Obrazy na stronie

TH' adorning thee with so much art

I cut my love into his gentle bark, Is but a barbarous skill;

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : Tis like the poisoning of a dart

My very written flames so violent be, Too apt before to kill.

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree. The ministering angels none can see;

How should I live myself, whuse heart is found 'Tis not their beauty or their face,

Deeply graven every where For which by men they worship'd be;

With the large history of many a wound, But their high office and their place.

Larger than thy trunk can bear? Thou art my goddess, my saint she;

With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

Love in my heart has volumes put.
What a few words from thy rich stock did take

The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poison with one drop does make

The nails and hairs to fall : Ay! what advice can I receive!

Love (I see now) a kind of witchcraft is,

Or characters could ne'er do this.
No, satisfy me first;
For who would physic-potions give

Pardon, ye birds and pymphs, who lov'd this To one that dies with thirst?


And pardon me, thou gentle tree; A little puff of breath, we find,

I thought her name would thee have happy made, Small fires can quench and kill;

And blessed omens hop'd from thee: But, when they're great, the adverse wind

“Notes of my love, thrive here,” said I, “ and Does make them greater still.

grow; Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,

And with ye let my love do so.” But straight I 'm just the same;

Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive! Alas! th' effect must needs be such

This blasted tree predestines it; Of cutting through a flame.

Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)

And, by the lines thou there hast writ,
Deform’dly hanging, the sad picture be

To that unlucky history,
Come, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove ;

Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love.

'Tis a strange kind of ignorance this in you, There is no danger, if the pain

That you your victories should not spy, Should me to a fever bring;

Victories gotten by your eye! Compar'd with heats I now sustain,

That your bright beams, as those of comets do, A fever is so cool a thing,

Should kill, but not know how, nor who ! (Like drink which feverish men desire)

That truly you my idol might appear, That I should hope 'twould almost quench my

Whilst all the people smell and see

The odorous flames I offer thee,
Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,

Thy constant, zealous worshipper.

They see 't too well who at my fires repine ;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove Ask me not what my love shall do or be

Quick-ey'd enough to spy my love;

Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine, (Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)

Than the effect appears in mine.
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show,

Fair infidel ! by what unjust decree
What after death the soul will do;

Must I, who with such restless care Twill last, I 'm sure, and that is all we know, Would make this truth to thee appear, The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move,

Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be

Damn'd by thy incredulity
But all that while a lifeless carcase prove;
For 'tis the body of my love:

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain :
Not that my love will fly away,

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you But still continue; as, they say,

May know that faith for to be true, Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray.

It shall itself by a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown; THE TREE.

But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus dispute-That, since my heart, I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park, Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known, With freshest boughs and fairest head;

Perhaps thou may'st not know thine owth


HONOUR. Come, let's go on, where love and youth does She loves, and she confesses too; I've seen too much, if this be all. [call; There's

then, at last, no more tu do: Alas! how far more wealthy might I be

The happy work's entirely done; With a contented ignorant poverty! 1. To show such stores, and nothing grants

Enter the town which thou hast won ;

The fruits of conquest now begin ; Is to enrage and vex my want.

lö, triumph! enter in. For Love to die

an infant is lesser ill, Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

What's this, ye gods ! what can it be!

Remains there still an enemy?
We’ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,

Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
As man and wife in picture do:

And would yet capitulate;
The richest crop of joy is still behind,

Have I o'ercome all real foes,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.

And shall this phantom me oppose ?
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,
But th' amour at last improv'd;

Noisy nothing ! stalking shade!
The Statue itself at last a woman grew,

By what witchcraft wert thou made ? And so at last, my dear, should you do too. Empty cause of solid harms !

But I shall find out counter-charms,
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,

Thy airy devilship to remove
Unless it lead to farther bliss,

From this circle here of love.
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
t glows too serious a cruelty,

Sure I shall rid myself of thee
Unless it heal, as well as strike:

By the night's obscurity,
I would not, salamander-like,

And obscurer secrecy!
la scorching heats always to live desire, Unlike to every other sprite,
But, like a martyr, pass to Heaven through fire. Thou attempt'st vot men to fright,
Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring,

Nor appear'st but in the light.
And gently kisses every thing!
His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,

Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour :

Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat, Though all thy gestures and discourses be
He does still new flowers beget.

Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty;
The Sun himself, although all eye he be,

Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away Can find in love more pleasure than to see.

One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;

Yet such a sweetness, such a grace,
In all thy speech appear,

That what to th' eye a beauteous face,

That thy tongue is to th' ear:

So cunningly it wounds the heart, I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found

It strikes such heat through every part, Love made them nonsense all;

That thou a tempter worse than Satan art.
I apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
So much as of original sin,

[bce As well might men who in a fever fry,

Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Mathematic doubts debate;

Desires in dying.confess'd saints excite: As well might men who mad in darkness lie,

Thou, with strange adultery, Write the dispatches of a state.

Dost in each breast a brothel keep; I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer, Awake, all men do lust for thee,

But those did worse than useless prove; And some enjoy thee when they sleep. For prayers are turn'd to sin, in those who are Ne'er before did woman live, Out of charity, or in love.

Who to such multitudes did give

The root and cause of sin, but only Eve. I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;

But wine, alas ! was oil to th' fire; Though in thy breast so quick a pity be, Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there That a fly's death 's a wound to thee; Did double the desire.

Though savage and rock-hearted those I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,

Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woess

Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,

Whose rage was of so large extent;
And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

The ills thou dost are whole thine own;

Thou’rt principal and instrument: Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd, In all the deaths that come from you, 'Gainst this, some new desire to stir,

You do the treble office do
And lur'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Some faint resemblances of her.

Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,
The physic made me worse, with which I strove Which God did for our faults create !
This mortal ill t'expel;

Thou pleasant, universal ill, As wholesome med'cines the disease improve Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dos

There where they work not well.

Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny!

And thou in pity didst apply Thou chaste committer of a rape!

The kind and only remedy: Thou voluntary destiny,

The cause absolves the crime ; since me Which no man can, or would escape !

So mighty forcedid move, so mighty goodness So gentle, and so glad to spare,

thee. So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.

She. Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee


And yet I'm sure I love thee too!

I'm angry; but my wrath will prove

More innocent than did thy love. Ske. What have we done? what cruel passion

Thou hast this day undone me quite; mov'd thee,

Yet wilt undome more should'st thou notcome
Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?

at night,
Me thou’ast robb’d; but what art thou
Thyself the richer now?
Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure;

VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gutten AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay treasure!

'Gainst what an oracle shall say; Ile. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in Fool that I was, to venture to deny

A tongue so us'd to victory!
But noblest charity in thee.

A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
I'll the well-gotten pleasure

That never yet it spoke but gain's an heart :
Safe in my memory treasure:

Though what you said had not been true, What though the flower itself do waste,

If spoke by any else but you ; The essence from it drawn does long and And Fate will change rather than you should lye

Your speech will govern Destiny, sweeter last. She. No: Pm undone; my honour thon hast slain,

'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide, And nothing can restore 't again.

Reason, methinks, was on my side; Art and labour to bestow,

But that 's a guide, alas ! we must resign,
C'pon the carcase of it now,

When th' authority's divine.
Is but t' embalm a body dead;

She said, she said herself it would be so;

And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no : The figure may remain, the life and beauty's

Never so justly, sure, before, fied.

Errour the name of blindness bore; 4. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone For whatso'er the question be, By Love, but Indiscretion.

There's no man that has eyes would bet for me. To th' wise it all things does allow;

If Truth itself (as other angels do
And cares not what we do, but how.

When they descend to human view)
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let in air, for ever shines and burns. In a material form would deign to shine,

"Twould imitate or borrow thine:
She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear,

So well-proportion'd would the parts appear ! Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;

Happy the eye which Truth could see For men, with Roman pride, above

Cloath'd in a shape like thee; The conquest do the triumph love;

But happier far the eye, Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy. Unless they through the streets their captive Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more lead enchain'd.

Than what I ow'd to thee before: He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, Who would not venture for that debt to play,

The bawd to his own wife is made; Which he were bound howe'er to pay? Beside, what boast is left for me,

If Nature gave me power to write in verse, Whose whole wealth 's a gift from thee? She gave it me thy praises to rehearse :

'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Who have not only ta'en, but bound and Has such a sovereign right to it, gaggd me too.

That no man's Muse for public vent is free,
Ske. Though public punishment we escape, the Till she has paid her customs first to thee.

Will rack and torture us within: (sin
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,

That worm which now the core does The fish around her crowded, as they do

To the false light that treacherous fishers shew, When long 't has gnaw'd within,wil break the And all with as much ease might taken be, skin at last.

As she at first took me ; Me. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I For ne'er did light so clear sought,

Among the waves appear,
That wounded balm is all my fault; Though every night the Sun himself set there,

Why to mute fish should thou thyself discover, Alas! what comfort is 't that I am growi
And not to me thy no less silent lover ?

Secure of being again o'erthrown?
As some froni men their buried gold commit

Since such an enemy needs not fear
To ghosts, that have no use of it;

Lest any else should quarter there,
Half their rich treasures so

Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down
Maids bury: and, for aught we know,

the town. (Poor ignorants !) they're mermaids all below. The amorous waves would fain about her stay,

THE FORCE OF LOVE. But still new amorous waves drive them away, PRESERVED FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT. And with swift current to those joys they haste,

Throw an apple up an hill,
That do as swiftly waste :

Down the apple tumbles still;
I laugh'd the wanton play to view;

Roll it down, it neyer stops
But 'tis, alas! at land so too,

Till within the vale it drops:
And still old lovers yield the place to new.

So are all things prone to Love,
Kiss her, and as you part, you amorous waves, All below, and all above.
(My happier rivals, and my fellow-slaves) Down the mountain flows the stream,
Point to your flowery banks, and to her shew

Up ascends the lambent flame;
The good your bounties do;

Smoke and vapour mount the skies';
Then tell her what your pride doth cost,

All preserve their unities;
And how your use and beauty's lost,

Nought below, and nought above;
When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost.

Seems averse, but prone to Love: Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee,

Stop the meteor in its flight, Haste without stop to a devouring sea;

Or the orient rays of light; Where they will mix'd and undistinguish'd lie

Bid Dan Phoebus not to shine;
With all the meanest things that die;

Bid the planets not incline;
As in the ocean thou

'Tis as vajn, below, above,
No privilege dost know

To impede the course of Love: Above th' impurest streams that thither flow.

Salamanders live in fire, Tell her, kind Flood ! when this has made her sad,

Eagles to the skies aspire, Tell her there's yel one remedy to be had : [find

Diamonds in their quarries lies
Show her how thou, though long since past, dost

Rivers do the sea supply:
Thyself yet still behind:

Thus appears, below, above,
Marriage (say to her) will bring

A propensity to Love:
About the self-same thing.
But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring.

un the spring, Metals grow within the mine,

Luscious grapes upon the vine;

Still the needle marks the pole;

Parts are equal to the whole:
It is enough ; enough of time and pain

'T'is a truth as clear, that Love Hast thou consum'd in vain;

Quickens all, below, above.
Leave, wretched Cowley ! leave

Man is born to live and die,
Thyself with shadows to deceive;

Snakes to creep, and birds to fly ;
Think that already lost which thou tnust never | Fishes in the waters swim,

Doves are mild, and lions grim : Three of thy lustiest and thy freshest years,

Nature thus, below, above, (Toss'd in storms of hopes and fears)

Pushes all things on to Love.
Like helpless ships that be

Does the cedar love the mountain
Set on fire i’ th’ midst oʻthe sea,

Or the thirsty deer the fountain ? Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd Does the shepherd love his crook ? in tears.

Or the willow court the bruok? Resolve then on it, and by force or art

Thus by nature all things move, Free thy unlucky heart;

Like a running stream, to Love.
Since Fate does disapprove

Is the valiant hero boid ?
Th' ambition of thy love,

Does the miser doat on gold?
And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part Seek the birds in spring to pair ?
If e'er I clear my heart of this desire,

Breathes the rose-bud scented air
If e'er it home to its breast retire,

Should you this deny, you'll prote
It ne'er shall wander more about,

Nature is averse to Love.
Though thousand beauties call it out: As the wencher loves a lass,
A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire. As the toper loves his glass,
The pox, the plague, and erery small disease

As the friar loves his cowl,
May come as oft as ill-fate please;

Or the miller loves the toll,
But Death and Lore are never found

So do all, below, above,
To give a second wound:

Fly precipitate to love.
We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd | When young maidens courtship shuns
by these.

When the Moon out-shines the Sun

When the tigers lambs beget,

a production of Cowley; and was spoken at the When the snow is black as jet,

Westminster-School election, on the following When the planets cease to move,

subject: Then shall Nature cease to love.

Nullis amor est medicabilis herbis. Ovid. EPIGRAM,

Sou Daphne sees, and seeing her admires, ON THE POWER OF LOVE,

Which adds new flames to his celestial fires :

Had any remedy for Love been known,
N. B, This is delivered down by tradition as The god of physic, syre, had cur'd his own






Pindarici fontis qui non expallyit haustus. Hor, I. Er. III3,


Is a man should undertake to translate Pindar | almost without any thing else, makes an excelword for word, it would be thought, that one mad- lent poet; for though the grammarians and critics man had translated another; as may appear, have laboured to reduce his verses into regular when he that understands not the original, reads feet and measures (as they have also those of the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they than which nothing seems more raving. And are little better than prose to our ears. And I sare, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and would gladly know what applause our best pieces the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monftrare & of English poesy could expect from a Frenchsentio tantum) would but make it ten times man or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word more distracted than it is in prose. We must for word, into French or Italian prose. And consider in Pindar the great difference of time when we have considered all this, we must needs betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in confess, that, after all these losses sustained by pictures, at least

, the colours of poetry; the no Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or inless difference betwixt the religions and customs vention (not deserting still his subject) is not of our countries; and a thousand particularities like to make him a richer man than he was in his of places, persons, and manners, which do but own country. This is in some measure to be confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a dis- applied to all translations; and the not observing tance. And lastly (which were enough alone of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw for my purpose) we must consider, that our are so much inferior to their originals. The cars are strangers to the music of his numbers, like happens too in pictures, from the same root which, sometimes (especially in songs and odes) of exact imitation ; which, being a vile and un

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