WILLIAM HABINGTON To Castara, Upon an Embrace
’Bout th’ Husband Oke, the Vine | |
Thus wreathes to kisse his leavy face: | |
Their streames thus Rivers joyne, | |
And lose themselves in the embrace. | |
But Trees want sence when they infold, | |
And Waters when they meet, are cold. |
Thus Turtles bill, and grone | |
Their loves into each others eare: | |
Two flames thus burne in one, | |
When their curl’d heads to heaven they reare. | |
But Birds want soule though not desire: | |
And flames materiall soone expire. |
If not prophane; we’ll say | |
When Angels close, their j oyes are such. | |
For we no love obey | |
That’s bastard to a fleshly touch. | |
Let’s close Castara then, since thus | |
We patterne Angels, and they us. |
1641 ANONYMOUS On Francis Drake
Sir Drake whom well the world’s end knew, | |
Which thou did’st compasse round, | |
And whom both Poles of heaven once saw | |
Which North and South do bound, | |
The stars above, would make thee known, | |
If men here silent were; | |
The Sun himself cannot forget | |
His fellow traveller. |
SIR HENRY WOTTON from the Latin of Martial Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton’s Wife
He first deceas’d: She for a little tri’d | |
To live without Him: lik’d it not, and di’d. |
1642 SIR JOHN DENHAM from Coopers Hill
Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise, | |
But my fixt thoughts my wandring eye betrays, | |
Viewing a neighbouring hill, whose top of late | |
A Chappel crown’d, till in the Common Fate, | |
The adjoyning Abby fell: (may no such storm | |
Fall on our times, where ruine must reform.) | |
Tell me (my Muse) what monstrous dire offence, | |
What crime could any Christian King incense | |
To such a rage? was’t Luxury, or Lust? | |
Was he so temperate, so chast, so just? | |
Were these their crimes? they were his own much more: | |
But wealth is Crime enough to him that’s poor, | |
Who having spent the Treasures of his Crown, | |
Condemns their Luxury to feed his own. | |
And yet this Act, to varnish o’re the shame | |
Of sacriledge, must bear devotions name. | |
No Crime so bold, but would be understood | |
A real, or at least a seeming good. | |
Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the Name, | |
And free from Conscience, is a slave to Fame. | |
Thus he the Church at once protects, and spoils: | |
But Princes swords are sharper than their stiles. | |
And thus to th’ages past he makes amends, | |
Their Charity destroys, their Faith defends. | |
Then did Religion in a lazy Cell, | |
In empty, airy contemplations dwell; | |
And like the block, unmoved lay: but ours, | |
As much too active, like the stork devours. | |
Is there no temperate Region can be known, | |
Betwixt their Frigid, and our Torrid Zone? | |
Could we not wake from that Lethargick dream, | |
But to be restless in a worse extream? | |
And for that Lethargy was there no cure, | |
But to be cast into a Calenture? | |
Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance | |
So far, to make us wish for ignorance? | |
And rather in the dark to grope our way, | |
Than led by a false guide to erre by day? | |
Who sees these dismal heaps, but would demand | |
What barbarous Invader sackt the land? | |
But when he hears, no Goth, no Turk did bring | |
This desolation, but a Christian King; | |
When nothing, but the Name of Zeal, appears | |
’Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs, | |
What does he think our Sacriledge would spare, | |
When such th’effects of our devotions are? | |
Parting from thence ’twixt anger, shame, and fear, | |
Those for whats past, and this for whats too near: | |
My eye descending from the Hill, surveys | |
Where Thames amongst the wanton vallies strays. | |
Thames, the most lov’d of all the Oceans sons, | |
By his old Sire to his embraces runs, | |
Hasting to pay his tribute to the Sea, | |
Like mortal life to meet Eternity. | |
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, | |
Whose foam is Amber, and their Gravel Gold; | |
His genuine, and less guilty wealth t’explore, | |
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore; | |
Ore which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, | |
And hatches plenty for th’ensuing Spring. | |
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, | |
Like Mothers which their Infants overlay. | |
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, | |
Like profuse Kings, resumes the wealth he gave. | |
No unexpected inundations spoyl | |
The mowers hopes, nor mock the plowmans toyl: | |
But God-like his unwearied Bounty flows; | |
First loves to do, then loves the Good he does. | |
Nor are his Blessings to his banks confin’d, | |
But free, and common, as the Sea or Wind; | |
When he to boast, or to disperse his stores | |
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, | |
Visits the world, and in his flying towers | |
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; | |
Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants | |
Cities in deserts, woods in Cities plants. | |
So that to us no thing, no place is strange, | |
While his fair bosom is the worlds exchange. | |
O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream | |
My great example, as it is my theme! | |
Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, | |
Strong without rage, without ore-flowing full. |
(1642–68)
1645 EDMUND WALLER Song
Go lovely Rose, | |
Tell her that wastes her time and me, | |
That now she knows | |
When I resemble her to thee | |
How sweet and fair she seems to be. |
Tell her that’s young, | |
And shuns to have her graces spy’d | |
That hadst thou sprung | |
In desarts where no men abide, | |
Thou must have uncommended dy’d. |
Small is the worth | |
Of beauty from the light retir’d; | |
Bid her come forth, | |
Suffer her self to be desir’d, | |
And not blush so to be admir’d. |
Then die that she, | |
The common fate of all things rare | |
May read in thee | |
How small a part of time they share, | |
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. |
EDMUND WALLER Of the Marriage of the Dwarfs
Design, or chance, makes others wive: | |
But Nature did this match contrive; | |
Eve might as well have Adam fled, | |
As she denied her little bed | |
To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame, | |
And measure out, this only dame. | |
Thrice happy is that humble pair, | |
Beneath the level of all care! | |
Over whose heads those arrows fly | |
Of sad distrust and jealousy; | |
Secured in as high extreme, | |
As if the world held none but them. | |
To him the fairest nymphs do show | |
Like moving mountains, topped with snow; | |
And every man a Polypheme | |
Does to his Galatea seem; | |
None may presume her faith to prove; | |
He proffers death that proffers love. | |
Ah, Chloris, that kind Nature thus | |
From all the world had severed us; | |
Creating for ourselves us two, | |
As love has me for only you! |
EDMUND WALLER To a Lady in a Garden
Sees not my love how Time resumes | |
The glory which he lent these flowers; | |
Though none should tast of their perfumes, | |
Yet must they live but some few hours, | |
Time what we forbear devours. |
Had Hellen, or the Egyptian Queen, | |
Been nere so thrifty of their graces, | |
Those beauties must at length have been | |
The spoyle of Age which finds out faces | |
In the most retired places. |
Should some malignant Planet bring | |
A barren drought, or ceaseless shower | |
Upon the Autumn, or the Spring, | |
And spare us neither fruit nor flower; | |
Winter would not stay an hour. |
Could the resolve of loves neglect | |
Preserve you from the violation | |
Of comming years, then more respect | |
Were due to so divine a fashion, | |
Nor would I indulge my passion. |
JOHN MILTON from On the Morning of Christs Nativity Compos’d 1629
It was the Winter wilde, | |
While the Heav’n-born-childe, | |
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; | |
Nature in aw to him | |
Had doff’t her gawdy trim, | |
With her great Master so to sympathize: | |
It was no season then for her | |
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. |
Onely with speeches fair | |
She woo’s the gentle Air | |
To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, | |
And on her naked shame, | |
Pollute with sinfull blame, | |
The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, | |
Confounded, that her Makers eyes | |
Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. |
But he her fears to cease, | |
Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, | |
She crown’d with Olive green, came softly sliding | |
Down through the turning sphear | |
His ready Harbinger, | |
With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, | |
And waving wide her mirtle wand, | |
She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. |
No War, or Battails sound | |
Was heard the World around: | |
The idle spear and shield were high up hung; | |
The hooked Chariot stood | |
Unstain’d with hostile blood, | |
The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, | |
And Kings sate still with awfull eye, | |
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. |
But peacefull was the night | |
Wherin the Prince of light | |
His raign of peace upon the earth began: | |
The Windes with wonder whist, | |
Smoothly the waters kist, | |
Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, | |
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, | |
While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. |
The Stars with deep amaze | |
Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, | |
Bending one way their pretious influence, | |
And will not take their flight, | |
For all the morning light, | |
Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence; | |
But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, | |
Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. |
And though the shady gloom | |
Had given day her room, | |
The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, | |
And hid his head for shame, | |
As his inferiour flame, | |
The new-enlightn’d world no more should need; | |
He saw a greater Sun appear | |
Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. |
The Shepherds on the Lawn, | |
Or ere the point of dawn, | |
Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; | |
Full little thought they than, | |
That the mighty Pan | |
Was kindly com to live with them below; | |
Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, | |
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. |
When such musick sweet | |
Their hearts and ears did greet, | |
As never was by mortall finger strook, | |
Divinely-warbled voice | |
Answering the stringed noise, | |
As all their souls in blisfull rapture took: | |
The Air such pleasure loth to lose, | |
With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close. |
Nature that heard such sound | |
Beneath the hollow round | |
Of Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling, | |
Now was almost won | |
To think her part was don, | |
And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; | |
She knew such harmony alone | |
Could hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union. |
At last surrounds their sight | |
A Globe of circular light, | |
That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d, | |
The helmed Cherubim | |
And sworded Seraphim, | |
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, | |
Harping in loud and solemn quire, | |
With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir. |
Such Musick (as ’tis said) | |
Before was never made, | |
But when of old the sons of morning sung, | |
While the Creator Great | |
His constellations set, | |
And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung, | |
And cast the dark foundations deep, | |
And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. |
(… ) |
The Oracles are dumm, | |
No voice or hideous humm | |
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. | |
Apollo from his shrine | |
Can no more divine, | |
With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. | |
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, | |
Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell. |
The lonely mountains o’re, | |
And the resounding shore, | |
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; | |
From haunted spring, and dale | |
Edg’d with poplar pale, | |
The parting Genius is with sighing sent, | |
With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn | |
The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. |
In consecrated Earth, | |
And on the holy Hearth, | |
The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, | |
In Urns, and Altars round, | |
A drear, and dying sound | |
Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; | |
And the chill Marble seems to sweat, | |
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. |
Peor, and Baalim, | |
Forsake their Temples dim, | |
With that twise batter’d god of Palestine, | |
And mooned Ashtaroth, | |
Heav’ns Queen and Mother both, | |
Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, | |
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, | |
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. |
And sullen Moloch fled, | |
Hath left in shadows dred, | |
His burning Idol all of blackest hue; | |
In vain with Cymbals ring, | |
They call the grisly king, | |
In dismall dance about the furnace blue; | |
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, | |
Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. |
Nor is Osiris seen | |
In Memphian Grove, or Green, | |
Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud: | |
Nor can he be at rest | |
Within his sacred chest, | |
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, | |
In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems dark | |
The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. |
He feels from Juda’s Land | |
The dredded Infants hand, | |
The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; | |
Nor all the gods beside, | |
Longer dare abide, | |
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: | |
Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, | |
Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. |
So when the Sun in bed, | |
Curtain’d with cloudy red, | |
Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, | |
The flocking shadows pale, | |
Troop to th’infernall jail, | |
Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave, | |
And the yellow-skirted Fayes, | |
Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze. |
But see the Virgin blest, | |
Hath laid her Babe to rest. | |
Time is our tedious Song should here have ending: | |
Heav’ns youngest teemed Star, | |
Hath fixt her polisht Car, | |
Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending. | |
And all about the Courtly Stable, | |
Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable. |
RICHARD CRASHAW from Divine Epigrams 1646
Upon Our Saviours Tombe Wherein Never Man was Laid | |
How Life and Death in Thee | |
Agree? | |
Thou had’st a virgin Wombe | |
And Tombe. | |
A Joseph did betroth | |
Them both. |
Upon the Infant Martyrs
To see both blended in one flood | |
The Mothers Milke, the Childrens blood, | |
Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather, | |
Roses hence, or Lillies rather. |
RICHARD CRASHAW Musicks Duell
Now Westward Sol had spent the richest Beames | |
Of Noons high Glory, when hard by the streams | |
Of Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat, | |
Under protection of an Oake; there sate | |
A sweet Lutes-master: in whose gentle aires | |
Hee lost the Dayes heat, and his owne hot cares. | |
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood | |
A Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood: | |
(The sweet inhabitant of each glad Tree, | |
Their Muse, their Syren. harmlesse Syren shee) | |
There stood she listning, and did entertaine | |
The Musicks soft report: and mold the same | |
In her owne murmures, that what ever mood | |
His curious fingers lent, her voyce made good: | |
The man perceiv’d his Rivall, and her Art, | |
Dispos’d to give the light-foot Lady sport | |
Awakes his Lute, and ’gainst the fight to come | |
Informes it, in a sweet Præludium | |
Of closer straines, and ere the warre begin, | |
Hee lightly skirmishes on every string | |
Charg’d with a flying touch: and streightway shee | |
Carves out her dainty voyce as readily, | |
Into a thousand sweet distinguish’d Tones, | |
And reckons up in soft divisions, | |
Quicke volumes of wild Notes; to let him know | |
By that shrill taste, shee could doe something too. | |
His nimble hands instinct then taught each string | |
A capring cheerefullnesse; and made them sing | |
To their owne dance; now negligently rash | |
Hee throwes his Arme, and with a long drawne dash | |
Blends all together; then distinctly tripps | |
From this to that; then quicke returning skipps | |
And snatches this againe, and pauses there. | |
Shee measures every measure, every where | |
Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt | |
Not perfect yet, and fearing to bee out | |
Trayles her playne Ditty in one long-spun note, | |
Through the sleeke passage of her open throat: | |
A cleare unwrinckled song, then doth shee point it | |
With tender accents, and severely joynt it | |
By short diminutives, that being rear’d | |
In controverting warbles evenly shar’d, | |
With her sweet selfe shee wrangles; Hee amazed | |
That from so small a channell should be rais’d | |
The torrent of a voyce, whose melody | |
Could melt into such sweet variety | |
Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare art | |
The tatling strings (each breathing in his part) | |
Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling Base | |
In surly groanes disdaines the Trebles Grace. | |
The high-perch’t treble chirps at this, and chides, | |
Untill his finger (Moderatour) hides | |
And closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all | |
Hoarce, shrill, at once; as when the Trumpets call | |
Hot Mars to th’ Harvest of Deaths field, and woo | |
Mens hearts into their hands; this lesson too | |
Shee gives him backe; her supple Brest thrills out | |
Sharpe Aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt | |
Of dallying sweetnesse, hovers ore her skill, | |
And folds in wav’d notes with a trembling bill, | |
The plyant Series of her slippery song. | |
Then starts shee suddenly into a Throng | |
Of short thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes float, | |
And roule themselves over her lubricke throat | |
In panting murmurs, still’d out of her Breast | |
That ever-bubling spring; the sugred Nest | |
Of her delicious soule, that there does lye | |
Bathing in streames of liquid Melodie; | |
Musicks best seed-plot, whence in ripend Aires | |
A Golden-headed Harvest fairely reares | |
His Honey-dropping tops, plow’d by her breath | |
Which there reciprocally laboureth | |
In that sweet soyle. It seemes a holy quire | |
Founded to th’ Name of great Apollo’s lyre. | |
Whose sylver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes | |
Of sweet-lipp’d Angell-Imps, that swill their throats | |
In creame of Morning Helicon, and then | |
Preferre soft Anthems to the Eares of men, | |
To woo them from their Beds, still murmuring | |
That men can sleepe while they their Mattens sing: | |
(Most divine service) whose so early lay, | |
Prevents the Eye-lidds of the blushing day. | |
There might you heare her kindle her soft voyce, | |
In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse. | |
And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song, | |
Still keeping in the forward streame, so long | |
Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to gett out) | |
Heaves her soft Bosome, wanders round about, | |
And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast, | |
Till the fledg’d Notes at length forsake their Nest; | |
Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the Sky | |
Wing’d with their owne wild Eccho’s pratling fly. | |
Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a Tide | |
Of streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth ride | |
On the wav’d backe of every swelling straine, | |
Rising and falling in a pompous traine. | |
And while shee thus discharges a shrill peale | |
Of flashing Aires; shee qualifies their zeale | |
With the coole Epode of a graver Noat, | |
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat | |
Would reach the brasen voyce of warr’s hoarce Bird; | |
Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour’d | |
Into loose extasies, that shee is plac’t | |
Above her selfe, Musicks Enthusiast. | |
Shame now and anger mixt a double staine | |
In the Musitians face; yet once againe | |
(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my Lute | |
Above her mocke, or bee for ever mute. | |
Or tune a song of victory to mee, | |
Or to thy selfe, sing thine owne Obsequie; | |
So said, his hands sprightly as fire hee flings, | |
And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings. | |
The sweet-lip’t sisters musically frighted, | |
Singing their feares are fearfully delighted. | |
Trembling as when Appollo’s golden haires | |
Are fan’d and frizled, in the wanton ayres | |
Of his owne breath: which marryed to his lyre | |
Doth tune the Sphæares, and make Heavens selfe looke higher. | |
From this to that, from that to this hee flyes | |
Feeles Musicks pulse in all her Arteryes, | |
Caught in a net which there Appollo spreads, | |
His fingers struggle with the vocall threads, | |
Following those little rills, hee sinkes into | |
A Sea of Helicon; his hand does goe | |
Those parts of sweetnesse which with Nectar drop, | |
Softer then that which pants in Hebe’s cup. | |
The humourous strings expound his learned touch, | |
By various Glosses; now they seeme to grutch, | |
And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingle | |
In shrill tongu’d accents: striving to bee single. | |
Every smooth turne, every delicious stroake | |
Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h’invoke | |
Sweetnesse by all her Names; thus, bravely thus | |
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious) | |
The Lutes light Genius now does proudly rise, | |
Heav’d on the surges of swolne Rapsodyes. | |
Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curie the aire | |
With flash of high-borne fancyes: here and there | |
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon | |
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone: | |
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild aires | |
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares | |
Because those pretious mysteryes that dwell, | |
In musick’s ravish’t soule hee dare not tell, | |
But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary | |
Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry | |
Their Masters blest soule (snatcht out at his Eares | |
By a strong Extasy) through all the sphæares | |
Of Musicks heaven; and seat it there on high | |
In th’ Empyrœum of pure Harmony. | |
At length (after so long, so loud a strife | |
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life | |
Of blest variety attending on | |
His fingers fairest revolution | |
In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) | |
A full-mouth Diapason swallowes all. | |
This done, hee lists what shee would say to this, | |
And shee although her Breath’s late exercise | |
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throate, | |
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Noate | |
Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule) shee tryes | |
To measure all those wild diversities | |
Of chatt’ring stringes, by the small size of one | |
Poore simple voyce, rais’d in a Naturall Tone; | |
Shee failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes. | |
Shee dyes; and leaves her life the Victors prise, | |
Falling upon his Lute; ô fit to have | |
(That liv’d so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave! |
SIR JOHN SUCKLING [Loves Siege]
Tis now since I sate down before | |
That foolish Fort, a heart, | |
(Time strangely spent) a Year, and more, | |
And still I did my part: |
Made my approaches, from her hand | |
Unto her lip did rise, | |
And did already understand | |
The language of her eyes; |
Proceeded on with no lesse Art, | |
My Tongue was Engineer: | |
I thought to undermine the heart | |
By whispering in the ear. |
When this did nothing, I brought down | |
Great Canon-oaths, and shot | |
A thousand thousand to the Town, | |
And still it yeelded not. |
I then resolv’d to starve the place | |
By cutting off all kisses, | |
Praysing and gazing on her face, | |
And all such little blisses. |
To draw her out, and from her strength, | |
I drew all batteries in: | |
And brought my self to lie at length | |
As if no siege had been. |
When I had done what man could do, | |
And thought the place mine owne, | |
The Enemy lay quiet too, | |
And smil’d at all was done. |
I sent to know from whence, and where, | |
These hopes, and this relief? | |
A Spie inform’d, Honour was there, | |
And did command in chief. |
March, march, (quoth I) the word straight give, | |
Lets lose no time, but leave her: | |
That Giant upon ayre will live, | |
And hold it out for ever. |
To such a place our Camp remove | |
As will no siege abide; | |
I hate a fool that starves her Love | |
Onely to feed her pride. |
JOHN HALL An Epicurean Ode
Since that this thing we call the world | |
By chance on Atomes is begot, | |
Which though in dayly motions hurld, | |
Yet weary not, | |
How doth it prove | |
Thou art so fair and I in Love? |
Since that the soul doth onely lie | |
Immers’d in matter, chaind in sense, | |
How can Romira thou and I | |
With both dispence? | |
And thus ascend | |
In higher flights then wings can lend. |
Since man’s but pasted up of Earth, | |
And ne’re was cradled in the skies, | |
What Terra Lemnia gave thee birth? | |
What Diamond eyes? | |
Or thou alone | |
To tell what others were, came down? |
JAMES SHIRLEY Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham
Here lies the best and worst of Fate, | |
Two Kings delight, the peoples hate, | |
The Courtiers star, the Kingdoms eye, | |
A man to draw an Angel by. | |
Fears despiser, Villiers glory, | |
The Great mans volume, all times story. |
JAMES SHIRLEY
The glories of our blood and state, | |
Are shadows, not substantial things, | |
There is no armour against fate, | |
Death lays his icy hand on Kings, | |
Scepter and Crown, | |
Must tumble down, | |
And in the dust be equal made, | |
With the poor crooked sithe and spade. |
Some men with swords may reap the field, | |
And plant fresh laurels where they kill, | |
But their strong nerves at last must yield, | |
They tame but one another still; | |
Early or late, | |
They stoop to fate, | |
And must give up their murmuring breath, | |
When they pale Captives creep to death. |
The Garlands wither on your brow, | |
Then boast no more your mighty deeds, | |
Upon Deaths purple Altar now, | |
See where the Victor-victim bleeds, | |
Your heads must come, | |
To the cold Tomb, | |
Onely the actions of the just | |
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. |
(1659)
1647 JOHN CLEVELAND Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford
Here lies Wise and Valiant Dust, | |
Huddled up ’twixt Fit and Just: | |
STRAFFORD, who was hurried hence | |
’Twixt Treason and Convenience. | |
He spent his Time here in a Mist; | |
A Papist, yet a Calvinist. | |
His Prince’s nearest Joy, and Grief. | |
He had, yet wanted all Reliefe. | |
The Prop and Ruine of the State; | |
The People’s violent Love, and Hate: | |
One in extreames lov’d and abhor’d. | |
Riddles lie here; or in a word, | |
Here lies Blood; and let it lie | |
Speechlesse still, and never crie. |
1648 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE from the Spanish of Gongora A Great Favorit Beheaded
The bloudy trunck of him who did possesse | |
Above the rest a haplesse happy state, | |
This little Stone doth Seale, but not depresse, | |
And scarce can stop the rowling of his fate. |
Brasse Tombes which justice hath deny’d t’ his fault, | |
The common pity to his vertues payes, | |
Adorning an Imaginary vault, | |
Which from our minds time strives in vaine to raze. |
Ten yeares the world upon him falsly smild, | |
Sheathing in fawning lookes the deadly knife | |
Long aymed at his head: That so beguild | |
It more securely might bereave his Life; |
Then threw him to a Scaffold from a Throne. | |
Much Doctrine lyes under this little Stone. |
ROBERT HERRICK from Hesperides
The Argument of His Book | |
I sing of Brooks, of Blossomes, Birds, and Bowers: | |
Of April, May, of June, and July-Flowers. | |
I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, | |
Of Bride-grooms, Brides, and of their Bridall-cakes. | |
I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse | |
By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse. | |
I sing of Dewes, of Raines, and piece by piece | |
Of Balme, of Oyle, of Spice, and Amber-Greece. | |
I sing of Times trans-shifting; and I write | |
How Roses first came Red, and Lillies White. | |
I write of Groves, of Twilights, and I sing | |
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairie-King. | |
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) | |
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all. |
Upon Julia’s Voice | |
So smooth, so sweet, so silv’ry is thy voice, | |
As, could they hear, the Damn’d would make no noise, | |
But listen to thee, (walking in thy chamber) | |
Melting melodious words, to Lutes of Amber. |
Delight in Disorder | |
A sweet disorder in the dresse | |
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse: | |
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown | |
Into a fine distraction: | |
An erring Lace, which here and there | |
Enthralls the Crimson Stomacher: | |
A Cuffe neglectfull, and thereby | |
Ribbands to flow confusedly: | |
A winning wave (deserving Note) | |
In the tempestuous petticote: | |
A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye | |
I see a wilde civility: | |
Doe more bewitch me, then when Art | |
Is too precise in every part. |
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time | |
Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may, | |
Old Time is still a flying: | |
And this same flower that smiles to day, | |
To morrow will be dying. |
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, | |
The higher he’s a getting; | |
The sooner will his Race be run, | |
And neerer he’s to Setting. |
That Age is best, which is the first, | |
When Youth and Blood are warmer; | |
But being spent, the worse, and worst | |
Times, still succeed the former. |
Then be not coy, but use your time; | |
And while ye may, goe marry: | |
For having lost but once your prime, | |
You may for ever tarry. |