TRANSLATIONES / TRANSLATIONS.

<95.8> So the text of 165 , .e. of the lines as originally written by the poet. Lucasta, <1>659, erroneously has THIS.

<95.9> "And he found a new jawbone of an ass, and put forth his hand and took it, and slew a thousand men therewith."—JUDGES, xv. 15.

<95.10> i.e. withstand.

<95.11> So the text of 1656. LUCASTA has WROUGHT.

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Viderat Adriacis quondam Neptunus in undisStare urbem et toto ponere Jura mari:Nunc mihi Tarpeias<96.1> quantumvis, Jupiter, ArcesObjice et illa mihi moenia Martis, ait,Seu pelago Tibrim praefers, urbem aspice utramque,Illam homines dices, hanc posuisse deos.

In Adriatick waves when Neptune saw,The city stand, and give the seas a law:Now i' th' Tarpeian tow'rs Jove rival me,And Mars his walls impregnable, said he;Let seas to Tyber yield; view both their ods!<96.2>You'l grant that built by men, but this by gods.

<96.1> Rome.

<96.2> Points of difference or contrast. For LET SEAS, &c., we ought to read SHALL SEAS, &c.

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Pastor, arator, eques; pavi, colui, superavi;Capras, rus, hostes; fronde, ligone, manu.

A swain, hind, knight: I fed, till'd, did command:Goats, fields, my foes: with leaves, a spade, my hand.

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Lictorem pro rege necans nunc mutius ultroSacrifico propriam concremat igne manum:Miratur Porsenna virum, paenamque relaxansMaxima cum obscessis faedera a victor init,Plus flammis patriae confert quam fortibus armis,Una domans bellum funere dextra sua.

The hand, by which no king but serjeant<97.1> dies,Mutius in fire doth freely sacrifice;The prince admires the Hero, quits his pains,And Victor from the seige peace entertains;Rome's more oblig'd to flames than arms or pow'r,When one burnt hand shall the whole war devour.<97.2>

<97.1> A somewhat imperfect rendering of LICTOR.

<97.2> The reader will easily judge for himself of the valueless character of these translations; but it is only just to Lovelace to suggest that they were probably academic exercises only, and at the same time to submit that they are not much worse than Marlowe's translation of Ovid, and many other versions of the Classics then current.

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Invictus victis in partibus omnia CaesarVincere qui potuit, te, Cato, non potuit.

The world orecome, victorious Caesar, heThat conquer'd all, great Cato, could not thee.

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Ictu non potuit primo Cato solvere vitam;Defecit tanto vulnere victa manus:Altius inseruit digitos, qua spiritus ingensExiret, magnum dextera fecit iter.Opposuit fortuna moram, involvitque, CatonisScires ut ferro plus valuisse manum.

One stabbe could not fierce Cato's<98.1> life unty;Onely his hand of all that wound did dy.Deeper his fingers tear to make a wayOpen, through which his mighty soul might stray.Fortune made this delay to let us know,That Cato's hand more then his sword could do.

<98.1> Cato of Utica.

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Jussa manus sacri pectus violare CatonisHaesit, et inceptum victa reliquit opus.Ille ait, infesto contra sua vulnera vultu:Estne aliquid, magnus quod Cato non potuit?

The hand of sacred Cato, bad to tearHis breast, did start, and the made wound forbear;Then to the gash he said with angry brow:And is there ought great Cato cannot do?

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Dextera, quid dubitas? durum est jugulare Catonem;Sed modo liber erit: jam puto non dubitas!Fas non est vivo quenquam servire Catone,Nedum ipsum vincit nunc Cato si moritur.

What doubt'st thou, hand? sad Cato 'tis to kill;But he'l be free: sure, hand, thou doubt'st not still!Cato alive, 'tis just all men be free:Nor conquers he himself, now if he die.

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Non est, fulleris, haec beata non estQuod vos creditis esse, vita non est:Fulgentes manibus videre gemmasEt testudineo jacere lecto,Aut pluma latus abdidisse molli,Aut auro bibere, aut cubare cocco;Regales dapibus gravare mensas,Et quicquid Lybico secatur arvo;Non una positum tenere cella:Sed nullos trepidum timere casus,Nec vano populi favore tangi,Et stricto nihil aestuare ferro:Hoc quisquis poterit, licebit illiFortunam moveat loco superbus.

It is not, y' are deceav'd, it is not blisseWhat you conceave a happy living is:To have your hands with rubies bright to glow,Then on your tortoise-bed your body throw,And sink your self in down, to drink in gold,And have your looser self in purple roll'd;With royal fare to make the tables groan,Or else with what from Lybick fields is mown,Nor in one vault hoard all your magazine,But at no cowards fate t' have frighted bin;Nor with the peoples breath to be swol'n great,Nor at a drawn stiletto basely swear.He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit,But proud o' th' top of fortunes wheel may sit.

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Disertissime Romuli nepotum,Quot sunt, quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,Quotque post alios erunt in annos,Gratias tibi maximas CatullusAgit, pessimus omnium poeta:Tanto pessimus omnium poeta,Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus.

Tully to thee, Rome's eloquent sole heir,The best of all that are, shall be, and were,I the worst poet send my best thanks and pray'r:Ev'n by how much the worst of poets I,By so much you the best of patrones be.

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Mellitos oculos tuos, Juvenci,Si quis me sinat usque basiare,Usque ad millia basiem trecenta;Nec unquam videat satur futurus:Non si densior aridis aristis,Sit nostrae seges osculationis.

Juvencius, thy fair sweet eyesIf to my fill that I may kisse,Three hundred thousand times I'de kisse,Nor future age should cloy this blisse;No, not if thicker than ripe earsThe harvest of our kisses bears.

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Cum puero bello praeconem qui videt esse,Quid credat, nisi se vendere discupere?

With a fair boy a cryer we behold,What should we think, but he would not be sold?<99.1>

<99.1> Lovelace has made nonsense of this passage. We ought to read rather, "but that he would be sold!"

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Si Phoebi soror es, mando tibi, Delia, causam,Scilicet, ut fratri quae peto verba feras:Marmore Sicanio struxi tibi, Delphice, templum,Et levibus calamis candida verba dedi.Nunc, si nos audis, atque es divinus Apollo,Dic mihi, qui nummos non habet unde petat.

If you are Phoebus sister, Delia, pray,This my request unto the Sun convay:O Delphick god, I built thy marble fane,And sung thy praises with a gentle cane,<100.1>Now, if thou art divine Apollo, tell,Where he, whose purse is empty, may go fill.

<100.1> Reed or pipe.

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Duc me, Parens celsique Dominator poli,Quocunque placuit, nulla parendi mora est;Adsum impiger; fac nolle, comitabor gemens,Malusque patiar facere, quod licuit bono.Ducunt volentem Fata, nolentem trahunt.

Parent and Prince of Heav'n, O lead, I pray,Where ere you please, I follow and obey.Active I go, sighing, if you gainsay,And suffer bad what to the good was law.Fates lead the willing, but unwilling draw.

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Constiteram exorientem Auroram forte salutans,Cum subito a laeva Roscius exoritur.Pace mihi liceat, coelestes, dicere vestra.Mortalis visu pulchrior esse deo.Blanditur puero satyrus vultuque manuque;Nolenti similis retrahit ora puer:Quem non commoveat, quamvis de marmore? funditPene preces satyrus, pene puer lachrymas.

As once I bad good morning to the day,O' th' sudden Roscius breaks in a bright ray:Gods with your favour, I've presum'd to seeA mortal fairer then a deitie.With looks and hands a satyre courts the boy,Who draws back his unwilling cheek as coy.Although of marble hewn, whom move not they?The boy ev'n seems to weep, the satyre, pray.

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Phoebus me in somnis vetuit potare Lyaeum,Pareo praeceptis: tunc bibo cum vigilo.

Phoebus asleep forbad me wine to take:I yield; and now am only drunk awake.

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Carminis iliaci libros consumpsit asellus;Hoc fatum Troiae est: aut equus, aut asinus.

A wretched asse the Aeneids did destroy:A horse or asse is still the fate of Troy.

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Trinarii quodam currentem in littoris oraAnte canes leporem caeruleus rapuit;At<101.1> lepus: in me omnis terrae pelagique rapina est,Forsitan et coeli, si canis astra tenet.

On the Sicilian strand a hare well wroughtBefore the hounds was by a dog-fish caught;Quoth she: all rape of sea and earth's on me,Perhaps of heav'n, if there a dog-star be.

<101.1> Qu. a contraction of AIT.

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Polla, potenta, tribon, baculus, scyphus: arcta supellexHaec fuerant Cinici, sed putat hanc nimiam:Namque cavis manibus cernens potare bubulcum,Cur, scyphe, te, dixit, gusto supervacuum?

The Cynicks narrow houshould stuffe of crutch,A stool and dish, was lumber thought too much:For whilst a hind drinks out on's palms o' th' strandHe flings his dish: cries: I've one in my hand!

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Thesauro invento qui limina mortis inibat,Liquit ovans laqueum, quo periturus erat;At qui, quod terrae abdiderat, non repperit aurum,Quem laqueum invenit nexuit, et periit.

A treasure found one, entring at death's gate,Triumphing leaves that cord, was meant his fate;But he the gold missing, which he did hide,The halter which he found he knit: so dy'd.

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Object adorable et charmant!Mes souspirs et mes pleurs tesmoignent mon torment;Mais mon respect<102.1> m'empeche de parler.Ah! que peine dissimuler!Et que je souffre de martyre,D'aimer et de n'oser le dire!

Object adorable of charms!My sighs and tears may testifie my harms;But my respect forbids me to reveal.Ah, what a pain 'tis to conceal!And how I suffer worse then hell,To love, and not to dare to tell!

<102.1> Original has MES RESPECTS.

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Si Jaques, le Roy du scavior,Ne trouue bon de me voir,Voila la cause infallible!Car, ravy de mon escrit,Il creut, que j'estois tout espritEt par consequent invisible.

If James, the king of wit,To see me thought not fit,Sure this the cause hath been,That, ravish'd with my merit,He thought I was all spirit,And so not to be seen.

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Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor,Ignotamque oculis solicitare manu?Aeris et venti sum filia, mater inanisIndicii, vocemque sine mente gero.Auribus in vestris habito penetrabilis echo;Si mihi vis similem pingere, pinge sonos.

Vain painter, why dost strive my face to drawWith busy hands? a goddesse eyes nere saw.Daughter of air and wind, I do rejoyceIn empty shouts; (without a mind) a voice.Within your ears shrill echo I rebound,And, if you'l paint me like, then paint a sound.

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Toxica zelotypo dedit uxor maecha marito,Nec satis ad mortem credidit esse datum;Miscuit argenti lethalia pondera vivi,Ut celeret certam vis geminata necem.Ergo, inter sese dum noxia pocula certant,Cessit lethalis noxa saltuiferi.Protinus in vacuos alvi petiere recessus,Lubrica dejectis quae via nota cibis.Quam pia cura Deum! prodest crudelior uxor.Sic, cum fata volunt, bina venena juvant.

Her jealous husband an adultresse gaveCold poysons, to[o] weak she thought for's grave;A fatal dose of quicksilver then sheMingles to hast his double destinie;Now whilst within themselves they are at strife,The deadly potion yields to that of life,And straight from th' hollow stomack both retreatTo th' slippery pipes known to digested meat.Strange care o' th' gods the murth'resse doth avail!So, when fates please, ev'n double poysons heal.

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Emptis quod libris tibi bibliotheca referta est,Doctum et grammaticum te, philomuse, putas.Quinetiam cytharas, chordas et barbita conde:Mercator hodie, cras citharoedus, eris.

Because with bought books, sir, your study's fraught,A learned grammarian you would fain be thought;Nay then, buy lutes and strings; so you may playThe merchant now, the fidler, the next day.

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AVIENI<103.1> V. C. AD AMICOS.

Rure morans, quid agam, respondi, pauca rogatus:Mane, deum exoro famulos, post arvaque viso,Partitusque meis justos indico labores;Inde lego, Phoebumque cio, Musamque lacesso;Tunc oleo corpus fingo, mollique palaestraStringo libens animo, gaudensque ac foenore liberPrandeo, poto, cano, ludo, lavo, caeno, quiesco.

Ask'd in the country what I did, I said:I view my men and meads, first having pray'd;Then each of mine hath his just task outlay'd;I read, Apollo court, I rouse my Muse;Then I anoynt me, and stript willing looseMy self on a soft plat, from us'ry blest;I dine, drink, sing, play, bath, I sup, I rest.

<103.1> Rufus Festus Avienus, the Latin poet.

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Caenabis bene, mi Fabulle, apud mePaucis, si dii tibi favent, diebus;Si tecum attuleris bonam atque magnamCaenam, non sine candida puella,Et vino, et sale, et omnibus cachinnis.Haec si, inquam, attuleris, Fabulle noster,Caenabis bene: nam tui CatulliPlenus sacculus est aranearum.Sed, contra, accipies meros amores,Seu quod suavius elegantiusve est:Nam unguentum dabo, quod meae puellaeDonarunt Veneres Cupidinesque;Quod tu cum olfacies, deos rogabis,Totum te faciant, Fabulle, nasum.

Fabullus, I will treat you handsomelyShortly, if the kind gods will favour thee.If thou dost bring with thee a del'cate messe,An olio or so, a pretty lass,Brisk wine, sharp tales, all sorts of drollery,These if thou bringst (I say) along with thee,You shall feed highly, friend: for, know, the ebbsOf my lank purse are full of spiders webs;But then again you shall receive clear love,Or what more grateful or more sweet may prove:For with an ointment I will favour theeMy Venus's and Cupids gave to me,Of which once smelt, the gods thou wilt implore,Fabullus, that they'd make thee nose all ore.

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Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto,Quem de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis;Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci non dolet, inquit:Sed quod tu facies, hoc mihi, Paete, dolet.

When brave chast Arria to her Poetus gaveThe sword from her own breast did bleeding wave:If there be faith, this wound smarts not, said she;But what you'l make, ah, that will murder me.

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Conjugis audisset fatum cum Portia Bruti,Et substracta sibi quaereret arma dolor,Nondum scitis, ait, mortem non posse negari,Credideram satis hoc vos docuisse patrem.Dixit, et ardentes avido bibit ore favillas.I nunc, et ferrum turba molesta nega.

When Portia her dear lord's sad fate did hear,And noble grief sought arms were hid from her:Know you not yet no hinderance of death is,Cato, I thought, enough had taught you this,So said, her thirsty lips drink flaming coales:Go now, deny me steel, officious fools!

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Dum Phaetontea formica vagatur in umbra,Implicuit tenuem succina gutta feram,Dignum tantorum pretium tulit illa laborum:Credibile est ipsam sic voluisse mori.

Whilst in an amber-shade the ant doth feast,A gummy drop ensnares the small wild-beast,A full reward of all her toyls hath she;'Tis to be thought she would her self so die.

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Et latet et lucet, Phaetontide condita guttaUt videatur apis nectare clausa suo.Sic modo, quae fuerat vita contempta manente,Funeribus facta est jam preciosa suis.

Both lurks and shines, hid in an amber tear,The bee, in her own nectar prisoner;So she, who in her life time was contemn'd,Ev'n in her very funerals is gemm'd.

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Pauper videri Cinna vult, et est pauper.

Cinna seems<104.1> poor in show,And he is so.

<104.1> A very inadequate translation of VIDERI VULT.

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OUT OF THE ANTHOLOGIE.<105.1>

<>

A fool, much bit by fleas, put out the light;You shall not see me now (quoth he); good night.

<105.1> This is from Lucian.

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Noli admirari, quare tibi foemina nulla,Rufe, velit tenerum supposuisse femur;Non ullam rarae labefactes munere vestis,Aut pellucidulis deliciis lapidis.Laedit te quaedam mala fabula, qua tibi ferturValle sub alarum trux habitare caper.Hunc metuunt omnes, neque mirum: nam mala valde estBestia, nec quicum<106.1> bela puella cubet.Quare aut crudelem nasorum interfice pestem,Aut admirari desine, cur fugiant.

That no fair woman will, wonder not why,Clap (Rufus) under thine her tender thigh;Not a silk gown shall once melt one of them,Nor the delights of a transparent gemme.A scurvy story kills thee, which doth tell,That in thine armpits a fierce goat doth dwell.Him they all fear full of an ugly stench:<106.2>Nor 's 't fit he should lye with a handsome wench;Wherefore this noses cursed plague first crush,Or cease to wonder, why they fly you thus.

<106.1> An archaic form of QUOCUM.

<106.2> Original has STINCH.

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Nulli se dicit mulier mea nubere velle,Quam mihi: non, si Jupiter ipse petat;Dicit; sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti,In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.

My mistresse sayes she'll marry none but me;No, not if Jove himself a suitor be.She sayes so; but what women say to kindLovers, we write in rapid streams and wind.

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Dicebas quondam, solum to nosse Catullum,Lesbia, nec prae me velle tenere Jovem;Dilexi tum te, non tantum ut vulgus amicam,Sed pater ut gnatos diligit et generos.Nunc te cognovi, quare et impensius uror,Multo mi tamen es vilior et levior.Qui potis est inquis, quod amantem injuria talisCogat amare magis, sed bene velle minus?Odi et amo; quare id faciam, fortasse requiris;Nescio; sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.

That me alone you lov'd, you once did say,Nor should I to the king of gods give way.Then I lov'd thee not as a common dear,But as a father doth his children chear.Now thee I know, more bitterly I smart;Yet thou to me more light and cheaper art.What pow'r is this? that such a wrong should pressMe to love more, yet wish thee well much lesse.I hate and love; would'st thou the reason know?I know not; but I burn, and feel it so.

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Huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa,Atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo.Ut jam nec bene velle queam tibi, si optima sias:Nec desistere amare, omnia si facias.

By thy fault is my mind brought to that pass,That it its office quite forgotten has:For be'est thou best, I cannot wish thee well,And be'est thou worst, then I must love thee still.

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Quinti, si tibi vis oculos debere Catullum,Aut aliud si quid carius est oculis,Eripere ei noli, multo quod carius illiEst oculis, seu quid carius est oculis.

Quintius, if you'l endear Catullus eyes,Or what he dearer then his eyes doth prize,Ravish not what is dearer then his eyes,Or what he dearer then his eyes doth prize.

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Quintia formosa est multis, mihi candida, longa,Recta est; haec ego sic singula confiteor:Tota illud formosa nego: nam multa venustas;Nulla in tam magno est corpore mica salis.Lesbia formosa est quae, cum pulcherrima tota est,Tum omnibus una omneis surripuit veneres.

Quintia is handsome, fair, tall, straight: all theseVery particulars I grant with ease:But she all ore 's not handsome; here's her fault:In all that bulk there's not one corne of salt,Whilst Lesbia, fair and handsome too all ore,All graces and all wit from all hath bore.

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Nulla potest mulier tantum se dicere amatamVere, quantum a me Lesbia amata mea est;Nulla fides ullo fuit unquam faedere tanta,Quanta in amore suo ex parte reperta mea est.

No one can boast her self so much belov'd,Truely as Lesbia my affections prov'd;No faith was ere with such a firm knot bound,As in my love on my part I have found.

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Aut sodes mihi redde decem sestertia, Sylo,Deindo esto quam vis saevus et indomitus;Aut si te nummi delectant, desine, quaeso,Leno esse, atque idem saevus et indomitus.

Sylo, pray pay me my ten sesterces,Then rant and roar as much as you shall please;Or if that mony takes [you,]<107.1> pray, give oreTo be a pimp, or else to rant and roar.

<107.1> Original has TAKES, but a word is wanting to complete the metre, and perhaps the poet wrote TAKES YOU, i.e. captivates you.

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SACREDTo the Memory of theAUTHOR:

By several of his Friends.

Collected and PublishedBYD. P. L.

NUNQUAM EGO TE VITA FRATER AMBILIORADSPICIAM POSTHAC; AT CERTE SEMPER AMABO.Catullus.

LONDON, Printed 1660.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY WORTHY FRIENDCOLL. RICHARD LOVELACE.<108.1>

To pay my love to thee, and pay it so,As honest men should what they justly owe,Were to write better of thy life, then canThe assured'st pen of the most worthy man.Such was thy composition, such thy mind,Improv'd from vertue, and from vice refin'd;Thy youth an abstract of the world's best parts,Invr'd to arms and exercis'd to arts,Which, with the vigour of a man, becameThine and thy countries piramids of fame.Two glorious lights to guide our hopeful youthInto the paths of honour and of truth.These parts (so rarely met) made up in thee,What man should in his full perfection be:So sweet a temper into every senceAnd each affection breath'd an influence,As smooth'd them to a calme, which still withstoodThe ruffling passions of untamed blood,Without a wrinckle in thy face, to showThy stable breast could a<108.2> disturbance know.In fortune humble, constant in mischance;Expert in both, and both serv'd to advanceThy name by various trialls of thy spirit,And give the testimony of thy merit.Valiant to envy of the bravest men,And learned to an undisputed pen;Good as the best in both and great, but yetNo dangerous courage nor offensive wit.These ever serv'd the one for to defend,The other, nobly to advance thy friend,Under which title I have found my nameFix'd in the living chronicle of fameTo times succeeding: yet I hence must go,Displeas'd I cannot celebrate thee so.But what respect, acknowledgement and love,What these together, when improv'd, improve:Call it by any name (so it expressOught like a tribute to thy worthyness,And may my bounden gratitude become)LOVELACE, I offer at thy honour'd tomb.And though thy vertues many friends have bredTo love thee liveing, and lament thee dead,In characters far better couch'd then these,Mine will not blott thy fame, nor theirs encrease.'Twas by thine own great merits rais'd so high,That, maugre time and fate, it shall not dye.Sic flevit.Charles Cotton.

<108.1> These lines may be found, with some verbal variations, in the poems of Charles Cotton, 1689, p. 481-2-3.

<108.2> This reading is adopted from Cotton's Poems, 1689, p. 482. In LUCASTA we read NO DISTURBANCE.

UPON THE POSTHUME AND PRECIOUS POEMSOF THE NOBLY EXTRACTED GENTLEMAN MR. R. L.<109.1>

The rose and<109.2> other fragrant flowers smell best,When they are pluck'd and worn in hand or brest,So this fair flow'r of vertue, this rare budOf wit, smells now as fresh as when he stood;And in these Posthume-Poems lets us know,He on<109.3> the banks of Helicon did grow.The beauty of his soul did correspondWith his sweet out-side: nay, it went<109.4> beyond.Lovelace, the minion<109.5> of the Thespian dames,Apollo's darling, born with Enthean flames,Which in his numbers wave and shine so clear,As sparks refracted from<109.6> rich gemmes appear;Such flames that may inspire, and atoms cast,To make new poets not like him in hast.<109.7>Jam. Howell.

<109.1> These lines, originally printed as above, were included by Payne Fisher in his collection of Howell's Poems, 1663, 8vo., where they may be found at p. 126. Fisher altered the superscription in his ill-edited book to "Upon the Posthume-POEMS of Mr. Lovelace."

<109.2> WITH—Howell's Poems.

<109.3> THAT HE UPON—ibid.

<109.4> IF NOT GO BEYOND—ibid.

<109.5> Fr. MIGNON, darling.

<109.6> So in Howell's Poems. LUCASTA has IN.

<109.7> "Such sparks that with their atoms may inspireThe reader with a pure POETICK fire."Howell's POEMS.

Pardon (blest shade), that I thus crowd to be'Mong those that sin unto thy memory,And that I think unvalu'd reliques spread,And am the first that pillages the dead;Since who would be thy mourner as befits,But an officious sacriledge commits.How my tears strive to do thee fairer right,And from the characters divide my sight.Untill it (dimmer) a new torrent swells,And what obscur'd it, falls my spectaclesLet the luxurious floods impulsive rise,As they would not be wept, but weep the eyes,The while earth melts, and we above it lyeBut the weak bubbles of mortalitie;Until our griefs are drawn up by the Sun,And that (too) drop the exhalation.How in thy dust we humble now our pride,And bring thee a whole people mortifi'd!For who expects not death, now thou art gone,Shows his low folly, not religion.Can the poetick heaven still hold onThe golden dance, when the first mover's gon?And the snatch'd fires (which circularly hurl'd)In their strong rapture glimmer to the world,And not stupendiously rather riseThe tapers unto these solemnities?Can the chords move in tune, when thou dost dye,At once their universal harmony?But where Apollo's harp (with murmur) laid,Had to the stones a melody convey'd,They by some pebble summon'd would replyIn loud results to every battery;Thus do we come unto thy marble room,To eccho from the musick of thy tombe.May we dare speak thee dead, that wouldest beIn thy remove only not such as we?No wonder, the advance is from us hid;Earth could not lift thee higher then it did!And thou, that didst grow up so ever nigh,Art but now gone to immortality!So near to where thou art, thou here didst dwell,The change to thee is less perceptible.Thy but unably-comprehending clay,To what could not be circumscrib'd, gave way,And the more spacious tennant to return,Crack'd (in the two restrain'd estate) its urn.That is but left to a successive trust;The soul's first buried in his bodies dust.Thou more thy self, now thou art less confin'd,Art not concern'd in what is left behind;While we sustain the losse that thou art gone,Un-essenc'd in the separation;And he that weeps thy funerall, in oneIs pious to the widdow'd nation.And under what (now) covert must I sing,Secure as if beneath a cherub's wing;When thou hast tane thy flight hence, and art nighIn place to some related hierarchie,Where a bright wreath of glories doth but setUpon thy head an equal coronet;And thou, above our humble converse gon,Canst but be reach'd by contemplation.Our lutes (as thine was touch'd) were vocall by,And thence receiv'd the soul by sympathy,That did above the threds inspiring creep,And with soft whispers broke the am'rous sleep;Which now no more (mov'd with the sweet surprise)Awake into delicious rapsodies;But with their silent mistress do comply,And fast in undisturbed slumbers lye.How from thy first ascent thou didst disperseA blushing warmth throughout the universe,While near the morns Lucasta's fires did glow,And to the earth a purer dawn did throw.We ever saw thee in the roll of fameAdvancing thy already deathless name;And though it could but be above its fate,Thou would'st, however, super-errogate.Now as in Venice, when the wanton StateBefore a Spaniard spread their crowded plate,He made it the sage business of his eyeTo find the root of the wild treasury;So learn't from that exchequer but the moreTo rate his masters vegetable ore.Thus when the Greek and Latin muse we read,As but the<110.1> cold inscriptions of the dead,We to advantage then admired thee,Who did'st live on still with thy poesie;And in our proud enjoyments never knewThe end of the unruly wealth that grew.But now we have the last dear ingots gain'd,And the free vein (however rich) is drein'd;Though what thou hast bequeathed us, no spaceOf this worlds span of time shall ere embrace.But as who sometimes knew not to concludeUpon the waters strange vicissitude,Did to the ocean himself commit,That it might comprehend what could not it,So we in our endeavours must out-doneBe swallowed up within thy Helicon.Thou, who<110.2> art layd up in thy precious cave,And from the hollow spaces of thy grave,We still may mourn in tune, but must aloneHereafter hope to quaver out a grone;No more the chirping sonnets with shrill notesMust henceforth volley from our treble throtes;But each sad accent must be humour'd wellTo the deep solemn organ of thy cell.Why should some rude hand carve thy sacred stone,And there incise a cheap inscription?When we can shed the tribute of our tearsSo long, till the relenting marble wears;Which shall such order in their cadence keep,That they a native epitaph shall weep;Untill each letter spelt distinctly lyes,Cut by the mystick droppings of our eyes.El. Revett.<110.3>

<110.1> Original has THE BUT.

<110.2> Original has OW.

<110.3> I have already pointed out, that the author of these truly wretched lines was probably the same person, on whose MORAL AND DIVINE POEMS Lovelace has some verses in the LUCASTA. The poems of E. R. appear to be lost, which, unless they were far superior to the present specimen, cannot be regarded as a great calamity.

Me thinks, when kings, prophets, and poets dye,We should not bid men weep, nor ask them why,But the great loss should by instinct impairThe nations, like a pestilential ayr,And in a moment men should feel the crampOf grief, like persons poyson'd with a damp.All things in nature should their death deplore,And the sun look less lovely than before;The fixed stars should change their constant spaces,And comets cast abroad their flagrant<111.1> faces.Yet still we see princes and poets fallWithout their proper pomp of funerall;Men look about, as if they nere had knownThe poets lawrell or the princes crown;Lovelace hath long been dead, and he<111.2> can beOblig'd to no man for an elegie.Are you all turn'd to silence, or did heRetain the only sap of poesie,That kept all branches living? must his fallSet an eternal period upon all?So when a spring-tide doth begin to fly<111.3>From the green shoar, each neighbouring creek grows dry.But why do I so pettishly detractAn age that is so perfect, so exact?In all things excellent, it is a fameOr glory to deceased Lovelace name:For he is weak in wit, who doth depraveAnothers worth to make his own seem brave;And this was not his aim: nor is it mine.I now conceive the scope of their designe,Which is with one consent to bring and burnContributary incence on his urn,Where each mans love and fancy shall be try'd,As when great Johnson or brave Shakespear dyed.Wits must unite: for ignorance, we see,Hath got a great train of artillerie:Yet neither shall nor can it blast the fameAnd honour of deceased Lovelace name,Whose own LUCASTA can support his creditAmongst all such who knowingly have read it;But who that praise can by desert discusseDue to those poems that are posthumous?And if the last conceptions are the best,Those by degrees do much transcend the rest;So full, so fluent, that they richly suteWith Orpheus lire, or with Anacreons lute,And he shall melt his wing, that shall aspireTo reach a fancy or one accent higher.Holland and France have known his nobler parts,And found him excellent in arms and arts.To sum up all, few men of fame but know,He was TAM MARTI, QUAM MERCURIO.<111.4>

<111.1> Burning.

<111.2> Original has WE.

<111.3> A fine image!

<111.4> The motto originally employed by George Gascoigne, who, like Lovelace, wielded both the sword and the pen.

Thy pious hand, planting fraternal bayes,Deserving is of most egregious praise;Since 'tis the organ doth to us conveyFrom a descended sun so bright a ray.Clear spirit! how much we are bound to theeFor this so great a liberalitie,The truer worth of which by much exceedsThe western wealth, which such contention breeds!Like the Infusing-God, from the well-headOf poesie you have besprinkledOur brows with holy drops, the very last,Which from your Brother's happy pen were cast:Yet as the last, the best; such matchlesse skillFrom his divine alembick did distill.Your honour'd Brother in the Elyzian shadeWill joy to know himself a laureat madeBy your religious care, and that his urnDoth him on earth immortal life return.Your self you have a good physician shownTo his much grieved friends and to your own,In giving this elixir'd medecine,For greatest grief a soveraign anodine.Sir, from your Brother y' have convey'd us bliss;Now, since your genius so concurs with his,Let your own quill our next enjoyments frame;All must be rich, that's grac'd with Lovelace name.Symon Ognell M.D.<112.1> Coningbrens.

<112.1> This person is not mentioned in Munk's Roll of the Royal College of Physicians, 1861.

Great son of Mars, and of Minerva too!With what oblations must we come to wooThy sacred soul to look down from above,And see how much thy memory we love,Whose happy pen so pleased amorous ears,And, lifting bright LUCASTA to the sphears,Her in the star-bespangled orb did setAbove fair Ariadnes coronet,Leaving a pattern to succeeding wits,By which to sing forth their Pythonick fits.Shall we bring tears and sighs? no, no! then weShould but bemone our selves for loosing thee,Or else thy happiness seem to deny,Or to repine at thy felicity.Then, whilst we chant out thine immortal praise,Our offerings shall be onely sprigs of bays;And if our tears will needs their brinks out-fly,We'l weep them forth into an elegy,To tell the world, how deep fates wounded wit,When Atropos the lovely Lovelace hit!How th' active fire, which cloath'd thy gen'rous mind,Consum'd the water, and the earth calcin'dUntill a stronger heat by death was given,Which sublimated thy poor soul to heaven.Thou knew'st right well to guide the warlike steed,And yet could'st court the Muses with full speedAnd such success, that the inspiring NineHave fill'd their Thespian fountain so with brine.Henceforth we can expect no lyrick lay,But biting satyres through the world must stray.Bellona joyns with fair Erato too,And with the Destinies do keep adoe,Whom thus she queries: could not you awhileReprieve his life, until another fileOf poems such as these had been drawn up?The fates reply'd that thou wert taken up,A sacrifice unto the deities;Since things most perfect please their holy eyes,And that no other victim could be foundWith so much learning and true virtue crown'd.Since it is so, in peace for ever rest;Tis very just that God should have the best.Sym. Ognell M.D. Coningbrens.

Lovelace is dead! then let the world returnTo its first chaos, mufled in its urn;The stars and elements together lye,Drench'd in perpetual obscurity,And the whole machine in confusion be,As immethodick as an anarchie.May the great eye of day weep out his light,Pale Cynthia leave the regiment of night,The galaxia, all in sables dight,Send forth no corruscations to our sight,The Sister-Graces and the sacred Nine,Statu'd with grief, attend upon his shrine,Whose worth, whose loss, should we but truly rate,'Twould puzzle our arithmetic to stateTh' accompt of vertu's so transcendent high,Number and value reach infinity.Did I pronounce him dead! no, no! he lives,And from his aromatique cell he givesSpice-breathed fumes, whose odoriferous scent(In zephre-gales which never can be spent)Doth spread it self abroad, and much out-viesThe eastern bird in her self-sacrifice;Or Father Phoebus, who to th' world derivesSuch various and such multiformed lives,Took notice that brave Lovelace did inspireThe universe with his Promethean fire,And snatcht him hence, before his thread was spun,En'ving that here should be another Sun. T. L.<113.1>

<113.1> Thomas Lovelace, one of the poet's brothers.

Tread (reader) gently, gently oreThe happy dust beneath this floor:For in this narrow vault is setAn alablaster cabinet,Wherein both arts and arms were put,Like Homers Iliads in a nut,Till Death with slow and easie paceSnatcht the bright jewell from the case;And now, transform'd, he doth ariseA constellation in the skies,Teaching the blinded world the way,Through night, to startle into day:And shipwrackt shades, with steady hand,He steers unto th' Elizian land.Dudley Posthumus-Lovelace.

Comments on the preparation of the E-Text:

Any place where angle brackets are used, i.e. < >, it is a change made during the preparation of this E-Text. The original printed book did not use this character at all.

The square brackets, i.e. [ ] are copied from the printed book, without change.

For this E-Text version of the book, the footnotes have been consolidated at the end of each section of the introduction, and at the end of each poem.

Numbering of the footnotes has been changed, and each footnote is given a unique identity in the form , where XX is a poem or a section of the introduction, and YY is the number of the note within that poem or section.

Some footnote markers are missing. I have inserted markers where I believe they should go. All such markers are identified by double brackets. e.g. <<9.2>>

There were 5 footnotes in an "Additional Notes" section of the book, and one footnote in the Table of Contents. These footnotes have been identified as <> to <> and <>. They have been moved to the end of the appropriate sections of the E-Text, and footnote markers, identified by double angle brackets, i.e. << >> have been added. The original locations of these footnotes in the body text, however, are also indicated for information.

This E-Text contains some poems in Latin and in Greek.

The Latin poems are reproduced as they appear in the book, except that the accent marks have been deleted.

The Greek poems were originally typeset in Greek characters.For this E-Text, the Greek characters have been TRANSLITERATEDinto Roman characters, using a system developed for theUS Library of Congress, Ref.

ALA-LC ROMANIZATION TABLESTRANSLITERATION SCHEMES FOR NON-ROMAN SCRIPTSApproved by the Library of Congress and the American LibraryAssociationTables compiled and edited by Randall K. BarryNetwork Development and MARC Standards OfficeLibrary of Congress, Washington, 1991

Again, it was necessary to delete the accent marks, this time accents which were recommended to be placed over the roman characters. The Greek poems are set off by angle brackets.

Single Greek words embedded in roman text have also been transliterated, as described above, and are identified by double angle brackets, e.g. <>

I have made no spelling corrections whatsoever. In the poems, the spelling is very inconsistent, with several different versions of a word being used in different places

In a few places, the capital 'V' and 'I' characters were used where we would use a capital 'U' of 'J' instead. These have not been changed. For example, Vnlese, Iuvenal. Where the capitals in the original text were used to highlight the first word of a poem, 'V' was changed to 'v', for example, OVR became Ovr.

The copy of the book which I worked from had been re-bound on several occasions. It is possible that the 'Table of Contents' was originally placed after the introduction.

Symbols for British currency are changed to , , and .

In several places the word 'the' appears with an accent mark over the 'e'. The accent is in the form of a horizontal line above the letter. This word has been rendered as ''. Similarly 'whe' with an accent over the 'e' is rendered as ''.