,And waving wide her mirtle wand,She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.
No War, or Battails soundWas heard the World around,The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hooked Chariot stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood,The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng,And Kings sate still with awfull eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peacefull was the nightWherin the Prince of lightHis raign of peace upon the earth began:The Windes with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kist,Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmeed wave.
The Stars with deep amazeStand fixt in stedfast gaze,Bending one way their pretious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering Orbs did glow,Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferiour flame,The new enlightn'd world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThen his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.
The Shepherds on the Lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sate simply chatting in a rustick row;Full little thought they than,That the mighty PanWas kindly com to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.
When such musick sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortall finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise,As all their souls in blisfull rapture tookThe Air such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close.
Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was don,And that her raign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sightA Globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-fac't night array'd,The helmed CherubimAnd sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid,Harping in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir.
Such musick (as 'tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator GreatHis constellations set,And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out ye Crystall sphears,Once bless our human ears,(If ye have power to touch our senses so)And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blowAnd with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to th'Angelike symphony.
For if such holy SongEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,And speckl'd vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,And Hell it self will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea Truth, and Justice thenWill down return to men,Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing,And Mercy set between,Thron'd in Celestiall sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing,And Heav'n as at som festivall,Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.
But wisest Fate sayes no,This must not yet be so,The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorifie:Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep,The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake:The aged Earth agastWith terrour of that blast,Shall from the surface to the center shake;When at the worlds last session,The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayTh'old Dragon under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurped sway,And wrath to see his Kingdom fail,Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.
The Oracles are dumm,No voice or hideous hummRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathed spell,Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o're,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdg'd with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent,With flowre-inwov'n tresses tornThe Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated Earth,And on the holy Hearth,The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,In Urns, and Altars round,A drear, and dying soundAffrights the Flamins at their service quaint;And the chill Marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat
Peor, and Baalim,Forsake their Temples dim,With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine,And mooned Ashtaroth,Heav'ns Queen and Mother both,Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine,The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch fled,Hath left in shadows dred,His burning Idol all of blackest hue,In vain with Cymbals ring,They call the grisly king,In dismall dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.
Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian Grove, or Green,Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud,In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems darkThe sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.
He feels from Juda's LandThe dredded Infants hand,The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods beside,Longer dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe to shew his Godhead true,Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew.
So when the Sun in bed,Curtain'd with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,The flocking shadows pale,Troop to th'infernall jail,Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave,And the yellow-skirted Fayes,Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze.
But see the Virgin blest,Hath laid her Babe to rest.Time is our tedious Song should here have ending,Heav'ns youngest teemed Star,Hath fixt her polisht Car,Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending:And all about the Courtly Stable,Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.
John Milton. 1608-1674
308. On Time
FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,Which is no more then what is false and vain,And meerly mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain.For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,Then long Eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss;And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,When every thing that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
John Milton. 1608-1674
309. At a Solemn Musick
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy,Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,That undisturbed Song of pure content,Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throneTo him that sits theronWith Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubick host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal Harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,Hymns devout and holy PsalmsSinging everlastingly;That we on Earth with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion'd sinJarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair musick that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'dIn perfect Diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
John Milton. 1608-1674
310. L'Allegro
HENCE loathed MelancholyOf Cerberus and blackest midnight born,In Stygian Cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.Find out som uncouth cell,Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,And the night-Raven sings;There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks,As ragged as thy Locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But com thou Goddes fair and free,In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;Or whether (as som Sager sing)The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,Zephir with Aurora playing,As he met her once a Maying,There on Beds of Violets blew,And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,So bucksom, blith, and debonair.Haste thee nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrincled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Com, and trip it as ye goOn the light fantastick toe,And in thy right hand lead with thee,The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crueTo live with her, and live with thee,In unreproved pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-towre in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to com in spight of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine.While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darknes thin,And to the stack, or the Barn dore,Stoutly struts his Dames before,Oft list'ning how the Hounds and hornChearly rouse the slumbring morn,From the side of som Hoar Hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Som time walking not unseenBy Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Wher the great Sun begins his state,Rob'd in flames, and Amber light,The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.While the Plowman neer at hand,Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his sithe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the Lantskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,Where the nibling flocks do stray,Mountains on whose barren brestThe labouring clouds do often rest:Meadows trim with Daisies pide,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers, and Battlements it seesBoosom'd high in tufted Trees,Wher perhaps som beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two aged Okes,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Hearbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or if the earlier season leadTo the tann'd Haycock in the Mead,Som times with secure delightThe up-land Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;And young and old com forth to playOn a Sunshine Holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail,Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stories told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat,She was pincht, and pull'd the sed,And he by Friars Lanthorn ledTells how the drudging Goblin swet,To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,When in one night, ere glimps of morn,His shadowy Flale hath thresh'd the CornThat ten day-labourers could not end,Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And Crop-full out of dores he flings,Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,By whispering Windes soon lull'd asleep.Towred Cities please us then,And the busie humm of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eiesRain influence, and judge the priseOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry,Such sights as youthfull Poets dreamOn Summer eeves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonsons learned Sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,Married to immortal verseSuch as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf lincked sweetnes long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running;Untwisting all the chains that tyThe hidden soul of harmony.That Orpheus self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heapt Elysian flowres, and hearSuch streins as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half regain'd Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
John Milton. 1608-1674
311. Il Penseroso
HENCE vain deluding joyes,The brood of folly without father bred,How little you bested,Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;Dwell in som idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,Hail divinest Melancholy,Whose Saintly visage is too brightTo hit the Sense of human sight;And therfore to our weaker view,Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.Black, but such as in esteem,Prince Memnons sister might beseem,Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that stroveTo set her beauties praise aboveThe Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended,Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she (in Saturns raign,Such mixture was not held a stain)Oft in glimmering Bowres, and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestick train,And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,Over thy decent shoulders drawn.Com, but keep thy wonted state,With eev'n step, and musing gate,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There held in holy passion still,Forget thy self to Marble, tillWith a sad Leaden downward cast,Thou fix them on the earth as fast.And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ring,Ay round about Joves Altar sing.And adde to these retired Leasure,That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,Him that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,The Cherub Contemplation,And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will daign a Song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of night,While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,Gently o're th'accustom'd Oke;Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven Green.To behold the wandring Moon,Riding neer her highest noon,Like one that had bin led astrayThrough the Heav'ns wide pathles way;And oft, as if her head she bow'd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,Over som wide-water'd shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removed place will fit,Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belmans drousie charm,To bless the dores from nightly harm:Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,Be seen in som high lonely Towr,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice great Hermes, or unsphearThe spirit of Plato to unfoldWhat Worlds, or what vast Regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those Daemons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith Planet, or with Element.Som time let Gorgeous TragedyIn Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,Or the tale of Troy divine.Or what (though rare) of later age,Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bowerOr bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek.Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canace to wife,That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,On which the Tartar King did ride;And if ought els, great Bards beside,In sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;Of Forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant then meets the ear.Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appeer,Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont,With the Attick Boy to hunt,But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud,While rocking Winds are Piping loud,Or usher'd with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the russling Leaves,With minute drops from off the Eaves.And when the Sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me Goddes bringTo arched walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,Of Pine, or monumental Oake,Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.There in close covert by som Brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from Day's garish eie,While the Bee with Honied thie,That at her flowry work doth sing,And the Waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;And let som strange mysterious dream,Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,Of lively portrature display'd,Softly on my eye-lids laid.And as I wake, sweet musick breathAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by som spirit to mortals good,Or th'unseen Genius of the Wood.But let my due feet never fail,To walk the studious Cloysters pale,And love the high embowed Roof,With antick Pillars massy proof,And storied Windows richly dight,Casting a dimm religious light.There let the pealing Organ blow,To the full voic'd Quire below,In Service high, and Anthems cleer,As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,Dissolve me into extasies,And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peacefull hermitage,The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every Star that Heav'n doth shew,And every Herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo somthing like Prophetic strain.These pleasures Melancholy give,And I with thee will choose to live.
John Milton. 1608-1674
312. From 'Arcades'
O'RE the smooth enameld greenWhere no print of step hath been,Follow me as I sing,And touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching Elm Star-proof,Follow me,I will bring you where she sitsClad in splendor as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
John Milton. 1608-1674
313. From 'Comus' i
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,And the gilded Car of Day,His glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream,And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky Pole,Pacing toward the other goleOf his Chamber in the East.Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,Midnight shout, and revelry,Tipsie dance, and Jollity.Braid your Locks with rosie TwineDropping odours, dropping Wine.Rigor now is gon to bed,And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sowre Severity,With their grave Saws in slumber ly.We that are of purer fireImitate the Starry Quire,Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,Lead in swift round the Months and Years.The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny droveNow to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:What hath night to do with sleep?Night hath better sweets to prove,Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love….Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,In a light fantastick round.
John Milton. 1608-1674
314. From' Comus' ii. Echo
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander's margent green,And in the violet imbroider'd valeWhere the love-lorn NightingaleNightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.Canst thou not tell me of a gentle PairThat likest thy Narcissus are?O if thou haveHid them in som flowry Cave,Tell me but whereSweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!So maist thou be translated to the skies,And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies!
John Milton. 1608-1674
315. From' Comus' iii. Sabrina
The Spirit sings: SABRINA fairListen where thou art sittingUnder the glassie, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of Lillies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,Listen for dear honour's sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus,By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,And Tethys grave majestick pace,By hoary Nereus wrincled look,And the Carpathian wisards hook,By scaly Tritons winding shell,And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,By Leucothea's lovely hands,And her son that rules the strands,By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet,And the Songs of Sirens sweet,By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,And fair Ligea's golden comb,Wherwith she sits on diamond rocksSleeking her soft alluring locks,By all the Nymphs that nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie headFrom thy coral-pav'n bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen and save!
Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stayes,Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheenOf Turkis blew, and Emrauld greenThat in the channell strayes,Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO're the Cowslips Velvet head,That bends not as I tread,Gentle swain at thy requestI am here.
John Milton. 1608-1674
316. From 'Comus' iv
The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lyWhere day never shuts his eye,Up in the broad fields of the sky:There I suck the liquid ayrAll amidst the Gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree:Along the crisped shades and bowresRevels the spruce and jocond Spring,The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres,Thither all their bounties bring,That there eternal Summer dwels,And West winds, with musky wingAbout the cedar'n alleys flingNard, and Cassia's balmy smels.Iris there with humid bow,Waters the odorous banks that blowFlowers of more mingled hewThan her purfl'd scarf can shew,And drenches with Elysian dew(List mortals, if your ears be true)Beds of Hyacinth, and rosesWhere young Adonis oft reposes,Waxing well of his deep woundIn slumber soft, and on the groundSadly sits th' Assyrian Queen;But far above in spangled sheenCelestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't,Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'tAfter her wandring labours long,Till free consent the gods amongMake her his eternal Bride,And from her fair unspotted sideTwo blissful twins are to be born,Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.But now my task is smoothly don,I can fly, or I can runQuickly to the green earths end,Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the Moon.Mortals that would follow me,Love vertue, she alone is free.She can teach ye how to climeHigher then the Spheary chime;Or if Vertue feeble were,Heav'n it self would stoop to her.
John Milton. 1608-1674
317. LycidasA Lament for a friend drowned in his passage fromChester on the Irish Seas, 1637
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once moreYe Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,And with forc'd fingers rude,Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his primeYoung Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not flote upon his watry bearUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of som melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,So may som gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'dUnder the opening eye-lids of the morn,We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, brightToward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel.Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,From the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song.But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,Now thou art gon, and never must return!Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,And all their echoes mourn.The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.As killing as the Canker to the Rose,Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,When first the White thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deepClos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,The Muse her self, for her inchanting sonWhom Universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His goary visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,Were it not better don as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of Noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my Oate proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat came in Neptune's plea,He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?And question'd every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beaked Promontory,They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.It was that fatall and perfidious BarkBuilt in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake,Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,Anow of such as for their bellies sake,Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reck'ning make,Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to holdA Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the leastThat to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim Woolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing sed,But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,And call the Vales, and bid them hither castTheir Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,That on the green terf suck the honied showres,And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,The glowing Violet.The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding SeasWash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded MountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walk'd the wavesWhere other groves, and other streams along,With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet SocietiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills,While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,And now was dropt into the Western bay;At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
John Milton. 1608-1674
318. On His Blindness
WHEN I consider how my light is spentE're 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 bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, least he returning chide,Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,I fondly ask; But patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts, who bestBear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his StateIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o're Land and Ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and waite.
John Milton. 1608-1674
319. To Mr. Lawrence
LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son,Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp wast a sullen day; what may be wonFrom the hard Season gaining: time will runOn smoother, till Favonius re-inspireThe frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attireThe Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may riseTo hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voiceWarble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
John Milton. 1608-1674
320. To Cyriack Skinner
CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal BenchOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applausePronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,Which others at their Barr so often wrench:To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.To measure life, learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,And disapproves that care, though wise in show,That with superfluous burden loads the day,And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
John Milton. 1608-1674
321. On His Deceased Wife
METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused SaintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,Purification in the old Law did save,And such, as yet once more I trust to haveFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'dSo clear, as in no face with more delight.But O as to embrace me she enclin'dI wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
John Milton. 1608-1674
322. Light
HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born,Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beamMay I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,And never but in unapproached lightDwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,Bright effluence of bright essence increate.Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voiceOf God, as with a Mantle didst investThe rising world of waters dark and deep,Won from the void and formless infinite.Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'dIn that obscure sojourn, while in my flightThrough utter and through middle darkness borneWith other notes then to th' Orphean LyreI sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture downThe dark descent, and up to reascend,Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thouRevisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vainTo find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the moreCease I to wander where the Muses hauntCleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,Smit with the love of sacred song; but chiefThee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneathThat wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forgetThose other two equal'd with me in Fate,So were I equal'd with them in renown.Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie moveHarmonious numbers; as the wakeful BirdSings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hidTunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the YearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud in stead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me, from the chearful waies of menCut off, and for the Book of knowledg fairPresented with a Universal blancOf Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd,And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.So much the rather thou Celestial lightShine inward, and the mind through all her powersIrradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thencePurge and disperse, that I may see and tellOf things invisible to mortal sight.
John Milton. 1608-1674
323. From 'Samson Agonistes' i
OH how comely it is and how revivingTo the Spirits of just men long opprest!When God into the hands of thir delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour,The brute and boist'rous force of violent menHardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour Truth;He all thir AmmunitionAnd feats of War defeatsWith plain Heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour arm'd,Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith winged expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who surpris'dLose thir defence distracted and amaz'd.
John Milton. 1608-1674
324. From 'Samson Agonistes' ii
ALL is best, though we oft doubt,What th' unsearchable disposeOf highest wisdom brings about,And ever best found in the close.Oft he seems to hide his face,But unexpectedly returnsAnd to his faithful Champion hath in placeBore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mournsAnd all that band them to resistHis uncontroulable intent.His servants he with new acquistOf true experience from this great eventWith peace and consolation hath dismist,And calm of mind all passion spent.
Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642
325. A Doubt of Martyrdom
O FOR some honest lover's ghost,Some kind unbodied postSent from the shades below!I strangely long to knowWhether the noble chaplets wearThose that their mistress' scorn did bearOr those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe'er they tell us hereTo make those sufferings dear,'Twill there, I fear, be foundThat to the being crown'dT' have loved alone will not suffice,Unless we also have been wiseAnd have our loves enjoy'd.
What posture can we think him inThat, here unloved, againDeparts, and 's thither goneWhere each sits by his own?Or how can that Elysium beWhere I my mistress still must seeCircled in other's arms?
For there the judges all are just,And Sophonisba mustBe his whom she held dear,Not his who loved her here.The sweet Philoclea, since she died,Lies by her Pirocles his side,Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle boughFor difference crowns the browOf those kind souls that wereThe noble martyrs here:And if that be the only odds(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,Give me the woman here!
Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642
326. The Constant Lover
OUT upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together!And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wingsEre he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant lover.
But the spite on 't is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642
327. Why so Pale and Wan?
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do 't?Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;This cannot take her.If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642
328. When, Dearest, I but think of Thee
WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho' unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow'd lights away,Till night's black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love's quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that 's an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever!
Sir Richard Fanshawe. 1608-1666
329. A Rose
BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,And passing proud a little colour makes thee.If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,The sentence of thy early death contain.Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;And many Herods lie in wait each hourTo murder thee as soon as thou art born—Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breathAnticipating life, to hasten death!
William Cartwright. 1611-1643
330. To Chloe Who for his sake wished herself younger
THERE are two births; the one when lightFirst strikes the new awaken'd sense;The other when two souls unite,And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.
Love then to us new souls did giveAnd in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live,The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
William Cartwright. 1611-1643
331. Falsehood
STILL do the stars impart their lightTo those that travel in the night;Still time runs on, nor doth the handOr shadow on the dial stand;The streams still glide and constant are:Only thy mindUntrue I find,Which carelesslyNeglects to beLike stream or shadow, hand or star.
Fool that I am! I do recallMy words, and swear thou'rt like them all,Thou seem'st like stars to nourish fire,But O how cold is thy desire!And like the hand upon the brassThou point'st at meIn mockery;If I come nighShade-like thou'lt fly,And as the stream with murmur pass.
William Cartwright. 1611-1643
332. On the Queen's Return from the Low Countries
HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!The day shall have its due.Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,On which let honour breathe;Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.
When greater tempests than on sea beforeReceived her on the shore;When she was shot at 'for the King's own good'By legions hired to blood;How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.
Courage was cast about her like a dressOf solemn comeliness:A gather'd mind and an untroubled faceDid give her dangers grace:Thus, arm'd with innocence, secure they moveWhose highest 'treason' is but highest love.
William Cartwright. 1611-1643
333. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly
SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved,And died as free from sickness as she lived.Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven,She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;Where seraphims view all her glories o'er,As one return'd that had been there before.For while she did this lower world adorn,Her body seem'd rather assumed than born;So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,That body might have been another's soul;And equally a miracle it wereThat she could die, or that she could live here.
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 1612-1650
334. I'll never love Thee more
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern'd by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.
And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or if Committees thou erect,And go on such a score,I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.
But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I'll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I'll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
Thomas Jordan. 1612?-1685
335. Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant
LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!The changeable world to our joy is unjust,All treasure 's uncertain,Then down with your dust!In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.
We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,Dame Venus, love's lady,Was born of the sea;With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense,For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.
Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'dAnd kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendourThat none but the starsAre thought fit to attend her,Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.
Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears?Let 's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,'Tis certain, Post mortemNulla voluptas.For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
336. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress
WHOE'ER she be—That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me:
Where'er she lie,Lock'd up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps to our earth:
Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye call'd my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty,That owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A Face, that 's bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest.
A Face, made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature's white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.
A Cheek, where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all dayA lover's kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displaceThe neighbour diamond, and outfaceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are:
Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestowFull quivers on love's bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confessVirtue their mistress,And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and slightAs the coy bride's, when nightFirst does the longing lover right.
Days, that need borrowNo part of their good-morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days, that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,Made short by lovers' play,Yet long by th' absence of the day.
Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend!'
Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate'er delightCan make Day's forehead bright,Or give down to the wings of Night.
I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish—no more.
Now, if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares beWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.
'Tis She, and here,Lo! I unclothe and clearMy Wishes' cloudy character.
May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this isShall fix my flying Wishes,And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions—but her story.