1673	JOHN MILTON
	Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
	Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
	Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
	Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
	Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
	Purification in the old Law did save,
	And such, as yet once more I trust to have
	Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
	Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
	Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
	Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
	So clear, as in no face with more delight.
	But O as to embrace me she enclin’d
	I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
	(written 1658)
	JOHN MILTON
	When I consider how my light is spent,
	Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
	And that one Talent which is death to hide,
	Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent
	To serve therewith my Maker, and present
	My true account, least he returning chide,
	Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d,
	I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
	That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
	Either man’s work or his own gifts, who best
	Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
	Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
	And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:
	They also serve who only stand and waite.
	(written after 1652)
	JOHN MILTON On the Late Massacher in Piemont
	Avenge O Lord thy slaughter’d Saints, whose bones
	Lie scatter’d on the Alpine mountains cold,
	Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old
	When all our Fathers worship’t Stocks and Stones,
	Forget not: in thy book record their groanes
	Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold
	Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll’d
	Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans
	The Vales redoubl’d to the Hills, and they
	To Heav’n. Their martyr’d blood and ashes sow
	O’re all th’Italian fields where still doth sway
	The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
	A hunderd-fold, who having learnt thy way
	Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
	JOHN MILTON To Mr. Cyriack Skinner upon His Blindness
	Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear
	To outward view, of blemish or of spot;
	Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,
	Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear
	Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,
	Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
	Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot
	Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
	Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
	The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply’d
	In libertyes defence, my noble task,
	Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
	This thought might lead me through the worlds vain mask
	Content though blind, had I no better guide.
	(written 1655; 1694)
	JOHN MILTON The Fifth Ode of Horace. Lib. I
	Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa, Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the Latin Measure, as near as the Language will permit.
	What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
	Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
	Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
	In wreaths thy golden Hair,
	Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
	On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
	Rough with black winds and storms
	Unwonted shall admire:
	Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
	Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
	Hopes thee; of flattering gales
	Unmindfull. Hapless they
	To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
	Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
	My dank and dropping weeds
	To the stern God of Sea.
	JOHN DRYDEN from Marriage A-la-Mode
	Song
	Whil’st Alexis lay prest
	In her Arms he lov’d best,
	With his hands round her neck,
	And his head on her breast,
	He found the fierce pleasure too hasty to stay,
	And his soul in the tempest just flying away.
	When Cœlia saw this,
	With a sigh, and a kiss,
	She cry’d, Oh my dear, I am robb’d of my bliss;
	’Tis unkind to your Love, and unfaithfully done,
	To leave me behind you, and die all alone.
	The Youth, though in haste,
	And breathing his last,
	In pity dy’d slowly, while she dy’d more fast;
	Till at length she cry’d, Now, my dear, now let us go,
	Now die, my Alexis, and I will die too.
	Thus intranc’d they did lie,
	Till Alexis did try
	To recover new breath, that again he might die:
	Then often they di’d; but the more they did so,
	The Nymph di’d more quick, and the Shepherd more slow.
	JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER Love and Life. A Song 1677
	All my past life is mine noe more
	The flying Houres are gon
	Like transitory Dreames giv’n ore
	Whose Images are kept in Store
	By Memory alone.
	What ever is to come is not
	How can it then be mine,
	The present Moment’s all my Lott
	And that as fast as it is got
	Phillis is wholy thine.
	Then talke not of Inconstancy,
	False Hearts, and broken Vows,
	If I, by Miracle can be,
	This live-long Minute true to thee,
	Tis all that Heav’n allows.
	APHRA BEHN Song. Love Arm’d
	Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
	Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow’d,
	For whom Fresh paines he did Create,
	And strange Tyranick power he show’d;
	From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
	Which round about, in sport he hurl’d;
	But ’twas from mine, he took desire,
	Enough to undo the Amorous World.
	From me he took his sighs and tears,
	From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
	From me his Languishments and Feares,
	And every Killing Dart from thee;
	Thus thou and I, the God have arm’d,
	And sett him up a Deity;
	But my poor Heart alone is harm’d,
	Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.
	APHRA BEHN
	A thousand martyrs I have made,
	All sacrific’d to my desire;
	A thousand beauties have betray’d,
	That languish in resistless fire.
	The untam’d heart to hand I brought,
	And fixed the wild and wandering thought.
	I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
	But both, tho’ false, were well receiv’d.
	The fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
	And what they wish is soon believ’d.
	And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,
	Love’s pleasures only touched my heart.
	Alone the glory and the spoil
	I always laughing bore away;
	The triumphs, without pain or toil,
	Without the hell, the heav’n of joy.
	And while I thus at random rove
	Despis’d the fools that whine for love.
1679	JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER from A Letter from Artemiza in the Towne to Chloe in the Countrey
	Chloe, in Verse by your commande I write;
	Shortly you’l bid mee ride astride, and fight.
	These Talents better with our sexe agree,
	Then lofty flights of dang’rous poetry.
	Amongst the Men (I meane) the Men of Witt
	(At least they passt for such, before they writt)
	How many bold Advent’rers for the Bayes,
	(Proudly designing large returnes of prayse)
	Who durst that stormy pathlesse World explore,
	Were soone dash’t backe, and wreck’t on the dull shore,
	Broke of that little stocke, they had before?
	How would a Womans tott’ring Barke be tost,
	Where stoutest Ships (the Men of Witt) are lost?
	When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
	And my owne selfe thus gravely I advise.
	Deare Artemiza, poetry’s a snare:
	Bedlam has many Mansions: have a Care.
	Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad;
	You Fancy, you’r inspir’d, he thinkes, you mad.
	Consider too, ’twill be discreetly done,
	To make your Selfe the Fiddle of the Towne,
	To fynd th’ill-humour’d pleasure att their need,
	Curst, if you fayle, and scorn’d, though you succeede.
	Thus, like an Arrant Woman, as I am,
	Noe sooner well convinc’d, writing’s a shame,
	That Whore is scarce a more reproachfull name,
	Then Poetesse;
	Like Men, that marry, or like Maydes, that woe,
	’Cause ’tis the very worst thing they can doe,
	Pleas’d with the Contradiction, and the Sin,
	Mee-thinkes, I stand on Thornes, till I begin.
	(… )
	Where I was visiting the other night,
	Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
	Who had prevayl’d on her, through her owne skill,
	At his request, though much against his will,
	To come to London.
	As the Coach stop’t, wee heard her Voyce more loud,
	Then a great belly’d Womans in a Crowd,
	Telling the Knight, that her afayres require,
	Hee for some houres obsequiously retire.
	I thinke, shee was asham’d, to have him seene
	(Hard fate of Husbands) the Gallant had beene,
	Though a diseas’d ill-favour’d Foole, brought in.
	‘Dispatch,’ sayes shee, ‘that bus’nesse you pretend,
	Your beastly visitt to your drunken freind;
	A Bottle ever makes you looke soe fine!
	Mee-thinkes I long, to smell you stinke of Wine.
	Your Countrey-drinking-breath’s enough, to kill
	Sowre Ale corrected with a Lemmon pill.
	Prithy farewell – wee’le meete againe anon’;
	The necessary thing bows, and is gone.
	She flyes up stayres, and all the hast does show,
	That fifty Antique postures will allow,
	And then bursts out – ‘Deare Madam, am not I
	The alter’dst Creature breathing? Let me dye,
	I fynde my selfe ridiculously growne
	Embarassé with being out of Towne,
	Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queene;
	My Countrey nakednesse is strangely seene.
	How is Love govern’d? Love, that rules the State,
	And, pray, who are the Men most worne of late?
	When I was marry’d, Fooles were a la mode,
	The Men of Witt were then held incommode,
	Slow of beleife, and fickle in desire,
	Who e’re they’l be persuaded, must inquire,
	As if they came to spye, not to admire.
	With searching Wisedome fatall to their ease
	They still fynde out, why, what may, should not please;
	Nay take themselves for injur’d, when Wee dare,
	Make ’em thinke better of us, then Wee are:
	And if Wee hide our frailtyes from their sights,
	Call Us deceitefull Gilts, and Hypocrites.
	They little guesse, who att Our Arts are greiv’d,
	The perfect Joy of being well deceaved.
	Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow,
	Rather, then not bee knowing, they will know,
	What being knowne creates their certaine woe.
	Women should these of all Mankind avoyd;
	For Wonder by cleare knowledge is destroy’d.
	Woman, who is an Arrant Bird of night,
	Bold in the Duske, before a Fooles dull sight,
	Should flye, when Reason brings the glaring light:
	But the kinde easy Foole apt, to admire
	Himselfe, trusts us, his Follyes all conspire,
	To flatter his, and favour Our desire.
	Vaine of his proper Meritt he with ease
	Beleaves, wee love him best, who best can please.
	On him Our grosse dull common Flatt’ries passe,
	Ever most Joyfull, when most made an Asse.
	Heavy, to apprehend, though all Mankinde
	Perceave Us false, the Fopp concern’d is blinde,
	Who doating on himselfe,
	Thinkes ev’ry one, that sees him, of his mynde.
	These are true Womens Men’ – Here forc’d, to cease
	Through Want of Breath, not Will, to hold her peace,
	Shee to the Window runns, where she had spy’de
	Her much esteem’d deare Freind the Monkey ti’de.
	With fourty smiles, as many Antique bows,
	As if’t had beene the Lady of the House,
	The dirty chatt’ring Monster she embrac’t,
	And made it this fine tender speech att last
	‘Kisse mee, thou curious Miniature of Man;
	How odde thou art! How pritty! How Japan!
	Oh I could live, and dye with thee’ – then on
	For halfe an houre in Complement shee runne.
	I tooke this tyme, to thinke, what Nature meant,
	When this mixt thinge into the World shee sent,
	Soe very wise, yet soe impertinent.
	One, who knew ev’ry thinge, who, God thought fitt,
	Should bee an Asse through choyce, not want of Witt:
	Whose Foppery, without the helpe of Sense,
	Could ne’re have rose to such an Excellence.
	Nature’s as lame, in making a true Fopp,
	As a Philosopher; the very topp,
	And Dignity of Folly wee attaine
	By studious Search, and labour of the Braine,
	By observation, Councell, and deepe thought:
	God never made a Coxecombe worth a groate.
	Wee owe that name to Industry, and Arts:
	An Eminent Foole must bee a Foole of parts;
	And such a one was shee, who had turn’d o’re
	As many Bookes, as Men, lov’d much, reade more,
	Had a discerning Witt; to her was knowne
	Ev’ry ones fault, and meritt, but her owne.
	All the good qualityes, that ever blest
	A Woman, soe distinguisht from the rest,
	Except discretion onely, she possest.
	(…)
	But now ’tis tyme, I should some pitty show
	To Chloe, synce I cannot choose, but know,
	Readers must reape the dullnesse, writers sow.
	By the next Post such storyes I will tell,
	As joyn’d with these shall to a Volume swell,
	As true, as Heaven, more infamous, then Hell;
	But you are tyr’d, and soe am I. Farewell.
	JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER from A Satyr against Reason and Mankind
	Were I (who to my cost already am
	One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)
	A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
	What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas’d to weare,
	I’d be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,
	Or any thing but that vain Animal,
	Who is so proud of being rational.
	The senses are too gross, and he’ll contrive
	A Sixth, to contradict the other Five;
	And before certain instinct, will preferr
	Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
	Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
	Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;
	Pathless and dang’rous wandring ways it takes,
	Through errors Fenny – Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
	Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,
	Mountains of Whimseys, heap’d in his own Brain:
	Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,
	Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,
	Books bear him up awhile, and make him try,
	To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;
	In hopes still t’oretake th’escaping light,
	The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
	Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
	Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,
	Lead him to death, and make him understand,
	After a search so painful, and so long,
	That all his Life he has been in the wrong;
	Hudled in dirt, the reas’ning Engine lyes,
	Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
	(…)
	You see how far Mans wisedom here extends,
	Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;
	Whose Principles, most gen’rous are, and just,
	And to whose Moralls, you wou’d sooner trust.
	Be judge your self, I’le bring it to the test,
	Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?
	Birds, feed on Birds, Beasts, on each other prey,
	But Savage Man alone, does Man, betray:
	Prest by necessity, they Kill for Food,
	Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.
	With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm’d they hunt,
	Natures allowance, to supply their want.
	But Man, with smiles, embraces, Friendships, praise,
	Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;
	With voluntary pains, works his distress,
	Not through necessity, but wantonness.
	For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,
	Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;
	For fear he armes, and is of Armes afraid,
	By fear, to fear, successively betray’d.
	Base fear, the source whence his best passion came,
	His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame.
	That lust of Pow’r, to which he’s such a Slave,
	And for the which alone he dares be brave:
	To which his various Projects are design’d,
	Which makes him gen’rous, affable, and kind.
	For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
	And screws his actions, in a forc’d disguise:
	Leading a tedious life in Misery,
	Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.
	Look to the bottom, of his vast design,
	Wherein Mans Wisdom, Pow’r, and Glory joyn;
	The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
	’Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.
	Meerly for safety, after Fame we thirst,
	For all Men, wou’d be Cowards if they durst.
	And honesty’s against all common sense,
	Men must be Knaves, ’tis in their own defence.
	Mankind’s dishonest, if you think it fair,
	Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
	You’le be undone –
	Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,
	The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.
	Wrong’d shall he live, insulted o’re, opprest,
	Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.
	Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,
	Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou’d be Knaves:
	The diff’rence lyes (as far as I can see)
	Not in the thing it self, but the degree;
	And all the subject matter of debate,
	Is only who’s a Knave, of the first Rate?
1680	NATHANIEL WANLEY The Resurrection
	Can death be faithfull or the grave be just
	Or shall my tombe restore my scattred dust?
	Shall ev’ry haire find out its’ proper pore
	And crumbled bones be joined as before
	Shall long unpractis’d pulses learne to beate
	Victorious rottennesse a loud retreate
	Or eyes Ecclipsed with a tedious night
	May they once hope to resalute the light?
	What if this flesh of mine be made the prey
	Of Scaly Pirates Caniballs at sea
	Shall living Sepulchres give up theire dead
	Or is not flesh made fish then perished?
	What if the working of a subtile flame
	By an unkind embrace dissolve this frame
	To ashes; and the whist’ling winds convey
	Each atome to a quite contrary way
	Shall the small Pilgrims that (perhaps) may passe
	From grasse to flesh and thence from flesh to grasse
	Travell untill they meet and then embrace
	So strictly as to grow the former face?
	My God I know thy pow’refull word did frame
	Out of pure nothing all that hath a name
	From the bright Angells bathing in full streames
	Of deathlesse joyes to motes that dance in beames.
	And shall I doubt but such a word can call
	Flesh out of dust that out of lesse made all?
	No no I am resolv’d, that when poore I
	Shall slumbring in our mothers bosome lye
	The circl’ing wormes shall loose theire fast embrace
	And kinder turfes that cover mee give place
	The bands of Death shall burst at the shrill sound
	Of Heavens summons and I shall be found
	Then will I rise and dresse mee lord for thee
	Who did’st by Death undresse thee lord for mee.
	(1928)
	JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER The Disabled Debauchee
	As some brave Admiral, in former War,
	Depriv’d of force, but prest with courage still,
	Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,
	Crawles to the top of an adjacent Hill:
	From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
	The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,
	And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,
	His present glory, and his past delight;
	From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
	As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,
	Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
	And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day;
	So when my Days of impotence approach,
	And I’m by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,
	Forc’d from the pleasing Billows of debauch,
	On the dull Shore of lazy temperance,
	My pains at least some respite shall afford,
	Whilst I behold the Battails you maintain,
	When Fleets of Glasses, sail about the Board,
	From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.
	Nor let the sight of Honourable Scars,
	Which my too forward Valour did procure,
	Frighten new-listed Souldiers from the Warrs,
	Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
	Shou’d any Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
	And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,
	‘Twill please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,
	If at my Councel, he repent and drink.
	Or shou’d some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,
	With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarmes,
	I’ll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
	When I was strong, and able to bear Armes.
	I’ll tell of Whores attacqu’d, their Lords at home,
	Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,
	Windows demolisht, Watches overcome,
	And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.
	Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
	When each the well-look’d Link-Boy, strove t’enjoy,
	And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,
	Whether the Boy fuck’d you, or I the Boy.
	With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire,
	As to important mischief shall incline.
	I’ll make him long some Antient Church to fire,
	And fear no lewdness he’s called to by Wine.
	Thus States-man-like, I’ll sawcily impose,
	And safe from Action valiantly advise,
	Shelter’d in impotence, urge you to blows,
	And being good for nothing else, be wise.
1681	ANDREW MARVELL An Horatian Ode upon Cromwel’s Return from Ireland
	The forward Youth that would appear
	Must now forsake his Muses dear,
	Nor in the Shadows sing
	His Numbers languishing.
	’Tis time to leave the Books in dust,
	And oyl th’ unused Armours rust:
	Removing from the Wall
	The Corslet of the Hall.
	So restless Cromwel could not cease
	In the inglorious Arts of Peace,
	But through adventrous War
	Urged his active Star.
	And, like the three-fork’d Lightning, first
	Breaking the Clouds where it was nurst,
	Did thorough his own Side
	His fiery way divide.
	For ’tis all one to Courage high
	The Emulous or Enemy;
	And with such to inclose
	Is more then to oppose.
	Then burning through the Air he went,
	And Pallaces and Temples rent:
	And Cæsars head at last
	Did through his Laurels blast.
	’Tis Madness to resist or blame
	The force of angry Heavens flame:
	And, if we would speak true,
	Much to the Man is due.
	Who, from his private Gardens, where
	He liv’d reserved and austere,
	As if his highest plot
	To plant the Bergamot,
	Could by industrious Valour climbe
	To ruine the great Work of Time,
	And cast the Kingdome old
	Into another Mold.
	Though Justice against Fate complain,
	And plead the antient Rights in vain:
	But those do hold or break
	As Men are strong or weak.
	Nature that hateth emptiness,
	Allows of penetration less:
	And therefore must make room
	Where greater Spirits come.
	What Field of all the Civil Wars,
	Where his were not the deepest Scars?
	And Hampton shows what part
	He had of wiser Art.
	Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
	He wove a Net of such a scope,
	That Charles himself might chase
	To Caresbrooks narrow case.
	That thence the Royal Actor born
	The Tragick Scaffold might adorn:
	While round the armed Bands
	Did clap their bloody hands.
	He nothing common did or mean
	Upon that memorable Scene:
	But with his keener Eye
	The Axes edge did try:
	Nor call’d the Gods with vulgar spight
	To vindicate his helpless Right,
	But bow’d his comely Head,
	Down as upon a Bed.
	This was that memorable Hour
	Which first assur’d the forced Pow’r.
	So when they did design
	The Capitols first Line,
	A bleeding Head where they begun,
	Did fright the Architects to run;
	And yet in that the State
	Foresaw it’s happy Fate.
	And now the Irish are asham’d
	To see themselves in one Year tam’d:
	So much one Man can do,
	That does both act and know.
	They can affirm his Praises best,
	And have, though overcome, confest
	How good he is, how just,
	And fit for highest Trust:
	Nor yet grown stiffer with Command,
	But still in the Republick’s hand:
	How fit he is to sway
	That can so well obey.
	He to the Commons Feet presents
	A Kingdome, for his first years rents:
	And, what he may, forbears
	His Fame to make it theirs:
	And has his Sword and Spoyls ungirt,
	To lay them at the Publick’s skirt.
	So when the Falcon high
	Falls heavy from the Sky,
	She, having kill’d, no more does search,
	But on the next green Bow to pearch;
	Where, when he first does lure,
	The Falckner has her sure.
	What may not then our Isle presume
	While Victory his Crest does plume!
	What may not others fear
	If thus he crown each Year!
	A Caesar he ere long to Gaul,
	To Italy an Hannibal,
	And to all States not free
	Shall Clymacterick be.
	The Pict no shelter now shall find
	Within his party-colour’d Mind;
	But from this Valour sad
	Shrink underneath the Plad:
	Happy if in the tufted brake
	The English Hunter him mistake;
	Nor lay his Hounds in near
	The Caledonian Deer.
	But thou the Wars and Fortunes Son
	March indefatigably on;
	And for the last effect
	Still keep thy Sword erect:
	Besides the force it has to fright
	The Spirits of the shady Night,
	The same Arts that did gain
	A Pow’r must it maintain.
	(written c. 1650)
	ANDREW MARVELL Bermudas
	Where the remote Bermudas ride
	In th’ Oceans bosome unespy’d,
	From a small Boat, that row’d along,
	The listning Winds receiv’d this Song.
	What should we do but sing his Praise
	That led us through the watry Maze,
	Unto an Isle so long unknown,
	And yet far kinder than our own?
	Where he the huge Sea-Monsters wracks,
	That lift the Deep upon their Backs.
	He lands us on a grassy Stage;
	Safe from the Storms, and Prelat’s rage.
	He gave us this eternal Spring,
	Which here enamells every thing;
	And sends the Fowle to us in care,
	On daily Visits through the Air.
	He hangs in shades the Orange bright,
	Like golden Lamps in a green Night.
	And does in the Pomgranates close,
	Jewels more rich than Ormus show’s.
	He makes the Figs our mouths to meet;
	And throws the Melons at our feet.
	But Apples plants of such a price,
	No Tree could ever bear them twice.
	With Cedars, chosen by his hand,
	From Lebanon, he stores the Land.
	And makes the hollow Seas, that roar,
	Proclaime the Ambergris on shoar.
	He cast (of which we rather boast)
	The Gospels Pearl upon our Coast.
	And in these Rocks for us did frame
	A Temple, where to sound his Name.
	Oh let our Voice his Praise exalt,
	Till it arrive at Heavens Vault:
	Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
	Eccho beyond the Mexique Bay.
	Thus sung they, in the English boat,
	An holy and a chearful Note,
	And all the way, to guide their Chime,
	With falling Oars they kept the time.
	ANDREW MARVELL To His Coy Mistress
	Had we but World enough, and Time,
	This coyness Lady were no crime.
	We would sit down, and think which way
	To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
	Thou by the Indian Ganges side
	Should’st Rubies find: I by the Tide
	Of Humber would complain. I would
	Love you ten years before the Flood:
	And you should if you please refuse
	Till the Conversion of the Jews.
	My vegetable Love should grow
	Vaster then Empires, and more slow.
	An hundred years should go to praise
	Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.
	Two hundred to adore each Breast:
	But thirty thousand to the rest.
	An Age at least to every part,
	And the last Age should show your Heart.
	For Lady you deserve this State;
	Nor would I love at lower rate.
	But at my back I alwaies hear
	Times winged Charriot hurrying near:
	And yonder all before us lye
	Desarts of vast Eternity.
	Thy Beauty shall no more be found;
	Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound
	My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try
	That long preserv’d Virginity:
	And your quaint Honour turn to dust;
	And into ashes all my Lust.
	The Grave’s a fine and private place,
	But none I think do there embrace.
	Now therefore, while the youthful glew
	Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
	And while thy willing Soul transpires
	At every pore with instant Fires,
	Now let us sport us while we may;
	And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
	Rather at once our Time devour,
	Than languish in his slow-chapt pow’r.
	Let us roll all our Strength, and all
	Our sweetness, up into one Ball:
	And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
	Thorough the Iron gates of Life.
	Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
	Stand still, yet we will make him run.
	ANDREW MARVELL The Mower to the Glo-Worms
	Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light
	The Nightingale does sit so late,
	And studying all the Summer-night,
	Her matchless Songs does meditate;
	Ye Country Comets, that portend
	No War, nor Princes funeral,
	Shining unto no higher end
	Then to presage the Grasses fall;
	Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame
	To wandring Mowers shows the way,
	That in the Night have lost their aim,
	And after foolish Fires do stray;
	Your courteous Lights in vain you wast,
	Since Juliana here is come,
	For She my Mind hath so displac’d
	That I shall never find my home.
	(written 1651–2)
	ANDREW MARVELL The Mower against Gardens
	Luxurious Man, to bring his Vice in use,
	Did after him the World seduce:
	And from the fields the Flow’rs and Plants allure,
	Where Nature was most plain and pure.
	He first enclos’d within the Gardens square
	A dead and standing pool of Air:
	And a more luscious Earth for them did knead,
	Which stupifi’d them while it fed.
	The Pink grew then as double as his Mind;
	The nutriment did change the kind.
	With strange perfumes he did the Roses taint.
	And Flow’rs themselves were taught to paint.
	The Tulip, white, did for complexion seek;
	And learn’d to interline its cheek:
	Its Onion root they then so high did hold,
	That one was for a Meadow sold.
	Another World was search’d, through Oceans new,
	To find the Marvel of Peru.
	And yet these Rarities might be allow’d,
	To Man, that sov’raign thing and proud;
	Had he not dealt between the Bark and Tree,
	Forbidden mixtures there to see.
	No Plant now knew the Stock from which it came;
	He grafts upon the Wild the Tame:
	That the uncertain and adult’rate fruit
	Might put the Palate in dispute.
	His green Seraglio has its Eunuchs too;
	Lest any Tyrant him out-doe.
	And in the Cherry he does Nature vex,
	To procreate without a Sex.
	’Tis all enforc’d; the Fountain and the Grot;
	While the sweet Fields do lye forgot:
	Where willing Nature does to all dispence
	A wild and fragrant Innocence:
	And Fauns and Faryes do the Meadows till,
	More by their presence then their skill.
	Their Statues polish’d by some ancient hand,
	May to adorn the Gardens stand:
	But howso’ere the Figures do excel,
	The Gods themselves with us do dwell.
	ANDREW MARVELL The Definition of Love
	My Love is of a birth as rare
	As ’tis for object strange and high:
	It was begotten by despair
	Upon Impossibility.
	Magnanimous Despair alone
	Could show me so divine a thing,
	Where feeble Hope could ne’r have flown
	But vainly flapt its Tinsel Wing.
	And yet I quickly might arrive
	Where my extended Soul is fixt,
	But Fate does Iron wedges drive,
	And alwaies crouds it self betwixt.
	For Fate with jealous Eye does see
	Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
	Their union would her ruine be,
	And her Tyrannick pow’r depose.
	And therefore her Decrees of Steel
	Us as the distant Poles have plac’d,
	(Though Loves whole World on us doth wheel)
	Not by themselves to be embrac’d.
	Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
	And Earth some new Convulsion tear;
	And, us to joyn, the World should all
	Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.
	As Lines so Loves oblique may well
	Themselves in every Angle greet:
	But ours so truly paralel,
	Though infinite can never meet.
	Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
	But Fate so enviously debarrs,
	Is the Conjunction of the Mind,
	And Opposition of the Stars.
	ANDREW MARVELL The Garden
	How vainly men themselves amaze
	To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes;
	And their uncessant Labours see
	Crown’d from some single Herb or Tree.
	Whose short and narrow verged Shade
	Does prudently their Toyles upbraid;
	While all Flow’rs and all Trees do close
	To weave the Garlands of repose.
	Fair quiet, have I found thee here,
	And Innocence thy Sister dear!
	Mistaken long, I sought you then
	In busie Companies of Men.
	Your sacred Plants, if here below,
	Only among the Plants will grow.
	Society is all but rude,
	To this delicious Solitude.
	No white nor red was ever seen
	So am’rous as this lovely green.
	Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame,
	Cut in these Trees their Mistress name.
	Little, Alas, they know, or heed,
	How far these Beauties Hers exceed!
	Fair Trees! where s’eer your barkes I wound,
	No Name shall but your own be found.
	When we have run our Passions heat,
	Love hither makes his best retreat.
	The Gods, that mortal Beauty chase,
	Still in a Tree did end their race.
	Apollo hunted Daphne so,
	Only that She might Laurel grow.
	And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
	Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed.
	What wond’rous Life in this I lead!
	Ripe Apples drop about my head;
	The Luscious Clusters of the Vine
	Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine;
	The Nectaren, and curious Peach,
	Into my hands themselves do reach;
	Stumbling on Melons, as I pass,
	Insnar’d with Flow’rs, I fall on Grass.
	Mean while the Mind, from pleasure less,
	Withdraws into its happiness:
	The Mind, that Ocean where each kind
	Does streight its own resemblance find;
	Yet it creates, transcending these,
	Far other Worlds, and other Seas;
	Annihilating all that ’s made
	To a green Thought in a green Shade.
	Here at the Fountains sliding foot,
	Or at some Fruit-trees mossy root,
	Casting the Bodies Vest aside,
	My Soul into the boughs does glide:
	There like a Bird it sits, and sings,
	Then whets, and combs its silver Wings;
	And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
	Waves in its Plumes the various Light.
	Such was that happy Garden-state,
	While Man there walk’d without a Mate:
	After a Place so pure, and sweet,
	What other Help could yet be meet!
	But ’twas beyond a Mortal’s share
	To wander solitary there:
	Two Paradises ’twere in one
	To live in Paradise alone.
	How well the skilful Gardner drew
	Of flow’rs and herbes this Dial new;
	Where from above the milder Sun
	Does through a fragrant Zodiack run;
	And, as it works, th’ industrious Bee
	Computes its time as well as we.
	How could such sweet and wholsome Hours
	Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!
	(written 1651–2)
	JOHN OLDHAM from An Imitation of Horace, Book I. Satyr IX
	As I was walking in the Mall of late,
	Alone, and musing on I know not what;
	Comes a familiar Fop, whom hardly I
	Knew by his name, and rudely seizes me:
	Dear Sir, I’m mighty glad to meet with you:
	And pray, how have you done this Age, or two?
	‘Well I thank God (said I) as times are now:
	‘I wish the same to you. And so past on,
	Hoping with this the Coxcomb would be gone.
	But when I saw I could not thus get free;
	I ask’d, what business else he had with me?
	Sir (answer’d he) if Learning, Parts, or Sence
	Merit your friendship; I have just pretence.
	‘I honor you (said I) upon that score,
	‘And shall be glad to serve you to my power.
	Mean time, wild to get loose, I try all ways
	To shake him off: Sometimes I walk apace,
	Sometimes stand still: I frown, I chafe, I fret,
	Shrug, turn my back, as in the Bagnio, sweat:
	And shew all kind of signs to make him guess
	At my impatience and uneasiness.
	‘Happy the folk in Newgate! (whisper’d I)
	‘Who, tho in Chains are from this torment free:
	‘Wou’d I were like rough Manly in the Play,
	‘To send Impertinents with kicks away!
	He all the while baits me with tedious chat,
	Speaks much about the drought, and how the rate
	Of Hay is rais’d, and what it now goes at:
	Tells me of a new Comet at the Hague,
	Portending God knows what, a Dearth, or Plague:
	Names every Wench, that passes through the Park,
	How much she is allow’d, and who the Spark
	That keeps her: points, who lately got a Clap,
	And who at the Groom-Porters had ill hap
	Three nights ago in play with such a Lord:
	When he observ’d, I minded not a word,
	And did no answer to his trash afford;
	Sir, I perceive you stand on Thorns (said he)
	And fain would part: but, faith, it must not be:
	Come let us take a Bottle. (I cried) ‘No;
	‘Sir, I am in a Course, and dare not now.
	Then tell me whether you design to go:
	I’ll wait upon you. ‘Oh! Sir, ’tis too far:
	‘I visit cross the Water: therefore spare
	‘Your needless trouble. Trouble! Sir, ’tis none:
	’Tis more by half to leave you here alone.
	I have no present business to attend,
	At least which I’ll not quit for such a Friend:
	Tell me not of the distance: for I vow,
	I’ll cut the Line, double the Cape for you,
	Good faith, I will not leave you: make no words:
	Go you to Lambeth? Is it to my Lords?
	His Steward I most intimately know,
	Have often drunk with his Comptroller too.
	By this I found my wheadle would not pass,
	But rather serv’d my suff’rings to increase:
	And seeing ’twas in vain to vex, or fret,
	I patiently submitted to my fate.
	Strait he begins again: Sir, if you knew
	My worth but half so throughly as I do;
	I’m sure, you would not value any Friend,
	You have, like me: but that I won’t commend
	My self, and my own Talents; I might tell
	How many ways to wonder I excel.
	None has a greater gift in Poetry,
	Or writes more Verses with more ease than I:
	I’m grown the envy of the men of Wit,
	I kill’d ev’n Rochester with grief and spight:
	Next for the Dancing part I all surpass,
	St. André never mov’d with such a grace:
	And ’tis well known, when e’re I sing, or set,
	Humphreys, nor Blow could ever match me yet.
	Here I got room to interrupt: ‘Have you
	‘A Mother, Sir, or Kindred living now?
	Not one: they are all dead. ‘Troth, so I guest:
	‘The happier they (said I) who are at rest.
	‘Poor I am only left unmurder’d yet:
	‘Hast, I beseech you, and dispatch me quite:
	‘For I am well convinc’d, my time is come:
	‘When I was young, a Gypsie told my doom:
	This Lad (said she, and look’d upon my hand)
	Shall not by Sword, or Poison come to’s end,
	Nor by the Fever, Dropsie, Gout, or Stone,
	But he shall die by an eternal Tongue:
	Therefore, when he’s grown up, if he be wise,
	Let him avoid great Talkers, I advise.
	By this time we were got to Westminster,
	Where he by chance a Trial had to hear,
	And, if he were not there, his Cause must fall:
	Sir, if you love me, step into the Hall
	For one half hour. ‘The Devil take me now,
	‘(Said I) if I know any thing of Law:
	‘Besides I told you whither I’m to go.
	Hereat he made a stand, pull’d down his Hat
	Over his eyes, and mus’d in deep debate:
	I’m in a straight (said he) what I shall do:
	Whether forsake my business, Sir, or you.
	‘Me by all means (say I). No (says my Sot)
	I fear you’l take it ill, if I should do’t:
	I’m sure, you will. ‘Not I, by all that’s good.
	‘But I’ve more breeding, than to be so rude.
	‘Pray, don’t neglect your own concerns for me:
	‘Your Cause, good Sir! My Cause be damn’d (says he)
	I value’t less than your dear Company.
	With this he came up to me, and would lead
	The way; I sneaking after hung my head.
	JOHN DRYDEN from Absalom and Achitophel
	[Monmouth]
	In pious times, e’r Priest-craft did begin,
	Before Polygamy was made a sin;
	When man, on many, multiply’d his kind,
	E’r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
	When Nature prompted, and no law deny’d
	Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
	Then, Israel’s Monarch, after Heaven’s own heart,
	His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
	To Wives and Slaves: And, wide as his Command,
	Scatter’d his Maker’s Image through the Land.
	Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
	A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller’s care:
	Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
	To Godlike David, several Sons before.
	But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
	No True Succession could their seed attend.
	Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
	So Beautifull, so brave as Absolon:
	Whether, inspir’d by some diviner Lust,
	His Father got him with a greater Gust;
	Or that his Conscious destiny made way
	By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
	Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
	With Kings and States ally’d to Israel’s Crown:
	In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
	And seem’d as he were only born for love.
	What e’r he did was done with so much ease,
	In him alone, ’twas Natural to please.
	His motions all accompanied with grace;
	And Paradise was open’d in his face.
	With secret Joy, indulgent David view’d
	His Youthfull Image in his Son renew’d:
	To all his wishes Nothing he deny’d,
	And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
	What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
	His Father could not, or he would not see.
	Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
	Were constru’d Youth that purg’d by boyling o’r:
	And Amnon’s Murther, by a specious Name,
	Was call’d a Just Revenge for injur’d Fame.
	Thus Prais’d, and Lov’d, the Noble Youth remain’d,
	While David, undisturb’d, in Sion raign’d.
	But Life can never be sincerely blest:
	Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
	(… )
	[Shaftesbury]
	This Plot, which fail’d for want of common Sense,
	Had yet a deep and dangerous Consequence:
	For, as when raging Fevers boyl the Blood,
	The standing Lake soon floats into a Flood;
	And every hostile Humour, which before
	Slept quiet in its Channels, bubbles o’r:
	So, several Factions from this first Ferment,
	Work up to Foam, and threat the Government.
	Some by their Friends, more by themselves thought wise,
	Oppos’d the Power, to which they could not rise.
	Some had in Courts been Great, and thrown from thence,
	Like Feinds, were harden’d in Impenitence.
	Some by their Monarch’s fatal mercy grown,
	From Pardon’d Rebels, Kinsmen to the Throne;
	Were rais’d in Power and publick Office high:
	Strong Bands, if Bands ungratefull men could tye.
	Of these the false Achitophel was first:
	A Name to all succeeding Ages Curst.
	For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit;
	Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit:
	Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place;
	In Power unpleas’d, impatient of Disgrace.
	A fiery Soul, which working out its way,
	Fretted the Pigmy body to decay:
	And o’r inform’d the Tenement of Clay.
	A daring Pilot in extremity;
	Pleas’d with the Danger, when the Waves went high
	He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit,
	Would Steer too nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit.
	Great Wits are sure to Madness near ally’d;
	And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide:
	Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest,
	Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest?
	Punish a Body which he coud not please;
	Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of Ease?
	And all to leave, what with his Toyl he won,
	To that unfeather’d, two Leg’d thing, a Son:
	Got, while his Soul did hudled Notions try;
	And born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy.
	In Friendship False, Implacable in Hate:
	Resolv’d to Ruine or to Rule the State.
	To Compass this the Triple Bond he broke;
	The Pillars of the publick Safety shook:
	And fitted Israel for a Foreign Yoke.
	Then, seiz’d with Fear, yet still affecting Fame,
	Usurp’d a Patriott’s All-attoning Name.
	So easie still it proves in Factious Times,
	With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes:
	How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill,
	Where none can sin against the Peoples Will:
	Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known,
	Since in anothers guilt they find their own.
	Yet, Fame deserv’d, no Enemy can grudge;
	The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge.
	In Israels Courts ne’r sat an Abbethdin
	With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean:
	Unbrib’d, unsought, the Wretched to redress;
	Swift of Dispatch, and easie of Access.
	Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown,
	With vertues only proper to the Gown;
	Or, had the rankness of the Soyl been freed
	From Cockle, that opprest the Noble seed:
	David, for him his tunefull Harp had strung,
	And Heaven had wanted one Immortal song.
	But wilde Ambition loves to slide, not stand;
	And Fortunes Ice prefers to Vertues Land:
	Achitophel, grown weary to possess
	A lawfull Fame, and lazy Happiness;
	Disdain’d the Golden fruit to gather free,
	And lent the Croud his Arm to shake the Tree.
	JOHN BUNYAN from The Pilgrims Progress 1684
	[Valiant-for-Truth’s Song]
	Who would true Valour see
	Let him come hither;
	One here will Constant be,
	Come Wind, come Weather.
	There’s no Discouragement
	Shall make him once Relent,
	His first avow’d Intent,
	To be a Pilgrim.
	Who so beset him round,
	With dismal Storys,
	Do but themselves Confound;
	His Strength the more is.
	No Lyon can him fright,
	He’l with a Gyant Fight,
	To be a Pilgrim.
	But he will have a right,
	Hobgoblin, nor foul Fiend,
	Can daunt his Spirit:
	He knows, he at the end,
	Shall Life Inherit.
	Then Fancies fly away,
	He’l fear not what men say,
	He’l labour Night and Day,
	To be a Pilgrim.
	JOHN DRYDEN To the Memory of Mr. Oldham
	Farewel, too little and too lately known,
	Whom I began to think and call my own;
	For sure our Souls were near ally’d; and thine
	Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine.
	One common Note on either Lyre did strike,
	And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr’d alike:
	To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,
	The last set out the soonest did arrive.
	Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
	While his young Friend perform’d and won the Race.
	O early ripe! to thy abundant store
	What could advancing Age have added more?
	It might (what Nature never gives the young)
	Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.
	But Satyr needs not those, and Wit will shine
	Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
	A noble Error, and but seldom made,
	When Poets are by too much force betray’d.
	Thy generous fruits, though gather’d ere their prime
	Still shew’d a quickness; and maturing time
	But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime.
	Once more, hail and farewel; farewel thou young,
	But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue;
	Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;
	But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around.
1685	JOHN DRYDEN Horat. Ode 29. Book 3 Paraphras’d in 1685 Pindarique Verse
	Descended of an ancient Line,
	That long the Tuscan Scepter sway’d,
	Make haste to meet the generous wine,
	Whose piercing is for thee delay’d:
	The rosie wreath is ready made;
	And artful hands prepare
	The fragrant Syrian Oyl, that shall perfume thy hair.
	When the Wine sparkles from a far,
	And the well-natur’d Friend cries, come away;
	Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care,
	No mortal int’rest can be worth thy stay.
	Leave for a while thy costly Country Seat;
	And, to be Great indeed, forget
	The nauseous pleasures of the Great:
	Make haste and come:
	Come and forsake thy cloying store;
	Thy Turret that surveys, from high,
	The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;
	And all the busie pageantry
	That wise men scorn, and fools adore:
	Come, give thy Soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.
	Sometimes ’tis grateful to the Rich, to try
	A short vicissitude, and fit of Poverty:
	A savoury Dish, a homely Treat,
	Where all is plain, where all is neat,
	Without the stately spacious Room,
	The Persian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom,
	Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the Great.
	The Sun is in the Lion mounted high;
	The Syrian Star
	Barks from a far;
	And with his sultry breath infects the Sky;
	The ground below is parch’d, the heav’ns above us fry.
	The Shepheard drives his fainting Flock,
	Beneath the covert of a Rock;
	And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh:
	The Sylvans to their shades retire,
	Those very shades and streams, new shades and streams require;
	And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the rageing fire.
	Thou, what befits the new Lord May’r,
	And what the City Faction dare,
	And what the Gallique Arms will do,
	And what the Quiver bearing Foe,
	Art anxiously inquisitive to know:
	But God has, wisely, hid from humane sight
	The dark decrees of future fate;
	And sown their seeds in depth of night;
	He laughs at all the giddy turns of State;
	When Mortals search too soon, and fear too late.
	Enjoy the present smiling hour;
	And put it out of Fortunes pow’r:
	The tide of bus’ness, like the running stream,
	Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
	A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,
	And alwayes in extream.
	Now with a noiseless gentle course
	It keeps within the middle Bed;
	Anon it lifts aloft the head,
	And bears down all before it, with impetuous force:
	And trunks of Trees come rowling down,
	Sheep and their Folds together drown:
	Both House and Homested into Seas are borne,
	And Rocks are from their old foundations torn,
	And woods made thin with winds, their scatter’d honours mourn.
	Happy the Man, and happy he alone,
	He, who can call to day his own:
	He, who secure within, can say
	To morrow do thy worst, for I have liv’d to day.
	Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
	The joys I have possest, in spight of fate are mine.
	Not Heav’n it self upon the past has pow’r;
	But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
	Fortune, that with malicious joy,
	Does Man her slave oppress,
	Proud of her Office to destroy,
	Is seldome pleas’d to bless.
	Still various and unconstant still;
	But with an inclination to be ill;
	Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
	And makes a Lottery of life.
	I can enjoy her while she’s kind;
	But when she dances in the wind,
	And shakes her wings, and will not stay,
	I puff the Prostitute away:
	The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign’d:
	Content with poverty, my Soul, I arm;
	And Vertue, tho’ in rags, will keep me warm.
	What is’t to me,
	Who never sail in her unfaithful Sea,
	If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black;
	If the Mast split and threaten wreck,
	Then let the greedy Merchant fear
	For his ill gotten gain;
	And pray to Gods that will not hear,
	While the debating winds and billows bear
	His Wealth into the Main.
	For me secure from Fortunes blows,
	(Secure of what I cannot lose,)
	In my small Pinnace I can sail,
	Contemning all the blustring roar;
	And running with a merry gale,
	With friendly Stars my safety seek
	Within some little winding Creek;
	And see the storm a shore.
	JOHN DRYDEN from Latter Part of the Third Book of Lucretius. Against the Fear of Death
	What has this Bugbear death to frighten Man,
	If Souls can die, as well as Bodies can?
	For, as before our Birth we felt no pain
	When Punique arms infested Land and Mayn,
	When Heav’n and Earth were in confusion hurl’d
	For the debated Empire of the World,
	Which aw’d with dreadful expectation lay,
	Sure to be Slaves, uncertain who shou’d sway:
	So, when our mortal frame shall be disjoyn’d,
	The lifeless Lump, uncoupled from the mind,
	From sense of grief and pain we shall be free;
	We shall not feel, because we shall not Be.
	Though Earth in Seas, and Seas in Heav’n were lost,
	We shou’d not move, we only shou’d be tost.
	Nay, ev’n suppose when we have suffer’d Fate,
	The Soul cou’d feel in her divided state,
	What’s that to us, for we are only we
	While Souls and bodies in one frame agree?
	Nay, tho’ our Atoms shou’d revolve by chance,
	And matter leape into the former dance;
	Tho’ time our Life and motion cou’d restore,
	And make our Bodies what they were before,
	What gain to us wou’d all this bustle bring,
	The new made man wou’d be another thing;
	When once an interrupting pause is made,
	That individual Being is decay’d.
	We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part
	In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart,
	Which to that other Mortal shall accrew,
	Whom of our Matter Time shall mould anew.
	And therefore if a Man bemoan his lot,
	That after death his mouldring limbs shall rot,
	Or flames, or jaws of Beasts devour his Mass,
	Know he’s an unsincere, unthinking Ass.
	A secret Sting remains within his mind,
	The fool is to his own cast offals kind;
	He boasts no sense can after death remain,
	Yet makes himself a part of life again:
	As if some other He could feel the pain.
	JOHN DRYDEN from Fourth Book of Lucretius. Concerning the Nature of Love
	When Love its utmost vigour does imploy,
	Ev’n then, ’tis but a restless wandring joy:
	Nor knows the Lover, in that wild excess,
	With hands or eyes, what first he wou’d possess:
	But strains at all; and fast’ning where he strains,
	Too closely presses with his frantique pains:
	With biteing kisses hurts the twining fair,
	Which shews his joyes imperfect, unsincere:
	For stung with inward rage, he flings around,
	And strives t’ avenge the smart on that which gave the wound.
	But love those eager bitings does restrain,
	And mingling pleasure mollifies the pain.
	For ardent hope still flatters anxious grief,
	And sends him to his Foe to seek relief:
	Which yet the nature of the thing denies;
	For Love, and Love alone of all our joyes
	By full possession does but fan the fire,
	The more we still enjoy, the more we still desire.
	Nature for meat, and drink provides a space;
	And when receiv’d they fill their certain place;
	Hence thirst and hunger may be satisfi’d,
	But this repletion is to Love deny’d:
	Form, feature, colour, whatsoe’re delight
	Provokes the Lovers endless appetite,
	These fill no space, nor can we thence remove
	With lips, or hands, or all our instruments of love:
	In our deluded grasp we nothing find,
	But thin aerial shapes, that fleet before the mind.
	As he who in a dream with drought is curst,
	And finds no real drink to quench his thirst,
	Runs to imagin’d Lakes his heat to steep,
	And vainly swills and labours in his sleep;
	So Love with fantomes cheats our longing eyes,
	Which hourly seeing never satisfies;
	Our hands pull nothing from the parts they strain,
	But wander o’re the lovely limbs in vain:
	Nor when the Youthful pair more clossely joyn,
	When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs they twine;
	Just in the raging foam of full desire,
	When both press on, both murmur, both expire,
	They gripe, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart,
	As each wou’d force their way to t’others heart:
	In vain; they only cruze about the coast,
	For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost:
	As sure they strive to be, when both engage,
	In that tumultuous momentary rage,
	So ’tangled in the Nets of Love they lie,
	Till Man dissolves in that excess of joy.
	Then, when the gather’d bag has burst its way,
	And ebbing tydes the slacken’d nerves betray,
	A pause ensues; and Nature nods a while,
	Till with recruited rage new Spirits boil;
	And then the same vain violence returns,
	With flames renew’d th’ erected furnace burns.
	Agen they in each other wou’d be lost,
	But still by adamantine bars are crost;
	All wayes they try, successeless all they prove,
	To cure the secret sore of lingring love.