NOBLEST Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my star!
And do govern more my blood,
Than the various moon the flood!
Hear what late discourse of you
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my muses finding me
Where he chanced your name to see
Set, and to this softer strain:
"Sure," said he, "if I have brain,
This here sung can be no other
By description, but my mother!
So hath Homer praised her hair;
So Anacreon drawn the air
Of her face, and made to rise,
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her brows, bent like my bow.
By her looks I do her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheeks of milk and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in.
And above her even chin,
Have you placed the bank of kisses
Where, you say, men gather blisses,
Ripened with a breath more sweet,
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Than when flowers and west winds meet. Translation of BEN JONSON.
Nay, her white and polished neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain!
And between each rising breast
Lies the valley called my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new strings
To my shafts! Her very name,
With my mother's is the same."
"I confess all," I replied,
"And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waist,
All is Venus; save unchaste.
But, alas! thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses-Cupid paid;
Of her sex; but couldst thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows-
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your numbers than your light—
You common people of the skies-
What are you when the moon shall rise?
Ye violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own-
What are you when the rose is blown?
Ye curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays, · Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents-what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?
UNDER THE NAME OF THE LOST SHEPHERDESS.
AMONG the myrtles as I walkt,
Love and my sighs thus intertalkt;
Tell me, said I, in deep distress,
Where I may find my Shepherdess.
Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this?
In every thing that 's sweet, she is.
In yond' carnation go and seek,
Where thou shalt find her lip and cheek;
In that enamelled pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach and rose's bud,
There waves the streamer of her blood.
'Tis true, said I; and thereupon,
I went to pluck them, one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a sudden all were gone.
At which I stopt; said Love, these be
The true resemblances of thee;
For as these flowers, thy joys must die,
And in the turning of an eye;
And all thy hopes of her must wither,
Like those short sweets ere knit together.
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bowed;
And a world of ladies send me,
In my chambers to attend me.
All the stars in Heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more are mine:
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.
LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows.
Love doth make the Heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love.
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak;
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Softened by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no med'cine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas;
Not all the skill his wounds can stench;
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a heavy coat to wear;
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play;
And of all love's joyful flame,
I the bud and blossom am.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow; And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora showsHow they all unleavéd die, Losing their virginity; Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade. Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay. Come, come gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose. All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore; All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne;
LIKE the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no ruder eye betrayed;
For she's to herself untrue
Who delights i' the public view.
Such is her beauty as no arts
Have enriched with borrowed grace.
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood,-
She is noblest being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence, eloquent.
Of herself survey she takes,
But 'tween men no difference makes.
She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands.
Women's feet run still astray
If to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft virtue splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely cannot sit
Where vice is enthroned for wit.
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