Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know,A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be,Poore Rogue, goe pawne thyFasciaand thy Bow,For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;Or if thou'lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,And when Corne's sowne, or growne into the Eare,Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,So may'st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy:That whilst withMarsshe holdeth her old way,Thou, her Blind Sonne, may'st sit by them, and play.
Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know,A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be,Poore Rogue, goe pawne thyFasciaand thy Bow,For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;Or if thou'lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,And when Corne's sowne, or growne into the Eare,Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,So may'st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy:That whilst withMarsshe holdeth her old way,Thou, her Blind Sonne, may'st sit by them, and play.
What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart,To take all Mine, and giue me none againe?Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art,That what They get, They euer doe retaine?Play not the Tyrant, but take some Remorse,Rebate thy Spleene, if but for Pitties sake;Or Cruell, if thou can'st not; let vs scorse,And for one Piece of Thine, my whole heart take.But what of Pitty doe I speake to Thee,Whose Brest is proofe against Complaint or Prayer?Or can I thinke what my Reward shall beFrom that proud Beauty, which was my betrayer?What talke I of a Heart, when thou hast none?Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.
What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart,To take all Mine, and giue me none againe?Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art,That what They get, They euer doe retaine?Play not the Tyrant, but take some Remorse,Rebate thy Spleene, if but for Pitties sake;Or Cruell, if thou can'st not; let vs scorse,And for one Piece of Thine, my whole heart take.But what of Pitty doe I speake to Thee,Whose Brest is proofe against Complaint or Prayer?Or can I thinke what my Reward shall beFrom that proud Beauty, which was my betrayer?What talke I of a Heart, when thou hast none?Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.
Since there 's no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part,Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me,And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes,And when we meet at any time againe,Be it not scene in either of our Browes,That We one iot of former Loue reteyne;Now at the last gaspe of Loues latest Breath,When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes,Now if thou would'st, when all haue giuen him ouer,From Death to Life, thou might'st him yet recouer.
Since there 's no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part,Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me,And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes,And when we meet at any time againe,Be it not scene in either of our Browes,That We one iot of former Loue reteyne;Now at the last gaspe of Loues latest Breath,When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes,Now if thou would'st, when all haue giuen him ouer,From Death to Life, thou might'st him yet recouer.
Decorative
And why not I, as heeThat's greatest, if as free,(In sundry strains that striue,Since there so many be)Th' oldLyrickkind reuiue?I will, yea, and I may;Who shall oppose my way?For what is he alone,That of himselfe can say,10Hee's Heire ofHelicon?Apollo, and the Nine,Forbid no Man their Shrine,That commeth with hands pure;Else be they so diuine,They will not him indure.For they be such coy Things,That they care not for Kings,And dare let them know it;Nor may he touch their Springs,20That is not borne a Poet.Pyreneus,King ofPhocis,attempting to rauish the Muses.ThePhoceanit did proue,Whom when foule Lust did moue,Those Mayds vnchast to make,Fell, as with them he stroue,His Neck and iustly brake.That instrument ne'r heard,Strooke by the skilfull Bard,It strongly to awake;But it th' infernalls skard,30And made Olympus quake.Sam. lib. 1. cap. 16.As those Prophetike stringsWhose sounds with fiery Wings,Draue Fiends from their abode,Touch'd by the best of Kings,That sang the holy Ode.OrpheustheThracianPoet. Caput, Hebre, lyramque Excipis. &c. Ouid. lib. 11. Metam.So his, which Women slue,And it int' Hebrus threw,Such sounds yet forth it sent,The Bankes to weepe that drue,40As downe the streame it went.Mercuryinuentor of the Harpe, asHorace Ode 10. lib. 1.curuaq; lyra parentẽ.That by the Tortoyse shell,ToMayasSonne it fell,The most thereof not doubtBut sure some Power did dwell,In Him who found it out.Thebesfayned to haue beene raysed by Musicke.The Wildest of the field,And Ayre, with Riuers t' yeeld,Which mou'd; that sturdy Glebes,And massie Oakes could weeld,50To rayse the pyles ofThebes.And diuersly though Strung,So anciently We sung,To it, that Now scarce knowne,If first it did belongToGreece, or if our Owne.The ancientBritishPriestsso called of their abode in woods.TheDruydesimbrew'd,With Gore, on Altars rudeWith Sacrifices crown'd,In hollow Woods bedew'd,60Ador'd the Trembling sound.PindarPrince of theGreeke lyricks,of whomHorace: Pindarum quisquis studet, &c. Ode 2. lib. 4.Though wee be All to seeke,OfPindarthat GreatGreeke,To Finger it aright,The Soule with power to strike,His hand retayn'd such Might.Horacefirst of theRomansin that kind.Or him thatRomedid graceWhose Ayres we all imbrace,That scarcely found his Peere,Nor giuethPhœbvsplace,70For Strokes diuinely cleere.TheIrishHarpe.TheIrishI admire,And still cleaue to that Lyre,As our Musike's Mother,And thinke, till I expire,Apollo'ssuch another.AsBritons, that so longHaue held this Antike Song,And let all our CarpersForbeare their fame to wrong,80Th' are right skilfull Harpers.Southerne,anEnglishLyrick.Southerne, I long thee spare,Yet wish thee well to fare,Who me pleased'st greatly,As first, therefore more rare,Handling thy Harpe neatly.To those that with despightShall terme these Numbers slight,Tell them their Iudgement's blind,Much erring from the right,90It is a Noble kind.An oldEnglishRymer.Nor is 't the Verse doth make,That giueth, or doth take,'Tis possible to clyme,To kindle, or to slake,Although inSkelton'sRyme.
And why not I, as heeThat's greatest, if as free,(In sundry strains that striue,Since there so many be)Th' oldLyrickkind reuiue?
I will, yea, and I may;Who shall oppose my way?For what is he alone,That of himselfe can say,10Hee's Heire ofHelicon?
Apollo, and the Nine,Forbid no Man their Shrine,That commeth with hands pure;Else be they so diuine,They will not him indure.
For they be such coy Things,That they care not for Kings,And dare let them know it;Nor may he touch their Springs,20That is not borne a Poet.
Pyreneus,King ofPhocis,attempting to rauish the Muses.ThePhoceanit did proue,Whom when foule Lust did moue,Those Mayds vnchast to make,Fell, as with them he stroue,His Neck and iustly brake.
Pyreneus,King ofPhocis,attempting to rauish the Muses.
That instrument ne'r heard,Strooke by the skilfull Bard,It strongly to awake;But it th' infernalls skard,30And made Olympus quake.
Sam. lib. 1. cap. 16.As those Prophetike stringsWhose sounds with fiery Wings,Draue Fiends from their abode,Touch'd by the best of Kings,That sang the holy Ode.
Sam. lib. 1. cap. 16.
OrpheustheThracianPoet. Caput, Hebre, lyramque Excipis. &c. Ouid. lib. 11. Metam.So his, which Women slue,And it int' Hebrus threw,Such sounds yet forth it sent,The Bankes to weepe that drue,40As downe the streame it went.
OrpheustheThracianPoet. Caput, Hebre, lyramque Excipis. &c. Ouid. lib. 11. Metam.
Mercuryinuentor of the Harpe, asHorace Ode 10. lib. 1.curuaq; lyra parentẽ.That by the Tortoyse shell,ToMayasSonne it fell,The most thereof not doubtBut sure some Power did dwell,In Him who found it out.
Mercuryinuentor of the Harpe, asHorace Ode 10. lib. 1.curuaq; lyra parentẽ.
Thebesfayned to haue beene raysed by Musicke.The Wildest of the field,And Ayre, with Riuers t' yeeld,Which mou'd; that sturdy Glebes,And massie Oakes could weeld,50To rayse the pyles ofThebes.
Thebesfayned to haue beene raysed by Musicke.
And diuersly though Strung,So anciently We sung,To it, that Now scarce knowne,If first it did belongToGreece, or if our Owne.
The ancientBritishPriestsso called of their abode in woods.TheDruydesimbrew'd,With Gore, on Altars rudeWith Sacrifices crown'd,In hollow Woods bedew'd,60Ador'd the Trembling sound.
The ancientBritishPriestsso called of their abode in woods.
PindarPrince of theGreeke lyricks,of whomHorace: Pindarum quisquis studet, &c. Ode 2. lib. 4.Though wee be All to seeke,OfPindarthat GreatGreeke,To Finger it aright,The Soule with power to strike,His hand retayn'd such Might.
PindarPrince of theGreeke lyricks,of whomHorace: Pindarum quisquis studet, &c. Ode 2. lib. 4.
Horacefirst of theRomansin that kind.Or him thatRomedid graceWhose Ayres we all imbrace,That scarcely found his Peere,Nor giuethPhœbvsplace,70For Strokes diuinely cleere.
Horacefirst of theRomansin that kind.
TheIrishHarpe.TheIrishI admire,And still cleaue to that Lyre,As our Musike's Mother,And thinke, till I expire,Apollo'ssuch another.
TheIrishHarpe.
AsBritons, that so longHaue held this Antike Song,And let all our CarpersForbeare their fame to wrong,80Th' are right skilfull Harpers.
Southerne,anEnglishLyrick.Southerne, I long thee spare,Yet wish thee well to fare,Who me pleased'st greatly,As first, therefore more rare,Handling thy Harpe neatly.
Southerne,anEnglishLyrick.
To those that with despightShall terme these Numbers slight,Tell them their Iudgement's blind,Much erring from the right,90It is a Noble kind.
An oldEnglishRymer.Nor is 't the Verse doth make,That giueth, or doth take,'Tis possible to clyme,To kindle, or to slake,Although inSkelton'sRyme.
An oldEnglishRymer.
Rich Statue, double-faced,With Marble Temples graced,To rayse thy God-head hyer,In flames where Altars shining,Before thy Priests diuining,Doe od'rous Fumes expire.GreatIanvs, I thy pleasure,With all theThespiantreasure,Doe seriously pursue;10To th' passed yeere returning,As though the old adiourning,Yet bringing in the new.Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,I haue obserued cleerely,Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;Since all thy store abroad is,Giue something to my Goddesse,As hath been vs'd by thee.Giue her th'Eoanbrightnesse,20Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;The Roses of the MorningThe rising Heau'n adorning,To mesh with flames of Hayre.Those ceaselesse Sounds, aboue all,Made by those Orbes that moue all,And euer swelling there,Wrap'd vp in Numbers flowing,Them actually bestowing,30For Iewels at her Eare.O Rapture great and holy,Doe thou transport me wholly,So well her forme to vary,That I aloft may beare her,Whereas I will insphere her,In Regions high and starry.And in my choise Composures,The soft and easie Closures,So amorously shall meet;40That euery liuely CeasureShall tread a perfect MeasureSet on so equall feet.That Spray to fame so fertle,The Louer-crowning Mirtle,In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,Within whose shades are dwellingThose Beauties most excelling,Inthron'd vpon her Browes.Those Paralels so euen,50Drawne on the face of Heauen,That curious Art supposes,Direct those Gems, whose cleerenesseFarre off amaze by neerenesse,Each Globe such fire incloses.Her Bosome full of Blisses,By Nature made for Kisses,So pure and wond'rous cleere,Whereas a thousand GracesBehold their louely Faces,60As they are bathing there.O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,The kindnesse of vnkindnesse,Yet one of those diuine;Thy Brands to me were leuer,ThyFascia, and thy Quiuer,And thou this Quill of mine.This Heart so freshly bleeding,Vpon it owne selfe feeding,Whose woundes still dropping be;70O Loue, thy selfe confounding,Her coldnesse so abounding,And yet such heat in me.Yet if I be inspired,Ile leaue thee so admired,To all that shall succeed,That were they more then many,'Mongst all, there is not any,That Time so oft shall read.Nor Adamant ingraued,80That hath been choisely 'st saued,Idea'sName out-weares;So large a Dower as this is,The greatest often misses,The Diadem that beares.
Rich Statue, double-faced,With Marble Temples graced,To rayse thy God-head hyer,In flames where Altars shining,Before thy Priests diuining,Doe od'rous Fumes expire.
GreatIanvs, I thy pleasure,With all theThespiantreasure,Doe seriously pursue;10To th' passed yeere returning,As though the old adiourning,Yet bringing in the new.
Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,I haue obserued cleerely,Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;Since all thy store abroad is,Giue something to my Goddesse,As hath been vs'd by thee.
Giue her th'Eoanbrightnesse,20Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;The Roses of the MorningThe rising Heau'n adorning,To mesh with flames of Hayre.
Those ceaselesse Sounds, aboue all,Made by those Orbes that moue all,And euer swelling there,Wrap'd vp in Numbers flowing,Them actually bestowing,30For Iewels at her Eare.
O Rapture great and holy,Doe thou transport me wholly,So well her forme to vary,That I aloft may beare her,Whereas I will insphere her,In Regions high and starry.
And in my choise Composures,The soft and easie Closures,So amorously shall meet;40That euery liuely CeasureShall tread a perfect MeasureSet on so equall feet.
That Spray to fame so fertle,The Louer-crowning Mirtle,In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,Within whose shades are dwellingThose Beauties most excelling,Inthron'd vpon her Browes.
Those Paralels so euen,50Drawne on the face of Heauen,That curious Art supposes,Direct those Gems, whose cleerenesseFarre off amaze by neerenesse,Each Globe such fire incloses.
Her Bosome full of Blisses,By Nature made for Kisses,So pure and wond'rous cleere,Whereas a thousand GracesBehold their louely Faces,60As they are bathing there.
O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,The kindnesse of vnkindnesse,Yet one of those diuine;Thy Brands to me were leuer,ThyFascia, and thy Quiuer,And thou this Quill of mine.
This Heart so freshly bleeding,Vpon it owne selfe feeding,Whose woundes still dropping be;70O Loue, thy selfe confounding,Her coldnesse so abounding,And yet such heat in me.
Yet if I be inspired,Ile leaue thee so admired,To all that shall succeed,That were they more then many,'Mongst all, there is not any,That Time so oft shall read.
Nor Adamant ingraued,80That hath been choisely 'st saued,Idea'sName out-weares;So large a Dower as this is,The greatest often misses,The Diadem that beares.
Muse, bid the Morne awake,Sad Winter now declines,Each Bird doth chuse a Make,This day 's SaintValentine's;For that good Bishop's sakeGet vp, and let vs see,What Beautie it shall bee,That Fortune vs assignes.But lo, in happy How'r,10The place wherein she lyes,In yonder climbing Tow'r,Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;OIove! that in a Show'r,As once that Thund'rer did,When he in drops lay hid,That I could her surprize.Her Canopie Ile draw,With spangled Plumes bedight,No Mortall euer saw20So rauishing a sight;That it the Gods might awe,And pow'rfully trans-pierceThe Globie Vniuerse,Out-shooting eu'ry Light.My Lips Ile softly layVpon her heau'nly Cheeke,Dy'd like the dawning Day,As polish'd Iuorie sleeke:And in her Eare Ile say;30O, thou bright Morning-Starre,'Tis I that come so farre,My Valentine to seeke.Each little Bird, this Tyde,Doth chuse her loued Pheere,Which constantly abideIn Wedlock all the yeere,As Nature is their Guide:So may we two be true,This yeere, nor change for new,40As Turtles coupled were.The Sparrow, Swan, the Doue,ThoughVenvsBirds they be,Yet are they not for LoueSo absolute as we:For Reason vs doth moue;They but by billing woo:Then try what we can doo,To whom each sense is free.Which we haue more then they,50By liuelyer Organs sway'd,Our Appetite each wayMore by our Sense obay'd:Our Passions to display,This Season vs doth fit;Then let vs follow it,As Nature vs doth lead.One Kisse in two let's breake,Confounded with the touch,But halfe words let vs speake,60Our Lip's imploy'd so much,Vntill we both grow weake,With sweetnesse of thy breath;O smother me to death:Long let our Ioyes be such.Let's laugh at them that chuseTheir Valentines by lot,To weare their Names that vse,Whom idly they haue got:Such poore choise we refuse,70SaintValentinebefriend;We thus this Morne may spend,Else Muse, awake her not.
Muse, bid the Morne awake,Sad Winter now declines,Each Bird doth chuse a Make,This day 's SaintValentine's;For that good Bishop's sakeGet vp, and let vs see,What Beautie it shall bee,That Fortune vs assignes.
But lo, in happy How'r,10The place wherein she lyes,In yonder climbing Tow'r,Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;OIove! that in a Show'r,As once that Thund'rer did,When he in drops lay hid,That I could her surprize.
Her Canopie Ile draw,With spangled Plumes bedight,No Mortall euer saw20So rauishing a sight;That it the Gods might awe,And pow'rfully trans-pierceThe Globie Vniuerse,Out-shooting eu'ry Light.
My Lips Ile softly layVpon her heau'nly Cheeke,Dy'd like the dawning Day,As polish'd Iuorie sleeke:And in her Eare Ile say;30O, thou bright Morning-Starre,'Tis I that come so farre,My Valentine to seeke.
Each little Bird, this Tyde,Doth chuse her loued Pheere,Which constantly abideIn Wedlock all the yeere,As Nature is their Guide:So may we two be true,This yeere, nor change for new,40As Turtles coupled were.
The Sparrow, Swan, the Doue,ThoughVenvsBirds they be,Yet are they not for LoueSo absolute as we:For Reason vs doth moue;They but by billing woo:Then try what we can doo,To whom each sense is free.
Which we haue more then they,50By liuelyer Organs sway'd,Our Appetite each wayMore by our Sense obay'd:Our Passions to display,This Season vs doth fit;Then let vs follow it,As Nature vs doth lead.
One Kisse in two let's breake,Confounded with the touch,But halfe words let vs speake,60Our Lip's imploy'd so much,Vntill we both grow weake,With sweetnesse of thy breath;O smother me to death:Long let our Ioyes be such.
Let's laugh at them that chuseTheir Valentines by lot,To weare their Names that vse,Whom idly they haue got:Such poore choise we refuse,70SaintValentinebefriend;We thus this Morne may spend,Else Muse, awake her not.
If thus we needs must goe,What shall our one Heart doe,This One made of our Two?Madame, two Hearts we brake,And from them both did takeThe best, one Heart to make.Halfe this is of your Heart,Mine in the other part,Ioyn'd by our equall Art.10Were it cymented, or sowne,By Shreds or Pieces knowne,We each might find our owne.But 'tis dissolu'd, and fix'd,And with such cunning mix'd,No diffrence that betwixt.But how shall we agree,By whom it kept shall be,Whether by you, or me?It cannot two Brests fill,20One must be heartlesse still,Vntill the other will.It came to me one day,When I will'd it to say,With whether it would stay?It told me, in your Brest,Where it might hope to rest:For if it were my Ghest,For certainety it knew,That I would still anew30Be sending it to you.Neuer, I thinke, had twoSuch worke, so much to doo,A Vnitie to woo.Yours was so cold and chaste,Whilst mine with zeale did waste,Like Fire with Water plac'd.How did my Heart intreat,How pant, how did it beat,Till it could giue yours heat!40Till to that temper brought,Through our perfection wrought,That blessing eythers Thought.In such a Height it lyes,From this base Worlds dull Eyes,That Heauen it not enuyes.All that this Earth can show,Our Heart shall not once know,For it too vile and low.
If thus we needs must goe,What shall our one Heart doe,This One made of our Two?
Madame, two Hearts we brake,And from them both did takeThe best, one Heart to make.
Halfe this is of your Heart,Mine in the other part,Ioyn'd by our equall Art.
10Were it cymented, or sowne,By Shreds or Pieces knowne,We each might find our owne.
But 'tis dissolu'd, and fix'd,And with such cunning mix'd,No diffrence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree,By whom it kept shall be,Whether by you, or me?
It cannot two Brests fill,20One must be heartlesse still,Vntill the other will.
It came to me one day,When I will'd it to say,With whether it would stay?
It told me, in your Brest,Where it might hope to rest:For if it were my Ghest,
For certainety it knew,That I would still anew30Be sending it to you.
Neuer, I thinke, had twoSuch worke, so much to doo,A Vnitie to woo.
Yours was so cold and chaste,Whilst mine with zeale did waste,Like Fire with Water plac'd.
How did my Heart intreat,How pant, how did it beat,Till it could giue yours heat!
40Till to that temper brought,Through our perfection wrought,That blessing eythers Thought.
In such a Height it lyes,From this base Worlds dull Eyes,That Heauen it not enuyes.
All that this Earth can show,Our Heart shall not once know,For it too vile and low.
Priests ofApollo, sacred be the Roome,For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome,How braue soe'r he bee,Attempt to enter;But of the Muses free,None here may venter;This for theDelphianProphets is prepar'd:The prophane Vulgar are from hence debar'd.And since the Feast so happily begins,10Call vp those faire Nine, with their Violins;They are begot byIove,Then let vs place them,Where no Clowne in may shoue,That may disgrace them:But let them neere to youngApollosit;So shall his Foot-pace ouer-flow with Wit.Where be the Graces, where be those fayre Three?In any hand they may not absent bee:They to the Gods are deare,20And they can humblyTeach vs, our Selues to beare,And doe things comely:They, and the Muses, rise both from one Stem,They grace the Muses, and the Muses them.Bring forth your Flaggons (fill'd with sparkling Wine)Whereon swolneBacchvs, crowned with a Vine,Is grauen, and fill out,It well bestowing,To eu'ry Man about,30In Goblets flowing:Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;To our GodPhœbvslet the Health goe Round.Let your Iests flye at large; yet therewithallSee they be Salt, but yet not mix'd with Gall:Not tending to disgrace,But fayrely giuen,Becomming well the place,Modest, and euen;That they with tickling Pleasure may prouoke40Laughter in him, on whom the Iest is broke.Or if the deeds ofHeroesye rehearse,Let them be sung in so well-ord'red Verse,That each word haue his weight,Yet runne with pleasure;Holding one stately height,In so braue measure,That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,And dampeIovesThunder, when it lowd'st doth speake.And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,50Or in the Sock, or in the Buskin'd Strayne,Let Art and Nature goeOne with the other;Yet so, that Art may showNature her Mother;The thick-brayn'd Audience liuely to awake,Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.Sing Hymnes toBacchvsthen, with hands vprear'd,Offer toIove, who most is to be fear'd;From him the Muse we haue,60From him proceedethMore then we dare to craue;'Tis he that feedethThem, whom the World would starue; then let the LyreSound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.
Priests ofApollo, sacred be the Roome,For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome,How braue soe'r he bee,Attempt to enter;But of the Muses free,None here may venter;This for theDelphianProphets is prepar'd:The prophane Vulgar are from hence debar'd.
And since the Feast so happily begins,10Call vp those faire Nine, with their Violins;They are begot byIove,Then let vs place them,Where no Clowne in may shoue,That may disgrace them:But let them neere to youngApollosit;So shall his Foot-pace ouer-flow with Wit.
Where be the Graces, where be those fayre Three?In any hand they may not absent bee:They to the Gods are deare,20And they can humblyTeach vs, our Selues to beare,And doe things comely:They, and the Muses, rise both from one Stem,They grace the Muses, and the Muses them.
Bring forth your Flaggons (fill'd with sparkling Wine)Whereon swolneBacchvs, crowned with a Vine,Is grauen, and fill out,It well bestowing,To eu'ry Man about,30In Goblets flowing:Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;To our GodPhœbvslet the Health goe Round.
Let your Iests flye at large; yet therewithallSee they be Salt, but yet not mix'd with Gall:Not tending to disgrace,But fayrely giuen,Becomming well the place,Modest, and euen;That they with tickling Pleasure may prouoke40Laughter in him, on whom the Iest is broke.
Or if the deeds ofHeroesye rehearse,Let them be sung in so well-ord'red Verse,That each word haue his weight,Yet runne with pleasure;Holding one stately height,In so braue measure,That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,And dampeIovesThunder, when it lowd'st doth speake.
And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,50Or in the Sock, or in the Buskin'd Strayne,Let Art and Nature goeOne with the other;Yet so, that Art may showNature her Mother;The thick-brayn'd Audience liuely to awake,Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.
Sing Hymnes toBacchvsthen, with hands vprear'd,Offer toIove, who most is to be fear'd;From him the Muse we haue,60From him proceedethMore then we dare to craue;'Tis he that feedethThem, whom the World would starue; then let the LyreSound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.
Maydens, why spare ye?Or whether not dare yeCorrect the blind Shooter?Because wantonVenvs,So oft that doth paine vs,Is her Sonnes Tutor.Now in the Spring,He proueth his Wing,The Field is his Bower,10And as the small Bee,About flyeth hee,From Flower to Flower.And wantonly roues,Abroad in the Groues,And in the Ayre houers,Which when it him deweth,His Fethers he meweth,In sighes of true Louers.And since doom'd by Fate,20(That well knew his Hate)That Hee should be blinde;For very despite,Our Eyes be his White,So wayward his kinde.If his Shafts loosing,(Ill his Mark choosing)Or his Bow broken;The MoaneVenvsmaketh,And care that she taketh,30Cannot be spoken.ToVulcancommendingHer loue, and straight sendingHer Doues and her Sparrowes,With Kisses vnto him,And all but to woo him,To make her Sonne Arrowes.Telling what he hath done,(Sayth she, Right mine owne Sonne)In her Armes she him closes,40Sweetes on him fans,Layd in Downe of her Swans,His Sheets, Leaues of Roses.And feeds him with Kisses;Which oft when he misses,He euer is froward:The Mothers o'r-ioying,Makes by much coying,The Child so vntoward.Yet in a fine Net,50That a Spider set,The Maydens had caught him;Had she not beene neere him,And chanced to heare him,More good they had taught him.
Maydens, why spare ye?Or whether not dare yeCorrect the blind Shooter?Because wantonVenvs,So oft that doth paine vs,Is her Sonnes Tutor.
Now in the Spring,He proueth his Wing,The Field is his Bower,10And as the small Bee,About flyeth hee,From Flower to Flower.
And wantonly roues,Abroad in the Groues,And in the Ayre houers,Which when it him deweth,His Fethers he meweth,In sighes of true Louers.
And since doom'd by Fate,20(That well knew his Hate)That Hee should be blinde;For very despite,Our Eyes be his White,So wayward his kinde.
If his Shafts loosing,(Ill his Mark choosing)Or his Bow broken;The MoaneVenvsmaketh,And care that she taketh,30Cannot be spoken.
ToVulcancommendingHer loue, and straight sendingHer Doues and her Sparrowes,With Kisses vnto him,And all but to woo him,To make her Sonne Arrowes.
Telling what he hath done,(Sayth she, Right mine owne Sonne)In her Armes she him closes,40Sweetes on him fans,Layd in Downe of her Swans,His Sheets, Leaues of Roses.
And feeds him with Kisses;Which oft when he misses,He euer is froward:The Mothers o'r-ioying,Makes by much coying,The Child so vntoward.
Yet in a fine Net,50That a Spider set,The Maydens had caught him;Had she not beene neere him,And chanced to heare him,More good they had taught him.
Most good, most faire,Or Thing as rare,To call you's lost;For all the costWords can bestow,So poorely showVpon your prayse,That all the wayesSense hath, come short:10Whereby ReportFalls them vnder;That when WonderMore hath seyzed,Yet not pleased,That it in kindeNothing can finde,You to expresse:Neuerthelesse,As by Globes small,20This MightieAllIs shew'd, though farreFrom Life, each StarreA World being:So wee seeingYou, like as that,Onely trust whatArt doth vs teach;And when I reachAt Morall Things,30And that my StringsGrauely should strike,Straight some mislikeBlotteth mineOde.As with the Loade,The Steele we touch,Forced ne'r so much,Yet still remouesTo that it loues,Till there it stayes;40So to your prayseI turne euer,And though neuerFrom you mouing,Happie so louing.
Most good, most faire,Or Thing as rare,To call you's lost;For all the costWords can bestow,So poorely showVpon your prayse,That all the wayesSense hath, come short:10Whereby ReportFalls them vnder;That when WonderMore hath seyzed,Yet not pleased,That it in kindeNothing can finde,You to expresse:Neuerthelesse,As by Globes small,20This MightieAllIs shew'd, though farreFrom Life, each StarreA World being:So wee seeingYou, like as that,Onely trust whatArt doth vs teach;And when I reachAt Morall Things,30And that my StringsGrauely should strike,Straight some mislikeBlotteth mineOde.As with the Loade,The Steele we touch,Forced ne'r so much,Yet still remouesTo that it loues,Till there it stayes;40So to your prayseI turne euer,And though neuerFrom you mouing,Happie so louing.
Wer't granted me to choose,How I would end my dayes;Since I this life must loose,It should be in Your praise;For there is no BayesCan be set aboue you.S' impossibly I loue You,And for you sit so hie,Whence none may remoue You10In my cleere Poesie,That I oft denyYou so ample Merit.The freedome of my SpiritMaintayning (still) my Cause,Your Sex not to inherit,Vrging theSaliqueLawes;But your Vertue drawesFrom me euery due.Thus still You me pursue,20That no where I can dwell,By Feare made iust to You,Who naturally rebell,Of You that excellThat should I still Endyte,Yet will You want some Ryte.That lost in your high praiseI wander to and fro,As seeing sundry Waies:Yet which the right not know30To get out of this Maze.
Wer't granted me to choose,How I would end my dayes;Since I this life must loose,It should be in Your praise;For there is no BayesCan be set aboue you.
S' impossibly I loue You,And for you sit so hie,Whence none may remoue You10In my cleere Poesie,That I oft denyYou so ample Merit.
The freedome of my SpiritMaintayning (still) my Cause,Your Sex not to inherit,Vrging theSaliqueLawes;But your Vertue drawesFrom me euery due.
Thus still You me pursue,20That no where I can dwell,By Feare made iust to You,Who naturally rebell,Of You that excellThat should I still Endyte,
Yet will You want some Ryte.That lost in your high praiseI wander to and fro,As seeing sundry Waies:Yet which the right not know30To get out of this Maze.
You braue Heroique minds,Worthy your Countries Name;That Honour still pursue,Goe, and subdue,Whilst loyt'ring HindsLurke here at home, with shame.Britans, you stay too long,Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry Gale10Swell your stretch'd Sayle,With Vowes as strong,As the Winds that blow you.Your Course securely steere,West and by South forth keepe,Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes,WhenEolvsscowles,You need not feare,So absolute the Deepe.And cheerefully at Sea,20Successe you still intice,To get the Pearle and Gold,And ours to hold,Virginia,Earth's onely Paradise.Where Nature hath in storeFowle, Venison, and Fish,And the Fruitfull'st Soyle,Without your Toyle,Three Haruests more,30All greater then your Wish.And the ambitious VineCrownes with his purple Masse,The cedar reaching hieTo kisse the SkyThe Cypresse, PineAnd vse-full Sassafras.To whome, the golden AgeStill Natures lawes doth giue,No other Cares that tend,40But Them to defendFrom Winters rage,That long there doth not liue.When as the Lushious smellOf that delicious Land,Aboue the Seas that flowes,The cleere Wind throwes,Your Hearts to swellApproaching the deare Strande.In kenning of the Shore50(Thanks to God first giuen,)O you the happy'st men,Be Frolike then,Let Cannons roare,Frighting the wide Heauen.And in Regions farreSuch Heroes bring yee foorth,As those from whom We came,And plant Our name,Vnder that Starre60Not knowne vnto our North.And as there Plenty growesOf Lawrell euery where,Apollo'sSacred tree,You may it see,A Poets BrowesTo crowne, that may sing there.Thy Voyages attend,IndustriousHacklvit,Whose Reading shall inflame70Men to seeke Fame,And much commendTo after-Times thy Wit.
You braue Heroique minds,Worthy your Countries Name;That Honour still pursue,Goe, and subdue,Whilst loyt'ring HindsLurke here at home, with shame.
Britans, you stay too long,Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry Gale10Swell your stretch'd Sayle,With Vowes as strong,As the Winds that blow you.
Your Course securely steere,West and by South forth keepe,Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes,WhenEolvsscowles,You need not feare,So absolute the Deepe.
And cheerefully at Sea,20Successe you still intice,To get the Pearle and Gold,And ours to hold,Virginia,Earth's onely Paradise.
Where Nature hath in storeFowle, Venison, and Fish,And the Fruitfull'st Soyle,Without your Toyle,Three Haruests more,30All greater then your Wish.
And the ambitious VineCrownes with his purple Masse,The cedar reaching hieTo kisse the SkyThe Cypresse, PineAnd vse-full Sassafras.
To whome, the golden AgeStill Natures lawes doth giue,No other Cares that tend,40But Them to defendFrom Winters rage,That long there doth not liue.
When as the Lushious smellOf that delicious Land,Aboue the Seas that flowes,The cleere Wind throwes,Your Hearts to swellApproaching the deare Strande.
In kenning of the Shore50(Thanks to God first giuen,)O you the happy'st men,Be Frolike then,Let Cannons roare,Frighting the wide Heauen.
And in Regions farreSuch Heroes bring yee foorth,As those from whom We came,And plant Our name,Vnder that Starre60Not knowne vnto our North.
And as there Plenty growesOf Lawrell euery where,Apollo'sSacred tree,You may it see,A Poets BrowesTo crowne, that may sing there.
Thy Voyages attend,IndustriousHacklvit,Whose Reading shall inflame70Men to seeke Fame,And much commendTo after-Times thy Wit.
This while we are abroad,Shall we not touch our Lyre?Shall we not sing anOde?Shall that holy Fire,In vs that strongly glow'd,In this cold Ayre expire?Long since the Summer laydHer lustie Brau'rie downe,The Autumne halfe is way'd,10AndBoreas'gins to frowne,Since now I did beholdGreatBrvtesfirst builded Towne.Though in the vtmostPeake,A while we doe remaine,Amongst the Mountaines bleakeExpos'd to Sleet and Raine,No Sport our Houres shall breake,To exercise our Vaine.What though brightPhœbvsBeames20Refresh the Southerne Ground,And though the PrincelyThamesWith beautious Nymphs abound,And by oldCamber'sStreamesBe many Wonders found;Yet many Riuers cleareHere glide in Siluer Swathes,And what of all most deare,Buckston'sdelicious Bathes,Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,30T' asswage breeme Winters scathes.Those grim and horrid Caues,Whose Lookes affright the day,Wherein nice Nature saues,What she would not bewray,Our better leasure craues,And doth inuite our Lay.In places farre or neere,Or famous, or obscure,Where wholesome is the Ayre,40Or where the most impure,All times, and euery-where,The Muse is still in vre.
This while we are abroad,Shall we not touch our Lyre?Shall we not sing anOde?Shall that holy Fire,In vs that strongly glow'd,In this cold Ayre expire?
Long since the Summer laydHer lustie Brau'rie downe,The Autumne halfe is way'd,10AndBoreas'gins to frowne,Since now I did beholdGreatBrvtesfirst builded Towne.
Though in the vtmostPeake,A while we doe remaine,Amongst the Mountaines bleakeExpos'd to Sleet and Raine,No Sport our Houres shall breake,To exercise our Vaine.
What though brightPhœbvsBeames20Refresh the Southerne Ground,And though the PrincelyThamesWith beautious Nymphs abound,And by oldCamber'sStreamesBe many Wonders found;
Yet many Riuers cleareHere glide in Siluer Swathes,And what of all most deare,Buckston'sdelicious Bathes,Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,30T' asswage breeme Winters scathes.
Those grim and horrid Caues,Whose Lookes affright the day,Wherein nice Nature saues,What she would not bewray,Our better leasure craues,And doth inuite our Lay.
In places farre or neere,Or famous, or obscure,Where wholesome is the Ayre,40Or where the most impure,All times, and euery-where,The Muse is still in vre.
The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,Nor addeth it, nor takes,From that which we propose;Things imaginarieDoe so strangely varie,That quickly we them lose.And what 's quickly begot,As soone againe is not,This doe I truely know:10Yea, and what 's borne with paine,That Sense doth long'st retaine,Gone with a greater Flow.Yet this Critick so sterne,But whom, none must discerne,Nor perfectly haue seeing,Strangely layes about him,As nothing without himWere worthy of being.That I my selfe betray20To that most publique way,Where the Worlds old Bawd,Custome, that doth humor,And by idle rumor,Her Dotages applaud.That whilst he still prefersThose that be wholly hers,Madnesse and Ignorance,I creepe behind the Time,From spertling with their Crime,30And glad too with my Chance.O wretched World the while,When the euill most vile,Beareth the fayrest face,And inconstant lightnesse,With a scornefull slightnesse,The best Things doth disgrace.Whilst this strange knowing Beast,Man, of himselfe the least,His Enuie declaring,40Makes Vertue to descend,Her title to defend,Against him, much preparing.Yet these me not delude,Nor from my place extrude,By their resolued Hate;Their vilenesse that doe know;Which to my selfe I show,To keepe aboue my Fate.
The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,Nor addeth it, nor takes,From that which we propose;Things imaginarieDoe so strangely varie,That quickly we them lose.
And what 's quickly begot,As soone againe is not,This doe I truely know:10Yea, and what 's borne with paine,That Sense doth long'st retaine,Gone with a greater Flow.
Yet this Critick so sterne,But whom, none must discerne,Nor perfectly haue seeing,Strangely layes about him,As nothing without himWere worthy of being.
That I my selfe betray20To that most publique way,Where the Worlds old Bawd,Custome, that doth humor,And by idle rumor,Her Dotages applaud.
That whilst he still prefersThose that be wholly hers,Madnesse and Ignorance,I creepe behind the Time,From spertling with their Crime,30And glad too with my Chance.
O wretched World the while,When the euill most vile,Beareth the fayrest face,And inconstant lightnesse,With a scornefull slightnesse,The best Things doth disgrace.
Whilst this strange knowing Beast,Man, of himselfe the least,His Enuie declaring,40Makes Vertue to descend,Her title to defend,Against him, much preparing.
Yet these me not delude,Nor from my place extrude,By their resolued Hate;Their vilenesse that doe know;Which to my selfe I show,To keepe aboue my Fate.