POEMS, BY HENRY GLAPTHORN. Sustineamque Comam metuentem frigora Myrtum, Atque ita sollicito multus Amante legar. LONDON, Printed by Richard Bishop, for Daniel Pakeman; and are to be sold at his Shop, at the Rainbow, near the Inner Temple Gate. 1639. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, JEROME, Earl of PORTLAND. My Lord, DEdications, from some Writers are mere Customs; from others Compliments; but from me neither: my Muse being yet too young to be authorized by Custom, to intrude upon a Patron, (this being the earliest flight of her ambition:) and my Reason too old to suffer me to be guilty of Compliment to one so furnished with all Reality and Worth as is your Lordship. My motive, Sir, to this audacious error is only the pretence of my respective duty; and for that cause, will (I hope) merit an indulgent pardon. What you shall here find set down, were the Maiden-Studies of a Muse, which aspires to no other Fame than your allowance: nor can myself achieve a greater quiet to my soul, nor aim a higher glory, than to see myself by your free acceptance of this trivial Sacrifice ranked amongst The humblest honourers of your Name and Family: HENRY GLAPTHORNE. Upon the Duke of York his Birth-night at Richmond. To the PRINCE, and the rest of his MAJESTY'S Children. BLessings surround this Presence: To begin Our votes to You without a prayer, were sin Against our religious loyalty: could our care And zeal transform our very souls to prayer; 'Twere a just tribute due to You, who are. The best of Princes; each of You a Star That gilds our British Orb with rays more bright Than was in Paradise the world's first light. Hark! whence this sudden harmony! the Spheres Strive to divulge their duties; there appears A general joy in Heaven; this night has hurled, In stead of darkness, gladness o'er the world; Has calmed the sea, on which the Tritons play, And Sirens sing, for joy; not to betray. But why this triumph? 'Twas because this night, Sweet Prince, Your Birth did beautify the light; Adjudge a second Column to sustain The glorious building of your Father's reign, To be our second Hope, the cause that we Do pay our vows to this Solemnity, In wishes, which a Mother might befit, Or a full Lover in his zeal of wit. May all Your lives be one continued Youth, Attended on by health, mirth, beauty, truth. May You live free from dangers, nay from fears, And grow in graces as You do in years: Shoot up like infant-Cedars, strait and even, Till Your brave Heads aspire to neighbour Heaven; While we, with a most humble flame inspired, Live to behold Your worth, and to admiree. Entertainment to the Prince Elector at Mr. Osbalston's. PRotect me my best Stars! A sudden fear Seizes my faculties; there's something here Surely includes divinely now I see A power inferior scarce to Majesty; Claims my Prerogative; which, since to You, To Whom he place is consecrate by vow, I do resign with freedom; blessed Delight For this shall change her Tempe, and invite The jocund Graces hither, to erect Their Palace here, Mirth being th' Architect: Favonian winds shall with as mild a breath As is expired by spotless babes in death, Here one continued summer still display, Making this seem a new Arabia. But whence assume I this Prophetic rage? Rapt with whose sacred fury, I presage This happy Omen? 'Tis your smiles inspire (Gracious and Noble) with Etherial fire My frosty soul (so as Promethian heat Gave the cold clay warmth, masculine and great). Thus for myself. The places Genius now For your Inviter, who by me does vow His heart your humble Sacrifice; since Heaven Accepts a grain of Incense, that is given With a true zeal, better than pounds of Gums, Or altars smoking with fat Hecatombs From feigned Devotion: He does hope Your eyes Will dart a beam to fire his Sacrifice; Whose quickening lustre, like the Sun may bring Upon the place and him, a constant Spring. To Lucinda, upon the first sight of her Beauty. Encountering her, I thought the morning Star Had left the Nabatbeans, till on her My wondering eyes with a more perfect sight Gazing, beheld, that Venus was but bright, She glorious. To venture to compare Her cheeks to Lilies, Sunbeams to her hair, Were to allow her mortal: far from me Be so much sin 'gainst beauty's Deity. Tell the wild Indian that with prostrate breast Adores the Sun-rise in the gorgeous East, His labour's lost; 'tis needless any more To fish for Pearl or Diamond on their shore: Nor Pearls, nor Diamonds, Rubies, or the rest Of Metaphors, by which are oft expressed Our common beauties, ne'er can hope to be Graced by being used as an Hyperbolie In her delineation. 'Twas the light Of her br●●●t eyes deprived mine of the sight They once enjoyed: those fools who sought to make A Star of ●●●●nices hair, might take Hers for a Planet, fix it, and ne'er fear To dazzle Phoebus' lustre in the sphere. Lucinda described. THere's not an eye that views Lucinda's face, But wondering at the perfect grace That does within that model rest, Esteems her most transcendently above The power of Fancy, Art, or Love, Truly to be expressed. To say each golden tress that does adorn Her glorious Forehead might be worn By juno or by beauty's Queen, Were to profane her sacred threads; for they Could not such precious Locks display On the Idalian Greene. They are then gorgeous ornaments, and be The upper branches of that tree Which easily does men entice, Believing it the tree of life, to say That they have found a ready way To th' long lost Paradise. Her Iv'rie Forehead curious Nature hath Created for the milky path; By which the covetous gazers seek To find a passage by her tempting eyes Without their souls entire surprise To th' Apples in her cheek. Those suns of brightness which so far outshine Humanity, that their divine Lustre persuades us, 'tis no sin To think each as a Seraphin does stand To guard that blessed forbidden Land, And the fair fruit within. Of which her lips like swelling Grapes appear, The sweetest children of the year, In Nature's crimson liv'rie dressed, And by her balmy breath, to ripeness brought: They smile, then blush, as if they sought Straight softly to be pressed. Then (as two full Pomegranates) lower grows Her breasts; such wonders sure as those Will force nice misbelief to know That miracles as yet unceased remain, Since there doth flourish in each vein Violets on stalks of Snow. But these (though true descriptions) are so far Beneath her worth. I have a War Within my pensive soul, to see So many wondrous rare Perfections dwell In one, yet find no Parallel In spacious Poetry. To Lucinda departing. OH! stay Lucinda, and let fly A thousand loves from thy bright eye, By which inspired I will express Thy beauties, my fair Shepherdess. Thy Cheek, loves Tempe, where does grow Warm Roses in soft beds of Snow. This wonder (Dearest) is to tell The world, th' art Beauty's miracle. The envious Panther, at thy breath, Excelling his, does sigh to death; And at the lustre of thine eye Stars wink, are buried in the Sky. The amorous Thorn (that does intwine In pricklie arms the Eglantine,) When thou thy brightness dost display, Blossoms, and makes even Winter May. The wanton Sirens that beguile With flattering accents, at thy smile Chaunt lays as harmless as the Dove, Or Redbreast when she courts her Love. But all these glories could not fire My frosty soul with big desire; The Cause that made Lucinda mine Could not be humane, she's divine. To Lucinda weeping. Weep not Lucinda, ' less you mean To purge the world from filth, as clean As are your thoughts: too rich a prize For earth, is such a sacrifice. Such tears as yours, suppose young May Does to the flowers each morning pay. Such tears must sure all eyes entice To think your eyes Loves Paradise. Oh! they have emptied Nature's Store, Made Snow, and emulous Crystal poor: Your tears may justly claim pretence To be the balm of Innocence. But least such Gems should be confined To earth; behold the amorous wind Catching them, fixes every one In heaven, a Constellation. But since (my dearest) thou wilt weep, Thy tears for holier uses keep; When plagues upon the earth are hurled, Let fall one drop, 'twill save the world. To Lucinda. A New-year's Gift. DRraw that black vail, (my fair one) do not shroud Those eyes in silken mists, or in a cloud Of waving Curl: be merciful, appear Like thy bright self, and bring the infant Year Into the world; old Time her Mother's run Into so dull a Lethargy; the Sun Is frozen in his couch, and cannot rise Till thawed by th' temperate virtue of thine eyes, Those soft and gentle Stars, whose pure and clear Rays, from the Chaos would have forced the year. Up then, Illustrious Beauty, gilled the day; Change Januarie into youthful May. See the cold earth does Winter's liv'rie shift, Offering the fresh Spring as your New-year's Gift; While the pale Cowslip does the Primrose call To wait on You at this new Festival, Created by your beams: the Winds invite The nimble winged messengers of light, The early Lark, and chirping Thrush to tune Their notes as cheerfully, as when in June They softly whisper to the azure sky Of a clear day, a beauteous Augury. How trivial is a Poet's force! I can Teach birds t' admire you, the rich Ocean Tender its mines of Pearl, the Earth salute Thee with its choicest metals, flowers and fruit. Impose a tribute on the Sun, force Stars T'adore you more than erring Mariners Do them in Tempests. But when I impart An offering on the Altar of my heart To thy commanding Deity, I can pay Nought but a wreath of Myrtle or of Bay, A Poets humble sacrifice; unless My wishes (which reality express, Though unperformed) may guiltlessly aspire To die the Martyrs of your sacred fire. May all the happiness Heaven can confer Be acted on your lives fair Theatre: May you be chaste as beautiful; mischance Never disturb your peace, not in a trance: May you live long, and healthful: may no page Of your lives volume, have a line for Age To write his ghastly name in; but when Time Grows old and sickly on you, and does clime With eager feet, your hill of youth, may all His steps be slip'rie, may he backward fall Beyond his fate's recovery, till he bring Your fading minutes back into the spring Of strength and beauty, till your cheek does wear The fame bright lustre that adorns this year. Which I do wish the power of gentle Fate May to my Love and yours make fortunate. To Sleep, upon Lucinda laid to rest. HEnce ugly Image of grim death; how dare Thy saucy boldness venture on this fair Epitome of heaven? Dost think that she Participates of frail mortality In such a drowsy passion? (Fool) go stretch Thy remiss wings o'er some poor aguish wretch, Some withered Hag, whom for her youths loose sin, Just Heaven has destined to be kept within The prison of her bed; from her be gone: The light can suffer no privation. Wert thou not stupid, deaf? didst thou not hear When she enriched her pillow, how each Sphere Strived to express its duty, which should be Prime Quirister, in whistling harmony To th'Citizens in Heaven, who at that call Invited Saints to chant a Madrigal Devoted to her silent rest? The Air Grew clear and pleasing, every cloud so fair; heavens forehead wore no wrinkles, violent floods Kissed the smooth pebbles, and the woods With their Inhabitants conjoined in this, T'afford her senses a sweet Extasis. Didst thou not see how every glorious Star, With their pale Mistress Moon, to wait on her, Officiously contracted their dim light To Tapers, that at opening of her sight They might new gild their Rays. The Indian which Had ne'er been poor, had he not first been rich, Dives for unvalued Pearl, and fears to rise Till he can borrow lustre from her Eyes To polish his dull Merchandise. Oh she! The Abstract of all which wild Poetry In its loose raptures taught, wherein her rest Invites the Winds (as when the Phoenix nest Is by their flavour fired) to mix their breaths With hers, so precious, that (abortive Death's First child) dull Sleep, like to the Nightman, must By stealth enjoy it: see the parched Dust Turns to Assyrian odours, and does skip Like an enamoured Fairy to her Lip, Where Venus Roses grow. Rest safe, my Sweet, Till Sylvans wake, and till the Muses greet Thee with their choicest harmony; till night Acknowledge all that it enjoys of light, To thee the Queen of Splendour, whose bright Rays Renews in me the more than Haltion days Love in its Primitive pureness wore. Then rise, And let mine draw new Influence from thine Eyes. To Lucinda: inviting her from her Chamber. (doom What means this absence (fair One)? What sad Impose you on yourself, that one poor Room Includes your glorious Beauty? Is the Air Less wholesome here, the Sky less clear, less fair? Or to enrich that, have you ta'en a pride, Meaning t' impov'rish all the Rooms beside? The little Birds that by the Window fly, Wanting your presence, strait fall down and die: And I, who easily could have fixed your Name A Planet in the Firmament of Fame; Who could have dressed your head with Lightning, and Hung at each Hair a Starry Diamond; Who could have sent the cunning Boy to seek His last lost Arrow in your polished Cheek; Who could have raised a Mount upon your Lip, On which (like Fairies) all the Loves should trip, And added to your Breath such a perfume, As ever spending, never should consume: Who could have fetched the Indies (both) to deck Thy well-formed Iv'rie Palace of your Neck; And like a cunning Painter, have expressed The World's perfections in your Globe-like Breast: Praising each Feature so, till every part Appear your Face, and Conquered every heart. I for a wreath of Willow cast away My flowery Chaplet of the greener Bay: Dipping my Pen in tears, what ere it be That I would write, it proves an Elegy. You must expel this Sadness; You, whose light Eclipses that pale Virgin of the Night, The solitary Moon, whose every Ray Transcends the clearest lustre of the Day: You in whose eyes sit flames, which can beget Themselves a living Spheer in every Wit: You that are All Women can be, and more Than Youth and Beauty ere disclosed before: Who do resemble Heaven so near, You'd want Only the Name (not Nature) of a Saint. You with a smile, can like the West-wind bring An unexpected Summer on the Spring; And with one Beam, or comfortable Glance Ravish my soul into so high a trance, That Your bright Head shall hit the Stars, and fly To Heaven o'th' swift wings of my Poesy: While I, with equal fear and hope possessed, Tender my Heart your Sacrifice, and rest Your Servant. To Lucinda. He being in Prison. REceive these lines from your imprisoned Friend, As the last Farewell which his hand must send To greet your Eyes, from which mine borrowed light To guide my wand'ring Fancy to the sight Of Mortals wonder, in your Essence: Love First darted Rays from those bright Stars to move Me to admire your Beauty: But again To make old Nature proud, as when my Pen Flowed with mellifluous Epithets, to show The glorious shape she fully did bestow On your unequalled Frame. To say your hair Are nets of Gold, whose Trammels might ensnare The King of gods; or that your Iv'rie breasts Are Balls of Camphire, sweeter than the nests Where the Arabian Phoenix does desire To burn herself; (as I have done, in fire More precious than her Funeral flames) would add New griefs, so powerful as would force me mad (Were I of stronger temper). Since I've lost Those rarities bought with the priceless Cost Of my unvalued Liberty: which now I must forgo for ever; from the Vow You made before the Hierarchy of Heaven (Which now I summon witnesses how even My Love has been) I free you; If you hear That wilfully I perished, one poor tear (I ask no more) shed, and my Soul, when Death Has robbed my carcase of its loathed breath, Shall pray, that you hereafter may possess A Friend that loved your Memory no less Than I, who spite of Fortune will be blessed That once I was termed Yours; though now I rest Forsaken.— To Lucinda, revolted from him. 'TWas I who made thee Beauteous before; You might have sat regardless at your door, Or past the Streets (as other Women do) Without salutes, or being congeeed to: When now each eye that sees thee, does admire To view a mortal Creature to aspire So near the Heavenly Essence: every tongue (Since I set out thy Excellence among Men of ingenuous Spirits) strives to raise Thy Name beyond the name of Praise. Nature did well (I must confess) to frame Thee of her choicest Matter; for the same You stand indebted to her, and 'tis fit You should acknowledge thankfulness for it. The Orient Pearl new taken from the shell, Though't be as precious in itself, to sell, Cannot so fitting and commodious be As when 'tis polishd by a Lapidary. The glistering Diamond shines not to the sight Till by the Mill and Cutter 'tis made bright; You had as much implicit Beauty (true) As now you have, when first I did you view; But like a Diamond clouded over with Dross, It gave small lustre, cause unknown it was: I polished it by giving it a Name; beauty's regardless, till adorned by Fame. But Oh the Faith of Women! Can there be Evasions found for such Apostasy As is in you? What Penance can abridge Such an Impiety, such dire Sacrilege Against Love's imperial Godhead, to resist, Contemn his Orgies, which by me his Priest He did enjoin, by his own powerful Name You should observe with a religious Flame? And you had vowed to do it, swore that I Should offer up to his great Deity Your heart; which Love himself would not despise (But beg for such a welcome Sacrifice, More precious than the sweet Panchayan Gums, The Phoenix Pile, or fuming Hecatombs). But as a vapour which the flattering Sun Attracts to th' pure Airs middle Region, Under pretence to give a new Star birth, And throws a fading Meteor to the Earth; So fell your Heart from Love's unspotted Throne By your intemperate violation Of Vows to me; in which if you persist, Mercy will blot you from her candid List, As a prodigious Monster, and firm Truth Blush at a perjury so black in Youth, So white as yours: at which the Rose-cheeked Morn Might once have borrowed lustre, and unshorn Apollo brightness: Oh! why should there rest Such falsehood, such unkindness in a Breast Whose superficial figure does outgo In whiteness Lilies, or untrodden Snow? Ingrateful Woman! what unborn offence Can give a specious Shadow, a Pretence To thy unhallowed falsehood? what strange Cause Thy sudden change, this alteration draws? Perhaps now I have set thy Beauty forth, With all the Attributes expressing Worth, That when I did but speak of thee, or write, Fancy and Love danced in each Epithet. Some other Suitor, who to please your ears, Purchases Raptures, which his dull brain bears As Parrots what is taught them, who can speak But by tradition, has surprised your weak Imagination; and does proudly boast In gaining that which me most labour cost. Or else perhaps your overcurious eye Has spied some new unknown deformity In me; or 't may be possible you think (Which is most likely) that the Muse's drink Is quite exhausted; that my weary Quill Wants moisture to explain your Praises still, In that full way, that over-liberall strain My Genius used at first your Love to gain. If this be it, I'll fill the Daphnean Choir With a fresh chanter, snatch bright Phoebus' Lyre From his swift Fingers, and once more rehearse Thy worth in such a strange mellifluous Verse, That sweet Propertius shall his Cynthia tell Thy Praises do her Lustre far excel; Gabius shall weep that his Lycoris name Is now surpassed by thy immortal Fame: And (my great Master) Ovid shall confess Corynna's shining Beauty to be less Than thine; since he, for his Corynna's sake Did only three Books of Love's choice Art make; But I for thine will such Conceits devise, That after no Invention shall arise. Yield then, and let us riot in the Sweets That in Youth, Love, and glorious Beauty meets; That all the gods may envy to behold Us overdo their Fables; Danae's Gold Be counted Dross, and Leda's Swan appear Black as a Crow, when whiter Thou art there. First shall my Lips with an unvalued Kiss Suck from (those fragrant Mountainets of bliss) Thy melting Lips, more sweetness than the Bees Extract from Roses, or Hyblaean Trees, When to the Air their tender wings they yield, And with their mouths depopulate the field. And then descending to thy Iv'rie Neck My wand'ring Fancy shall my dull Lips check, That they o'erslipped thy Cheek; thence they shall fly With hot propension to thy flaming Eye; Thence to that smooth, that polished plain of Snow, On which thy Breasts (those Hills of wonder) grow, Where little Cupid's dance, and do contend Which of them first shall venture to descend To the Elysian Valleys, that do lie 'Twixt them and that rich Mine of purity, Thy slender Waste. What does remain below, 'Tis fit that none but you and I should know, When like a venturous well resolved man I sail through yourunfathomed Ocean To Love's safe Harbour; I'm too modest (Sweet) With wide expressions of our Loves to greet Thy willing ears, since I for my part mean In Action, not in Words to be obscene. Unclose those Eyelids, and outshine The brightness of the breaking day; The light they cover is divine, Why should it fade so soon away? Stars vanish so, and day appears, The Sun's so drowned i'th' morning's tears. Oh! let not sadness cloud this Beauty, Which if you lose you'll ne'er recover; It is not Love's, but Sorrow's duty To die so soon for a dead Lover. Banish, oh! banish grief, and then Our Joys will bring our Hopes again. Epithalamium. THe Joys of Youth, and what the Spring Of Health, Strength, Happiness can bring, Wait upon this Noble pair. Lady, may you still be fair As earliest Light, and still enjoy Beauty which Age cannot destroy. May you be fruitful as the Day; Never Sigh but when you Pray; Know no Grief, but what may be To temper your Felicity. And You my Lord, may truest Fame Still attend on your great Name. Live both of you espoused to Peace, And with your years, let Love increase. Go late to Heaven, but coming thither, Shine there, two glorious Stars together. Epithalamium. THe holy-Priest had joined their Hands, and now Night grew propitious to their bridal Vow; Majestic juno, and young Hymen flies To light their Pines at the fair Virgins eyes; The little Graces amorously did skip With the small Cupids from each Lip to Lip; Venus herself was present, and untied Her Virgin zone, when lo on either side Stood as her Handmaids, Chastity and Truth, With that immaculate guider of her Youth, Rose-coloured Modesty; these did undress The beauteous Maid, who now in readiness, The nuptial Tapors waving 'bout her Head, Made poor her Garments and enriched her Bed. While the fresh Bridegroom, like the lusty Spring, Did to the holy Bridebed with him bring Attending masculine Virtues; down he laid His snowy Limbs by a far whiter Maid. There Kisses linked their Minds; as they embrace, A Choir of Angels flew about the place, Singing all Bliss unto this Pair for ever, May they in Love and Union still persever. Upon a Gentleman playing on the Lute. STrange miracle! Who's this that wears The native Liv'rie of the Spheres; Transforming all our sense to Ears? Surely it cannot be a sin To think there is, or may have been On earth a heavenly Seraphin. That granted, certain 't must be he; In any else there cannot be, Such a Celestial Harmony. When glorious He with swift pursuit Touched the soft Cordage of his Lute, The Genius of the World was mute. Amphion so his hand let fall, When at th'enchantment of his call Stones danced to build the Theban Wall. Arion sure, when he began To charm th' attentive Ocean, Was but an Emblem of this Man, Whose numerous Fingers, whiter far Than Venus Swans or Ermines are, Vvaged with the amorous strings a War; But such a War as did invite The Sense of Hearing, and the Sight To riot in a full delight. For as his Touch kept equal pace, His Looks did move with such a grace; We read his Music in his Face. Live Noble Youth, let Heaven inspire Thee with its own eternal Fire, While all that hear thee do admire. Love. LOve's a Child, and aught to be Won with smiles: his Deity Is clothed in Panther's skins which hide Those parts which kill, if but espied; Hates Wars, but such as mildly led By Venus are to pleasures Bed; There do soft embraces fight, Kisses combat with delight. Amorous looks, and sighs discover What be fits a timorous Lover. But who ere to Love doth yield, Mars his Spear, nor Pallas Shield Can save from ruin; for Love's Fire Once enkindled by desire, Blown by thoughts impetuous blasts, It for ever burning lasts. The Sphere to which it strives to fly Are humane hearts that seek to die; These (like fuel) Loves fire cherish, Till they to ashes burn and perish. To a revived Vacation Play, Prologue. IT is a dead Vacation; yet we see (Which glads our souls) a wel-set Company Adorn our Benches: We did scarce expect So full an Audience in this long neglect Of Court and City Gentry, that transfer In Term their Visits to our Theatre. The Country Gentlemen come but to Town For their own business sake, to carry down A sad Sub-poena, or a fearful Writ For their poor Neighbour, not for love of Wit. Their comely Madams too come up to see New Fashions, or to buy some Rarity For their young Son and Heir, and only stay Till by their Sheepshearing they're called away. The Courtiers too are absent, who had wont To buy your Wares on trust, they're gone to hunt The nimble Buck i'th' Country; and conceive, They give you Interest, if you but receive A haunch of Venison, or if they supply Your Wives trim Churching with a Red-Deer Pie. Few Gentlemen are now in Town, but those Who in your Books remain uncrossed for Clothes, Who, when you ask them money, are so slack To paid; their answer is, What do you lack? You are our daily and most constant Guests, Whom neither Country business nor the Gests Can ravish from the City; 'tis your care To keep your Shops, ' less when to take the Air You walk abroad, as you have done to day, To bring your Wives and Daughters to a Play. How fond are those men than that think it fit T'arraigne the City of defect of Wit? When we do know you love both wit & sport, Especially when you've vacation sored. And now we hope you've leisure in the City To give the World cause to suspect you witty. We would entreat you then put off awhile That formal brow you wear when you beguile Young Chapmen with bad Wares; pray do not look On us, as on the Debtors in your Book, With a shrewd countenance; what we act to day Was for your sakes; (some think) a pretty Play; Nay we ourselves almost presume it good Because we hope it will be understood By your capacious Brains, which know to get Wealth, and for that cause we can't doubt your Wit; At least we dare not, since we're bound to say All those are witty come to see our Play. For Ezekiel Fen at his first Acting a Man's Part. PROLOGUE. SUppose a Merchant when he lanches forth An untried Vessel, doubtful of its worth, Dare not adventure on that infant Piece The glorious fetching of a golden Fleece From the remot'st Indieses. 'Tis so with me, Whose Innocence and timorous Modesty Does blush at my own shadow, prone to fear Each Wave a Billow that arises here; The Company's my Merchant nor dare they Expose my weak frame on so rough a Sea, ‛ Less you (their skilful Pilots) please to steer By mild direction of your Eye and Ear Their new rigged Bark. This is their hopes and mine Promise myself; if you like North-stars shine, I like a daring, and adventurous Man, Seeking new paths i'th' angry Ocean, In threatening Tempests, when the surges rise And give salt kisses to the neighbouring Skies, When blustering Boreas with impetuous breath Gives the spread Sails a wound to let in Death, Cracks the tall Mast, forcing the Ship (though loath) On it's carved Prow to wear a Crown of sroth; Will face all perils boldly, to attain Harbour in safety; then set forth again. To Mr. Charles Cotton. YOu that are he, you that are only he, Who are what every noble Soul should be, The Abstract of Mankind, who truly can Contract Wits spacious Orb into a span; Have stock enough of goodness to restore What erring Nature ever lost before. 'Tis not the greatness of your Name or Blood Makes me adore you, 'tis because you're good. The Wits Maecenas can without a storm Of trivial words, even actuate and inform With spritely soul that matter which would lie Lost like a lump, without a memory Or life t'engender Wit. Think there can be In me (dear Sir) no seeds of Flattery. Rapt with an holy Zeal, I needs must sing Your ample Worth; and when I touch a string Of my Phoebeian Lyre, chaste Daphne shall Tender her Bays to deck the Festival: Devoted to your merit, Bacchus then Shall with his richest Nectar-swelling Pen Endue me with such Wine, as I do think, At least I wish, that you this night may drink; Pure blood of the rich Spanish Grape which may Make you immortal, and achieve the Bay Poets by drinking aim at. May there be In your carouses, Wit and Company Fit for your dear enjoying; may the wealth Of noble Wine enrich you with a Health Great as my wishes; while forgotten I By your Commands, banished that Company I so admire, in my Archaick bed Sigh like a Girl, whose precious Maidenhead Is ravished from her; till your future view Banish that pensive sadness, and renew The happiness of Your Servant. To my Friend, Advice. IN Nature's Annals Mans' the perfect Story, And you of man had been the perfect glory, Had not the error of your giddy youth Sold the Inheritance of that noble truth Entailed on glorious manhood: you who are In your desires so much irregular, That your Ambition is to have your May, Your flower of Youth spent in the fruitless play Of gaining Female favours. In your blood Live flames, (which felt) yet are not understood; Continual Aetna's in your veins ne'er cease To burn, yet do by burning even increase. What pleasure find you in a foolish Kiss, Or wanton look, that you do place your bliss, Your minds Elysium in an amorous glance, Or Priapeian nightwork, such a trance, A dream, a nothing? Can that be the sum O joy that you should aim at; to become For that an Idiot; to enthrall your heart To one whom nature made your weaker part, Your household servant; to adore her hair, Make of her face an Idol, which though fair, Is but a painted Sepulchre within Containing rotten ashes of black sin, Relics of soul corruption! oh! reclaim Those sordid thoughts, and let a nobler aim Be your mind's Object, be the final Cause Of your youth's Actions; Let not Cupid's Laws Govern you wholly: For your female Creatures, Enchanting Devils clad in humane features, Earth's needful evils; Women, they whose name Divided, does most perfectly proclaim Their bad Condition; they, whose Beauty must Be to men firebrands to enkindle Lust; They are that sweet and undigested meat That does consume all those that dare to eat The too delicious Banquet; Bells that sings One tune at Weddings and at Bury; Serpents whose cunning carriage can entice Another Adam out of Paradise. They're all extremely good, or fraught with evils: If good, best Saints; if bad, the worst of Devils. Pardon me (sacred Womanhood) that I who've raised your Beauty to a Deity, Who know you good and virtuous, that you can Excel in worth as well as feature, Man; That I should for the love I bear this Youth, Injure the innocence of your matchless truth: 'Tis to reclaim his follies: Let him see How bad the worst of your frail Sex can be. I'll expiate this crime hereafter, pay To your chaste thoughts my own yet Virgin Bay; How much am I your friend then, that dare choose To hazard the fresh honour of my Muse For your dear sake; that with one loving breath Giving you life, betray myself to death? But this is friendship's duty, and I must Rather to you that to myself be just. Oh! Noble Youth, when you with judgement shall Read all the Texts not held Canonical In women's Legends, when you shall behold In Times successive Volume, what's enrolled Concerning them, how many leaves are spent Upon their Lives, and each a Monument Speaking the mischiefs that of old did rise From the intemperate glances of their eyes: And when Times Herald Fame shall usher in Those whom Antiquity brands for that sin: Bring Helen forth and the lascivious Boy Wrapped in the flames (themselves did cause) of Troy: When fair incest'ous Myrrah you shall see Groaning within the entrails of a Tree; View wanton Lais, who so oft did sell Her beauteous youth, a horrid Fiend in Hell; Or Tyrian Dido with big rage possessed, Opening the white doors of her Lovesick breast To let in wilful death; Or when you shall Read modern Stories more Authentical Than Poetry has taught: You shall survey Those Monsters, Nero and Caligula, Naked and trembling; then with guilty fear Insatiate Messalina shall appear; Then the two Queens of Naples, who in Name Were parallels as well as in their fame, Whose appetites could never be withstood (blood. Till their own bloods quenched their own heat of When you have seen these, turn your eyes and look On that fair paper, that unspotted Book, Where happier Stories flourish: and behold Inscribed in Characters of purest Gold Those glorious Names that Fame records to be Th' immaculate Champions of blessed Chastity; Selfe-murdred Lucrece, 'twill a Saint express, And damn foul Tarquin for's lasciviousness: chaste Arethusa there displays her Beams, That shine, though drowned in lustful Alphey's streams. Daphne, that Phoebus' hot pursuit did shun, Looks brighter now than the lascivious Sun. But vain are all examples; since even we By Reason's Mistress, wise Philosophy, In Ethics are instructed that we must Think each thing wicked which we know unjust: And what more dire injustice can there be Than to ourselves a want of Charity? But I'm too serious now, and must excuse The overbold instructions of my Muse: I know dear friend, you're so maturely wise, You can see vice, though clothed in the disguise Of virtue; and 'tis needless then to preach Doctrine to you, who abler are to teach Than be instructed: but my Pen does move Only by true directions of my love, From which if you receive the least offence, I must appeal to th' Court of Innocence From your harsh Censure; since what I have said Was not to chide you, Friend, but to persuade. Virtue's reward is Honour, and though you Wear no more Titles than descend as due From your brave Ancestors, yet to your Blood 'Tis an addition (Sir) to be thought good. You, whose demeanour bears that equal port, You've won the love, not envy of the Court; That can observe the form and Laws of State, Gaining men's emulation, not their hate; That with a noble temper can decide The difference 'twixt formality and pride, That your indifferent actions are as far From b'ing too common, as too singular, So that with glorious freedom you direct Your Will to what it ought most to affect. You in whose Nature (as two Suns) arise The Attributes of bountiful and Wise. You that are Valiant, (as Fame's eldest Child Honour) yet teach even Valour to be mild. You that (in brief) with certain judgement can Be perfect Courtier, yet be perfect Man. 'Tis no Poetic flattery that does raise My eager Muse up to this height of Praise. Big with an holy and Prophetic rage, In Fame's great Book, I in an ample Page Will fix the Annals of your Worth, which shall When other Names are held Apocryphal, In that eternal Volume be annexed A fair Appendix to that glorious Text. But now (Great Sir) 'tis time that I excuse The too audacious errors of my Muse, And by my humble wishes strive to win A full remission for its daring sin. May you enjoy what ever Strength and Health Can yield of pleasure; or unbounded Wealth Can without riot purchase: may you be As free from others envy, as y'are free From its desert: and may you (which long since You had) grow great i'th' favour of your Prince. May not mischance invade your souls blessed peace; But may it even as it consumes, increase. And when decrepit age shall slowly creep Over your Youth, and to eternal Sleep Confine your eyelids; may you then expire Blessed as a Martyr that does Court the Fire. Poets are Prophet's Sir; and things indeed Happen, when they but wish they may succeed. Upon the right Honourable RICHARD Earl of Portland, late Lord High Treasurer of ENGLAND. ELEGY. HOw dul's my Faith! 'twould puzzle my belief That there could be room left on earth for grief, Did not the World's great Genius seem to pour Its very eyes out in a plenteous shower, As if it meant its moisture should create Another Deluge, spite of powerful Fate. The Stars are mournful grown, and do conspire With unaccustomed tears to quench their fire. The Sun himself looks heavy, and puts on (In spite of Light) a sad privation, (breath Since Noble PORTLAND's fall, whose glorious Was too too precious to be stolen by Death. Grim Tyrant hold thy hand, if thou ' lt employ Thy unresisted Shafts, let them destroy Only those petty subjects, whom their Fate Never produced for Pillars of the State; The Kingdom well may spare them, and their loss Would rather be a blessing than a cross. There's multitudes that only seek to be The ends, not raisers of their Family, To whom thy Darts (their Patrimony spent) Would be most welcome Cures of discontent. Ambitious Fury! 'Tis thy only aim To vanquish those same true born sons of Fame That rise by noble merit; such was he To whom my Muse does pay this Elegy. He who though placed in Honour's highest seat, Strived rather to be counted Good than Great. Into whose Essence (all conceived) that State Did its own soul even transubstantiate: Such were his Counsels, so supremely wise, They always conquered where they did advise. His Judgement too so strong, and so mature, What ere it promised, seemed to be secure: Yet 'twas with such a moderation mixed, That as on Law, so 'twas on Conscience fixed. All's actions were so even, they ne'er did force The great man's Envy, nor the poor man's Curse. Such was his Life, so temperate and just, It ne'er knew Malice, nor commerced with Lust. What sudden trance surrounds me? what extreme Passion confines my senses to a Dream? I feel a lazy humour slowly creep Over my Fancy, charming it to sleep, Or rather, that (entranced) it might supply Great PORTLAND's Hearse with a fit Elegy. Now a Poetic fury brings me on To mount to Fame's eternal Mansion, Where upon Marble Seats I did behold Those glorious Worthies so renowned of old For prudent Counsels, who were held the health, The very life and soul o'th' Commonwealth. There the mellifluous Cicero did shine Bright with the spoils of vanquished Catiline; And as his Motto, o'er his Throne there hung, Arms yield to Arts; let Swords give place to th' Tongue. There Roman Fabius sat, who wrought the fall (By his delays) of Punick Hanuibal. Amongst other foreign Statesmen, there appears Those of our Nation, who for many years Did in ambiguous Fortune's frown and smile, Uphold the Fate and Glory of this Isle. There that great Marshal Pembroke did sustain The reeling Pillars of third Henry's Reign, And of this our English heaven advance Himself the Atlas 'gainst invading France. (After a numerous Company) in his Pall, And other holy Robes, Fame did install Illustrious Morton, that composed the Jarre Betwixt the House of York and Lancaster. There Sackvile, Cecil, Egerton, were placed, On whom as I stood gazing, Fame in haste Approaching, did command them to prepare For PORTLAND's welcome to that Theatre Of everliving Honour; and to me, Go sing (quoth she) this Worthies Elegy. Strait (as the Muse's Priest) I did obey, And 'gan to touch my Instrument, when they Leaving their Thrones, with an unanimous voice Welcomed the Sage Lord, and did give him choice Which Seat he would accept; but modest he, Repaid their Courtesy with Courtesy, Till Fame herself installed him, and did give His merit this Inscription, which shall live, As his great Name, unrazed: Here PORTLAND lies, That was as truly Just as he was Wise; Cautious, yet full of Council; Mildred, yet free From seeking idle Popularity; To Goodmen gentle, to the Bad severe; Loved Virtue for its self, and not for Fear. This Fame inscribed, and this shall deck his Hearse, While there is Time, or memory of Verse. On Sir Robert Ayton, late Secretary to her Majesty. ELEGY. Tears are all Great men's Obsequies, when they Break from the glorious prison of their Clay; A thousand fluent eyes their losses mourns, As if they meant to drown them in their Urns. If then this sorrow customary be, How many eyes should be wept out for thee? Admired Ayton! every mournful breath Lamenting thy should sigh itself to death, As proud to wait on thy pure Soul, which fled To heaven so swiftly; none did think thee dead, Till the loud Bell (Death's Trumpet) did proclaim Thy flight to immortality; then Fame Herself put on Griefs Livery, and sung Thy weighty loss, till she had lost her tongue In that sad use, as if she meant to have A Tomb for all her Story in thy Grave. Thou, who when living, Truth's example stood, To teach Great men how to be Great & Good; Nay, to be Wise and Learnt, to act each part Of their Lives Scene, with Virtue and with Art, Which thou mad'st Virtues Handmaid, and with skill Managed thy Greatness, without Greatness ill. But Sorrow does distract me, and my Zeal Of Grief for thee does (with the practice) steal Away my Muse's Faculties, and now Death's Emblem (Cypress) hangs upon my Brow Heavy as thy cold Marble; else ere this, My pregnant Muse, big with an Extasis Of Wonder, had endeavoured to set forth The unexpressive glory of thy Worth: It had displayed thy Learning, which was such, That it (in justice) may compare with much Admired Barclay, or be said to side With Wit-excelling Buchanan, (the pride And glory of thy Nation) 'Twas so known To both the Kingdoms, each would gladly own Thee as their Offspring, but ours (grieving) must Only be happy to preserve thy dust: Which as if Fame had meant it should inherit The glory due unto thy living Merit, This unaccustomed Honour to it brings, To mix with sacred ashes of our Kings. Good, is in Subjects Kingly, and in thee All Graces strive to make an Unity Of pious goodness; many flames so meet, And curl into one Pyramid, then greet Their subtle Sphere; in Aytons' equal Breast Dwells all that could for Virtue be expressed. So that the brightness of his Lives just glory Shall shame the Bad, be to the good a Story. Upon the Noble Colonell-Generall Burroughs, slain at the Isle of Ree. ELEGY. ADmired BURROUGHS! though to deck thy Hearse Thy Merits challenge a tenth Muse's Verse; Though, if thy Valour just reward should have, Mars should turn Poet, write thy Epitaph: Yet let not thy blessed soul (Heroic Spirit) That now in heavens great Army does inherit The Civic Garland, Laurel, and enjoys More glorious triumphs than the Romish toys Used to grace happy Conquests with, despise This, though no Hecatomb, yet a Sacrifice, Which the well-wishes of a bleeding heart Offers as Funeral flames to thy desert. To say thou wert Wise, Valiant, and the rest Of those good Attributes thy Worth expressed T' include in it, were nothing; 'twere more fit That some sweet Genius some Ovidian Wit Should study for new Epithets t' express Thee as thou wert then living, that's no less Than Master of those Gifts, which here related Would make old Nature proud she had created A work of so much wonder, that pale Death Has lodged thee now (Illustrious Soul) beneath A pile of Marble, whose hard entrails weep O'er thy cold ashes; and since yron-sleep Has closed thy eyelids, let thy silent Grave Retain with thee this for thy Epitaph: Here lies a Colonel, slain by fatal Shot; Who lost his regiment, and a Kingdom got. Upon the right Honourable, the Lady Elisabeth Rich. ELEGY. Why looks the day so dull? why does't appear As if it were contracted to a Tear? Or rather had put off essential Light, To shroud its Lustre in eternal night? The Clouds are drowsy, as they meant to sleep, Or rather pregnant (with salt Dew) to weep. 'Tis past the Morning now, Day needs not pour Its precious moisture on each amorous Flower; The Violets want not liquid pearls t' adorn Their azure ears, nor from the beauteous Morn Does the pale Cowslip or the Primrose seek A Crystal Gemm to hang upon its Cheek; Their pride does wither, they hang down their heads, As if they would entomb them in their beds. The Sun-aspiring Lark under his Wing Hanging his head, seems now to sigh, not sing. What should portend this sadness? why should mirth Seem thus o'th' sudden to be fled from Earth? No Comet has appeared of late, no Star With blazing brightness threatened Death or War. The Cause then of this sudden change must be Beyond the reach of wise Astrology. (My Fancy has 't.) This alteration falls Only at Beauties, Virtue's Funerals. These are no common Obsequies, since She (Illustrious Lady) is enforced to be The Cause of these lamented Rites, by proud Imperious Death confined into a shroud: She that was so superlatively Good, Her Virtue was her Honour more than Blood: Whose Innocence and Love was all her Care: Who was as purely chaste as She was Fair: So full of noble Carriage, that her Life May be the Figure of a perfect Wife. Look here you curious Great Ones, here doth lie A Glass for you to dress your Actions by. 'Twas not the name of Ca'ndish, so allied To Worth, that could in her beget least Pride; Nor did she boast her Title, being led A glorious Bride to hopeful Rich his Bed. Gentle as Summer Evenings, or as Air In its first native Purity; and Fair As was the Beams of the Created Light, Before it ever had conversed with Night; Humble as Votaries, that in Prayer expire; And chaste as those who never know Desire Was this Religious Dame; who ne'er can die, Since her own Fame has writ her Elegy. Upon the death of his Sister, M rs. Priscilla Glapthorne. ELEGY. Happy Arabians, when your Phoenix dies In a sweet pile of fragrant Spiceries! Out of the Ashes of her Myrrh-burned Mother, (That you may still have one) springs up another. Unhappy we! Since 'tis your Phoenix nature, Why could nor ours, our only matchless Creature Enjoy that right? Why from the Mother's Urn Did not another Phoenix strait return? Oh! there's a reason; 'twas cause Natures Store All spent on her, is now become too poor To frame her equal, so that on her Hearse My trembling hand shall hang this Funeral Verse. Virtue and Beauty, none can boast to have, They both are buried in her silent Grave; Who was Loves, Truths, Beauties and Virtue's Pride; With her Love, Truth, Beauty and Virtue did. Upon the death of M rs. Susanna Osbalston. ELEGY. I Pray thee leave me, Grief; if thou wilt stay Within my panting Breast, show me the way To present death; or force my eyes to shed So large a flood of Tears, as may be spread Like a transparent Crystal Sheet upon Her Grave, that so no other worthless Stone Aspire t' adorn her Monument. Oh She! Who was what every loyal Wife should be: She in whose living Character was writ A modest Sweetness clothed in harmless Wit: Not like those airy Dames that only strive To keep their Faces, not their Fame's alive: That prey upon their Husband's wealth, consume Whole Sign'ories in Painting and Perfume: That only make an Idol of their Will, And hate all Good, 'cause they account it iii. No, she was pleasing, void of least Offence; Was fully Wise, yet full of Innocence. But oh! how I undo myself! I now Must pull my Laurel from my wrinkled Brow, And wreathed in deathful Cypress, sadly call My Muse to wait upon her Funeral. Light thy sick Tapers, pensive Muse, and come To wait her Death, and thine own Martyrdom; For neverbe invoked to write (by me), When hers is writ, another Elegy. Now in that silent Tenement of Death, The Church, go sing in a soft Swanlike breath, A Requiem to thy memory; and there Drown every word thou utter'st with a Tear: But let them be such Tears as may express Not Sorrow, but a joyful Extasis. And You (dear Sir) in whom there doth survive So much of her, she needs must rest alive In your yet bleeding memory; You that know How much each tributarie-Grace did owe To her unmatched Perfections; how that she Was Virtues, Beauties just Epitome: How that her Eyes were Spheres in which did move The equal Orbs of Chastity and Love: Her Cheeks two fields of purity, where grew The Rose and Lily, mixed i'th' mutual hue Of Smiles and Blushes; how each outward part Did speak the richer lustre of her Heart, Her Minds intensive glory. When you think Justly on this, her Grave no more shall drink Your frequent Tears; but fraught with noble Mirth, You'll soon divest your Soul of all that's Earth About it; say, 'twas justice to transfer From this dull Region such a matchless Star, And fixed i'th' Crystal Heaven; you'll then confess Your constant Love to her appeared far less. In Grief than Joy; for sorrow spent for this Her happiness, is envy to her bliss, Not charity t'her memory; yet my Verse Shall hang a lasting Hatchment on her Hearse, My Laurel deck her Urn, in which does lie As much as of Mortality could die. You Sir, who then best knew her perfect Life, Ought to rejoice, not grieve for your dead Wife. SYLVIA. A FRAGMENT. AS DAMON thus did 'plaine, Behold a Cloud (out of the foamy Maine) Began to arise, and overlook the Earth, Scorning the Sea (from whence it took its birth) As dull and ponderous; still it mounts up higher With azure Wings, as if it meant t'aspire, Spite of commanding Natures free Consent, To place 'bove Air the watery Element; Whose vain ambition, from his calid Sphere, When nimble Fire, the chief and supreme Peer Of Elements, beheld; his servant Ire Increased his fury, adding Fire to Fire, Making him hotter than the eighth degree, Which is prescribed him by Philosophy; And calling to his accident, the Heat That by him sat upon a brazen Seat; Which 〈◊〉 like Aetna, when Typhous breath. Threatens to blow up the Sicilian earth. He bade him quell that overdaring Foe, Who still made haste to his own overthrow. Heat straight obeyed; and wrapping up in Smoke His horrid Flames, a speedy passage took Into the fiery Regions, and with force Of rays more ardent than the Sun's bright Horse When they o'erturned their Master's purple Carr, And drowned in Po, the venturous Waggoner, Drew up the willing Cloud, that strived to fly, With Icarus to its own Tragedy. Just as a Lodestar, whose attracting force Does cause the Iron leave its native Course, And mount to it; so did Heats powerful might Enforce the following Cloud, till it had quite Passed the first Kingdom, and was upward gone Into the pure Airs middle Region; Then back with speed, the Heat 'gan homeward fare And left the Cloud to th' mercy of the Air; Whose subtle body being light and dry, Could not endure the Clouds moist quality. (Clouds and all heavy Meteors, Rain, and Snow, Hail, and the like, are Bodies mixed, that grow Out of the Earth, and watery Element, Which by their nature ponderous, still are bend Down to the Centre, but the Air and Fire Of more pure substance, seek to force them higher Towards the Sphere, that in their downfall thence They may triumph, and show their Eminence Over those dullerbodies; but the natures Of these two gross, yet fully simple Creatures Will not permit ascension, they attract Therefore these Meteors upwards, which compact Of humid Vapours, needs must seek to bow Downwards again): Our Cloud then which was now Left by its hot Conductor, strait was cast By the enraged Air with greater haste, To kiss the Centre (than a Parthian Bow Can shoot an Arrow, or a Mortar throw Deathful Granado's): in its way it struck Upon the Firmament, and there b'ing broke, Its wat'ry substance did obscure the Plain And gaudy Heaven with Clouds, which sought again To join in one, and fill the buxom Air, Just as you've seen a Painter on a fair White Table drop some little spots of Black, Which running here and there, at length does make One Colour in the Grownd-work; or as when Two numerous Hosts of wel-resolved men Meet in the Field, and with the murderous Smoke Of their Death-sending Muskets, strive to choke Their bloody facts from view of lightsome day, The Sulphur flying many a several way, At last does mere, and dim the Crystal Sky: So did this Cloud, now many, by and by One Cloud again; which when the Rose-cheeked Sun (Who had but half his daily labour run) Saw from his shining Chariot, on he speeds, Driving amain his Nectar-glutted Steeds Through the dark Welkin, now he begins to call On Pirois, now on Aethon, then le's fall His angry Whip upon their sweaty backs, Now pulls the Reins hard, which again he slacks, That they might have more free and open Course T'expel the Cloud, which scorning the Sun's force, With pitchy mists did so obscure his light, That day seemed turned into Cimmerian Night. Then strait the Cloud out of its watery Store Showered as if godly Pyrrhus' age once more Had been approaching, when blue Proteus drove His flocks to see the Mountains, Fishes clavae Unto the Elms, before a noted seat For harmless Turtles. All the Winds did meet In hostile opposition; Auster fought With Lybs, and he with Boreas, who from out His rapid throat cast gusts, and did display His wings as wide, as when Orythia Was by him ravished: Thunder from the Sky Like to loud music, made a Harmony: With the Winds whistling shrillness, Seas did roar Rising in frothy Mountains, that the Shore Trembled for fear, lest the impetuous Waves Should pass their Limits, and become the Graves. To the adjoining Meadows: And our Swain Damon, who erst in Tears began to plain His Kala's loss, now let that salt dew fall, To solemnize his poor Flocks Funeral. For lo big-swelling with the late-falne Rain Tiber broke o'er his Banks, and ran amain Into the Meadows, where our Shepherds kept Their Woolly Charge, which presently was swept Down by the greedy River, as we see A Town beleaguered by its Enemy, When by an onslaught 'tis surprised and ta'en, Both old and young are by the Martial Train Of the Victorious Soldiers murdered: so Dealt the enraged River; to and fro It ran, and bore down all; the tender Lambs That then were sucking of their milky Dams, Ere they could wail their deaths with one sad bleat, Were swallowed up, yet hanging on the Teat. Nor did the Flocks horn'd-Leaders brazen Bell Serve him for aught, unless to ring a knell To the Folds drowning: 'twas in vain to strive, For the poor Shepherds now to save alive Themselves was all their study; to a Wood, Whose top had long a mark to Seamen stood, They trembling fled, when strait the Cloudy Sky Began to clear up, and Phoebus lightsomely Again to shine; the Muses of this Grove To chant their sylvan Madrigals, and move The Stones to listen, and the lofty Trees To bow their dewy heads; the busy Bees Leaving the hollow Oaks which the late Rain Had forced 'em enter, now began again Their little thighs with juice of Thyme to fill; But the amazed Shepherds trembling still, Could scarce give credit to their wondering eyes, (Such power has fear if throughly it surprise Our soul and senses) they beheld the Wood As't had been water; thought each plash a flood, And every drop that from the boughs did fall They thought a tear shed for their Funeral. In this amazement standing; to their sight An object was presented, naked quite, Save that her snowy Smock did compass in Its white embraces, her far whiter Skin. They saw bound to an Oak so rare a Creature, As seemed to be the work on which old Nature Had spent her best Materials. Not Cytherca, when she naked rose From the Seas wat'ry bosom, did disclose Half of her Beauties; not the nimble Maid, To whose swift Feet so many Suitors paid Their heads as tribute; nor the Wood-nymphs Queen When she was bathing by Actaeon seen, Showed like to her; by whom Pygmalion might Have ta'en a Pattern, and have framed a right Model of Beauty: her attractive Hair, Bright as the Sunbeams, drew th' enamoured Air Gently to waft it; and her Pearls of Sight, Though drowned in Tears, cast forth a glittering light, That through dark Sorrow shined; the winged Boy Leaving his Mother's Fountains, came 〈◊〉 enjoy Those Crystal Wells, whose pure drops could redress Sooner than Nectar, hot Love's thirstiness. The Naiads, and tripping Fairy Elves Repined to see in their own Woods, themselves So far surpassed in Beauty; and the Grove Thinkinged had been Sylvanus fairest Love, Brought thither all his Offspring, with pretence To do his Gods beloved Nymph reverence. First did the Thorn most amorously begin To twine about her, yet ne'er pricked her skin; Then aged Palms, and Victor-crowning Bays Halfe-withered (at her Eyes all quickening Rays) Came and renewed their freshness; and the Yew Unkind to weary Passengers, at view Of her, lost all his poison; and the Tree Whence Venus' Minion in his Infancy Was by the Wood-nymph taken, did presume To borrow sweetness from her breaths presume; Here did the Cedar meet the stately Pine, And it the Cypress, seeking to intwine Their bushy tops, which Arbour-wise did run To shade her Face, and rob the amorous Sun Of his desired Kisses; all the Wood At view of her, as much amazed stood, As when the Oegrin Harpists cunning hand Gave life to Mountains, forced Panchaya stand Shaking her Balmy Tresses. Had the deep Sighs she expired not showed that life did keep In her a happy residence, the Swains Would have imagined that her azure Veins, Her Iv'rie Neck, and swelling Breasts, the rest Of her Dimensions, not to be expressed, T'have been Diana's Statue, there erected To be adored; but when they had respected Her sighs, and saw her living as she add been Some Sylvan Goddess, or the Nymph whose green Sceptre commands the Forests; they askd' grace For offering entrance to that sacred place. The bashful Virgin, from her weeping eyes Shot glittering Rays hot Loves Incendiaries, Teaching Days Tapor a more glorious Shine Than Diamonds give to Jet, when they intwine, At them the frozen Waggoner might thaw His Chariot axeled with congealed Snow; And the slow moving North-Star having felt Their temperate heat, his Icicles would melt, And being affrighted at the sight of men, Called up the blood into her Cheeks again Which fear had made depart thence; blushing red, As does Aurora when she leaves the Bed Of old Tythonius; sane she would have got Into the Wood, took Daphne from the hot Pursuit of lustful Cynthius; the Oak She oft besought to lend its Bark to cloak Her from their view, 〈◊〉 when she saw how vain Her wishes were, she then began a main To beat her Breasts, and from her radiant eyes To send a shower, whose drops were of more price Than those which conquered Danae: As she thought With plaints and grievous sighs to have besought The Shepherds to unbind her; from the thick Of the green Wood, came running toward her, quick As some Numidian Lion from his Den, (Half-starved with hunger) to his prey, three men Three Monsters rather, clad in Weeds of hair, Save that their Legs, and Arms, and Necks all bare, Looked rougher than their Garments; to the Maid Then bend their cruel steps, who humbly prayed The Heavens for pity; on the Villains went Towards the Oak with a most damned intent To ravish her; the Trees that by her stood Began lament; the light Nymphs of the Wood Implored the chaste Diana to defend Her wretched Votress; and the Birds did tend The Air with dismal screetches; Phylomell In mourning accents framed her voice to tell The Vengeance due to Ravishers: the Fite That burned their entrails, blown by soul desire, Made their eyes sparkle, yielding horrid sight Unto their fact, whose blackness did affright The blushing Sun, who bid his golden head And seemed to suffer an Eclipse through dread Of that dark deed; and now they did begin With sacrilegious hands to touch that skin, Which soft as Lydian Silk, did even entice Love there to build his choicest Paradise. When the enraged Shepherds, who beheld Their monstrous purpose, with stern fury filled, Ran to her succour; as a Bear, whose young Is stolen away, or as a Wolf among A flock of Sheep, when by the Pastor's care he's hindered of his prey; just so did far The disappointed Lechers; and with cries Whose hideous sound lent thunder to the skies, They rushed upon the Shepherds, who prepared For all encounters, stood upon their guard, And with their hooks, which sometimes used to catch The tender Lambs and bleating Ewes, they watch To meet their blows, and strength with strength repel; All struck together, yet not one blow fell In vain to th' ground; the sweat and purple blood That trickled from them, dimmed their sights, yet stood The fight in equal balance; now the Swains, And then the Woodmen had the odds; their pains Seemed not to make 'em weary; these did fight Spurred on by lust, and these in justice right. Now began they grapple, and with all their force Strived to oerthrow each other; no remorse Of their own harms, could move their angry minds To come to parley: fury when it blinds Our souls, is such a passion; not the rage Of hungry Indian Lions, when they wage With ravenous Leopard's battle for their prey, Was like to theirs; fierce Bears and Tigers may Be held as mild; the British Mastiffs sight With his courageous Irish opposite, The Dragon armed with plates of strongest Male, Against joves' Bird; the Sword-sish and the Whale Were models of this combat; till at length, Might overcame, Virtue gave place to Strength: The Shepherd's breathless were; their angry foes Waxed more courageous, and did seek to close With their half-vanquished enemies: as a Steed Who having run with overhasty speed Most of his Race, does, ere it fully end, Tyre; so the Shepherds who did rashly spend Their spirits at the entrance of the Fray, Ere it was done, had none to spend, yet they With courage held the Fight up, till by force Mastered, they fell, each with a wounded Corpse Striking the earth now when they could no more Strike their inhuman foes. The savage Boar That in revenge wrathful 〈◊〉 sent To spoil the Chaledonian Continent, When he had drawn the valiant dardan's blood, Could not triumph more; they insulting stood Like to so many Goshawks o'er their prey, o'er the poor Swains; what then could Sylvia, (So hight the Nymph) expect, but present death, Or ravishment? Which to prevent, her breath She sought to stop with her gold 〈◊〉 hair, But when it came into her lips, it there Amorously hung, spite of her force, to suck Myriad of melting kisses; see the luck Heavens had ordained to save her; with her cries And with the late-fought Combats Echoing noise, Drawn to the place, arrived an armed Knight, Who to avoid the fearful tempests might, Had ta'en the Woods for shelter, just as they With barbarous outcries were about to slay The honest Shepherds, whom when he did view In that apparent peril, strait he flew Upon the lustful butchers, and his Sword Dealt deathful dole amongst 'em; they afford Him blows for blows, and dangerous fight maintain Till his strong hand victoriously had slain The fiercest of them; then the other pair, Like to a stone that through the subtle Air Flies from a forcing sling, so fast they fled Into the Wood; the Shepherds almost dead With wounds and bruises, joyfully did rise To thank their Saviour, who had cast his eyes Up to the Tree where lovely Sylvia stood, Bound like the Tyrian Damsel when the stood Sent up a Whale to eat her. This strange sight So full of wonder, filled the courteous Knight With admiration, and desire to know, Both who she was, and who had used her so. And hasting forward to the holy tree, He gently began to lose her bands; but she Who in th' Idea of her frighted thought Saw nothing but her foes, imagined nought But present Rape, gave up her Virgin breath From whence she had it, and enriohed foul Death With the most precious flavour: not the Boy Now turned a Flower whom, Phoebus did destroy With his Sledg-casting; nor Orithia's fair Sister, sweet Proeris, whom the name of Air Brought to her ruin; nor joves' beam burned Love In death appeared so amorous. As a Dove Trussed by a Falcon gently takes the stroke Of Death; so did she. The broad spreading Oak Erst proud of its fair Captive, sadly now Began lament, and mournfully to bow His aged head, to kiss her liveliest Corpse; The Wood-nymphs mournful plaints did even enforce The neighbouring Rocks to weep; our Shepherd's tears Watered the earth: in her sad death, appears His Kala's loss to Damon, so that he Wept both for hers, and Kala's Tragedy. But all their woes were nothing to the plight. Of sorrow seizing on the gentle Knight, When he beheld her perish; that his grief Made him forget to tender quick relief Unto her fainting; yet at last he ran Unto a neighbouring fountain, and began To catch the gliding water, which did meet His labouring hands, thence leapt into her sweet Though dying face, she only in a swound, And not quite dead; the saving water found Means to recure her, (for 'tis sure the 〈◊〉 Of sudden trances, which possess a Creature Only when Feat does call from every part The lively blood to aid the fainting heart, Again to vanish, when the blood is called By some quick motion to the parts appalled For want of it;) She therefore in this guise Handled, unseald (forthwith) her death-closed eyes. As the transplendent Guider of the Day Obscured by clouds, more brightly does display, When h'ath ortcome them, his all-piercing light; So did the blazing Comets of her sight Dart now more lucid clearness, every beam Of it deserving to have been a Theme For all the Poets. Not the Cyprian Rose Or silver Lily, what can we suppose, Was like her Cheeks? Hyperboles must needs Fail to express that which itself exceeds All Metaphors: in them the blushing Red Strived to appear, and back unwilling fled To give that place to the more powerful White: Judge but what fullness of sincere delight Rapt the late fearful Knight when he did see Her live again; he hasted to the tree, And kindly cheered her timorous heart; the Maid Could scarce believe her ears or eyes, which paid Joy a most welcome tribute; to unbind Her cords he hasted, while the mossy rind Of the broad spreading tree did strive to cleave To her fair skin, as if't had rather leave Its mother Oak than her; beneath the shade Of a thick Figtree she before had laid Her light silk garments, which the Shepherds brought To clothe her with; the loving vestures sought To fly unto her body; soon as she Had put them on, with blushing modesty She thanked the noble Champion and the Swains, Who for her sake had undergone such pains As merited requital; but a look From her sweet self both Knight and Shepherds took As a reward sufficient; they would fain Have asked her name, but durst not; how she came To be distressed so; but lest she should chance With thought of it to fall into a Trance Again, they would not crave't; She humbly prayed The Knight and Shepherds, she might be conveyed By them home to her Father's house, that stood Under the covert of that luckless Wood Where she had run such danger: Strait way they Leaving the cursed Villains corpse a prey To meager Wolves, the leavy Grove forsook; She being their Guide, a beaten Path they took Into a Meadow, where the Flowers did strive With eager motion, which should first revive From their late drowning, that they so might meet With dewy lips the beauteous Virgin's feet. Caetera desant. FINIS.