POEMS, Written by the RIGHT honourable WILLIAM EARL OF PEMBROKE, Lord Steward of his majesty's household.  
WHEREOF Many of which are answered by way of Repartee, BY Sir BENJAMIN ruddier, KNIGHT.  
With several Distinct POEMS, Written by them Occasionally, and Apart.  
LONDON, Printed by Matthew Inman, and are to be sold by James Magnes, in Russel-street, near the Piazza, in Covent-Garden, 1660.   

To the Right honourable CRISTIANA, COUNTESS of DEVONSHIRE, DOWAGER.  
MADAM,  
IT will be no small addition to all your great Titles and other Excellencies, that you have been so careful to preserve, & now command to be published, these elegant Poems; Neither could your ladyship have employed one that would have more willingly obeyed your Commands, I having been obliged to that honourable Family, not only by descent, but am by many favours now bound to that Person, who is Heir to all their Virtues as well as Fortunes. The Church that covers his sacred ashes, must submit to time, and at last lie buried with him; But this Monument that your ladyship hath erected to his memory, will outlast the Calculation of all Astrologers; who though they could foretell the time that he should leave us, could set no Date to the Fame that he should leave behind him; which, though it have lain aslecp in all this noise of Drums and Trumpets, when all the Muses seemed to be fled, and to have left nothing behind them, but a few lame iambics, canting at the corners of our desolate streets; yet they are now content to be awakened by your ladyship's command, & under your Patronage to come abroad, and meet, and salute that peace that gave them their first being, and to tell the World, that whatever was excellently said to any Lady in all these Poems, was meant of you; and that the Poet himself being inspired by your ladyship, you only that are extracted from an ancient and Royal Family, have the Right and power to give life and perpetuity to so noble a person.  
MADAM, Your most humble and obedient Servant, 
 JOHN DONNE.   

TO THE READER.  
IN the collecting of these poems (which were chiefly preserved by the greatest Masters of music, all the Sonnets being set by them) I was fain first to send to Mr. Henry Laws, who furnishing me with some, directed me for the rest, to send into Germany to Mr. Laneere, who by his great skill gave a life and harmony to all that he set; so that if by their wandering some be surreptitiously got into their company; or, if (the Author leaving no other issue but these of his brain) some of these Nymphs seem a little more wanton than the rest, of which there are but two or three Copies can be suspected, they desire that they may not make their retreat, until the next Impression; and than you will find many more ready to supply their room, which were not come unto my hands when I published these.   

Earl OF PEMBROKE, Lord Steward: SONNET.  


CAn you suspect a change in me,  
And value your own constancy?  
O! no; you found that doubt in your own heart:  
Where Love his images but kissed,  
Not graved; fearing that dainty flesh would smart,  
And so his painful Sculpture would refist;  
But wrought in mine without remorse,  
Till he of it thy perfect Statue made  
As full of sweetness as of force.  
Only unkindness may the work invade,  
And so it may defaced remain  
But never can another form retain.  
While we dispute our liberty  
I have lost mine;  
And which is worse, incline  
To love that slavery:  
Not the great Charter, nor King's-Bench can free  
Me from the Chain, wherein my thoughts she tied:  
For our dull Earth what care is had we see,  
Yet easily let our mind  
Into more thraldom slide.  
O that she were but kind!  
To give for that a pledge;  
There were my Law, and there my privilege.   

Dear, can you take my soul from me,  
And yet have no belief  
That I have grief?  
Oh did your fair eyes ever see  
(Without a painful force)  
That sad divorce!  
The Soul and Body love like me,  
Not you; the Evening kind,  
The morning of another mind,  
And every several hour  
Slack, and increase that power.  
They are by Love made perfect One:  
No less than Death makes them become Alone.   

When the resistless flames of my desire  
Make Aetna of my heart,  
And I enraged, impart  
The torments unto you, and press  
For pity in this violent distress;  
You sing, & think I feign this fire.  
Because one frown of yours can all control,  
Wrong not my pains; you are the true  
Higher part of my soul,  
The lower tyrant is to me, and slave to you.   

Why do you give me leave to sip,  
And pull the cup from my so thirsty lip  
Before I drink?  
Desire hath left my heart to think,  
And is dispersed in every outward part;  
My hands, lips, eyes,  
That all restraint despise.  
While it was in my heart  
It did your will, in chains of slavish fears,  
But these have all no ears.    

P.  

IF her disdain least change in you can move,  
you do not love;  
For while your hopes give fuel to your fire,  
you sell desire.  
Love is not love, but given free;  
And so is mine, so should yours be,  
Her heart that melts to hear of others moan,  
to mine is stone;  
And eyes that weep a stranger's hurt to see,  
joy to wound me.  
Yet I so much affect each part  
As caused by them, I love my smart.   

Think her unkindness justly must be graced  
with Name of chaste;  
And that the frowns least longing should exceed,  
and raging preed.  
So can her rigour ne'er offend  
Except self-love seek private end.   

'Tis Love breeds Love in me, and cold disdain  
kills it again:  
As water maketh fire to fret and fume,  
till all consume:  
None can of Love more free gift make,  
Then to love's self for Loves own sake.   

I'll never dig in Quarry of an heart  
to have, nor part,  
Nor roast in those fierce eyes which always are  
Canicular.  
Who this way would a Lover prove,  
Doth show his patience, not his love.  
A frown may be sometimes for physic good,  
but not for food:  
And for that raging humour there is sure  
a gentler cure.  
Why bar you Love of private end,  
Which never should to public tend.    

P.  

I.  
DIsdain me still, that I may ever love,  
For who his love enjoys, can love no more  
The War once past, with Peace men Cowards prove,  
And ships returned, do rot upon the shore.  
Then though thou frown, I'll say thou art most fair,  
And still I'll love, though still I must despair.   

II.  

As heats to life, so is desire to love,  
For these once quenched, both life & love are done;  
Let not my sighs, nor tears, thy Virtue move,  
Like basest Mettle, do not melt too soon:  
Laughed at my woes, although I ever mourn;  
Love surfeits with reward, his Nurse is scorn.   

Shall Love that gave Latona's heir the foil,  
(Proud of his Archery, and Python's spoil)  
And so enthraled him to a Nymphs disdain,  
As when his hopes were dead, he full of pain,  
Made him above all trees the laurel grace,  
An emblem of love's glory; his disgrace.  
Shall he, I say, be termed a footboy now,  
That made all powers in heaven and earth to bow:  
Or is't a fancy which themselves do frame,  
And therefore dare baptize by any name,  
A flaming straw, which one spark kindles bright,  
And first hard breath out of itself doth fright;  
Whose father was a smile, and death a frown,  
Soon proud of little, and for less cast down;  
'Tis so, and this a Lackey term you may,  
For it runs oft, and makes but shortest stay.  
But thou, O Love, free from times eating rust  
That setest a limit unto boundless Lust,  
Making desire grow infinitely strong,  
And yet to one chaste subject doth belong;  
Bridling self-love, that flatters us in ease,  
Quickening our wits to strive that they may please.  
Fixing the wandering thoughts of straying youth;  
The firmest band of Faith, the knot of Truth:  
Thou that didst never lodge in worthless heart,  
Thou art a Master wheresoever thou art.  
Thou mak'st food loathsome, sleep to be unrest;  
Lost labour easeful, scornful looks a feast.  
And when thou wilt thy joys as far excel  
All else, as when thou punishest thy Hell:  
O make that Rebel feel thy matchless power,  
Thou that mad'st Jove a Bull, a Swan, a Shower;  
Give him a love as tyrannous as fair,  
That his desire go yoked with despair.  
Live in her eyes, but in her frozen heart  
Let no thaw come, that may have sense of smart.  
Let her a constant silence never break,  
Till he do wish repulse to hear her speak.  
And last, such sense of error let him have,  
As he may never dare for mercy crave.  
Then none will more capitulate with thee,  
But of their hearts will yield the Empire free.     

R.  

NO praise it is that him who Python slew,  
Love at his own tried weapon did subdue;  
To all clear minds it doth most clearly prove,  
The greatest Monster of the two was Love.  
O What a wretched power is tha● and strange  
To be invoked, which hath such power to change  
Our heavenly part into a Beast, a Tree,  
Things which sensual still, or senseless be,  
He that so well is read in love's brave story,  
And is so jealous of his wayning glory;  
How could he omit (like a young beginner)  
Hercule the strong, Loves valiant Spinner.  
But what boots it his famous acts to name,  
When in them lies concealed, his greater shame:  
For this declares that (at his cheapest rate)  
He always makes a man effeminate.  
And whosoever Loves, he down doth bring  
From that he was, into some meaner thing,  
shows him ridiculous to standers by,  
And quite bereaves him of perceiving why.  
N●w why should Love a footboys place despise,  
When higher than the Earth he doth not rise?  
And I have often seen his Greatness trudge  
In little Errands, like a worthless Drudge:  
I will send him at any time a mile,  
To fetch me thence the meaning of a smile,  
A look, a not-look, a silence, a frown,  
For Privatives he'll lackey up and down;  
Yet let no man believe what he doth say,  
Fa●se answers still he coineth by the way:  
'Tis well if he this title high can keep;  
For where love cannot go, 'tis known he'll creep:  
And fit it is the Rule which he hath got  
From Reason, by a base usurping P●ot,  
By under-means; should likewise be maintained,  
Power evermore is held as it is gained.   

Base Love, the stain of Youth, the scorn of Age,  
The folly of a Man, a woman's rage,  
Order's Consounder, secrets light discloser,  
Disturber of all sorts, a King's deposer;  
The canker of a froward Wit, thou art,  
The business of an idle empty heart;  
The rack of jealousy and sad Mistrust,  
The smooth and justified Excuse of Lust;  
The thief which wastes the taper of our life,  
The quiet Name of restless jars and strife;  
The F●ye which doth corrupt and quite distaste  
All happiness, if thou therein becast;  
The greatest and the most concealed Imposter  
That ever vain Credulity did foster:  
A Mountebank, extolling trifles small;  
A juggler, playing loose (not fast) with all.  
An alchemist whose Promises are Gold,  
Payment but Dross, and Hope at highest sold.  
This, this is Love, and worse than I can say,  
Where he a Master is, and bears the sway,  
He guides like Phaeton, burns and destroys,  
Parches and stifles what else would be joys.   

But when clear Reason sitteth in the throne,  
Governs his beams (which otherwise are none  
But darts and mischief) than sun like he  
Doth actuate produce, ripen and free  
From grossness those good seeds which in us lie,  
Till then (as in a grave) and there would die.  
All high Perfections in a perfect Lover,  
His warmth doth cherish, and his light discover:  
He gives an even temper of delight  
Without a minute's loss; no fears affright,  
Nor interrupt the joys such love doth bring,  
Nor no enjoying can dry up the spring.  
Unto another he lends out our pleasure,  
That (with the use) it may come home a treasure.  
Pure lynk of bodies, where no lust controls  
The fatness and security of souls;  
Sweetest path of life, Virtue in full sail,  
Fresh budding hope, whose fruit doth never fail.  
To this, dear Love, I do not Rebel stand,  
Though not employed, yet ready at command.   

But as for him who in his fit did curse  
And rave at me, I cannot wish him worse  
Than he already doth appear to be,  
Full of distemper in extreme degree:  
In this hard state he rather needeth prayer,  
His strong deluded fancy to repair.   

Wherefore O Reason high, thou who art King  
Of the world's King, and dost in order bring  
The wild affections which so often swerve  
From thy just Rule, and rebel Passion serve.  
Thou, without whose light Loves fire is smoke,  
Puts out eyes and mind, all true sense doth choke;  
Restore this man unto himself again,  
Send him a lively feeling of his pain;  
Give him a healthy and discerning taste  
Of food, and rest, that he may rise at last  
By strength of thee, from this strange strong Disease,  
Wherein the danger is, that it doth please.  
What help for him who takes his sickness part?  
It must be only thy great work, and art.  
Provide him also of thy sober hand,  
A thrifty course of breath, which long may stand:  
lest he in sighs do prodigally spend,  
Before one loving Moon do change and end,  
More than would find him life for many years,  
If he were rid of these false-seeming fears.  
Grant this, O Reason, at his deep request,  
Who never loved to see thy power suppressed.   

And now to you, Sir Love, your love I crave;  
Of you no mastery I desire to have:  
But that we may like honest friends agree,  
Let us to Reason fellow-servants be.    

P.  
IT is enough, a Master you grant Love  
At one weapon, 'twas all I sought to prove:  
For worth, not weakness, makes him use but one;  
While that subdues all strength, all Are alone.  
I studied not examples in this kind,  
They were far harder to avoid, then find:  
And that to worthless forms Love changeth us,  
Makes not him blush, not his ridiculous.  
For in his wars Love diversely proceeds,  
Sometime by force, sometime by slight he speeds.  
When he will force, than arms he his to fight  
In strength of merit, riches of delight.  
But when by stratagems he means surprise,  
His men in forms more mean he will disguise:  
Not bearing to the forms themselves respect,  
But careful to avoid his foes suspect:  
And when as this with jests their wits are worn,  
Do Lovers or the Laughers bear the scorn?  
But O! how finely with yourself you play,  
When with this quick conceit you run away;  
That you make love to lackey up and down,  
To fetch the meaning of a smile, or frown:  
Alas, in these slight Errand; he sends you,  
Wherein your Powers trudge as if they flew,  
Making the least which to his pleasure tends,  
A thing wherein your weal or woe depends.  
Nor Plots he to dissolve by feigned delight,  
Over the Senses Reasons Sovereign right;  
But Reason finding Love to rule more fit,  
She doth that Government to him commit;  
And so twixt these there is no factious strife,  
Love here the husband is, Reason the wife;  
Not grudging at her husband's active sway,  
But thinks she rules so just laws to obey:  
And Love this title high thus got may keep,  
A threadbare Proverb cannot make him creep.  
And for that rabble of confused Names,  
Which to Love's charge you lay, as bitter blames,  
They touch not him, he in himself divine,  
To falsehood nor to weakness can incline;  
If not disfigured by our fleshly mask,  
As wine corrupted by a faulty eask.  
He is no mountebank, his wares do reach  
Beyond the setting forth of any speech,  
Nor alchemist, but that elixir old,  
Which turns Lust's Mercury to friendship's Gold.  
And so the rest wherewith you stain his Name,  
Will turn considered rightly to his fame.  
I do not sever Love from Reason's law,  
But say that they in one sweet yoke do draw;  
Nor let your wit dissension strive to make,  
When they in joint command such pleasure take.  
As for the joys which from these joined do flow,  
To be beyond expression I do know;  
So may they fall on you from Love's large hand,  
If to this Love you do not Rebel stand,  
And we in one Opinion shall agree,  
If both, to both, may fellow-servants be.  
For me if Skeptick like you will dispute,  
And what I feel in heart, with words refute,  
Go on, and laugh at love's commanding fire,  
Till you cannot your scorched self retire.  
My Curse a Blessing was, your Prayer a Curse,  
For not to love, then scorn in love is worse.  
O let sighs prodigally spend my breath,  
My sufferings doubled be, until my death;  
So but in one kind look they her engage,  
One hour so lived, is longer than an age.   

R.  

NOt like a Skeptick equally distract,  
Nor like a Sophister of sleights compact,  
Nor to vie Wit (a vanity of youth)  
Nor for the love of Victory, but Truth,  
The lists again I enter, bold assured,  
Within my Causes right, strongly immured.   

Man unto man both Text and Comment is,  
They that best read this Character of his,  
His body, and they that most understand  
The sense thereof (his soul) do both command.  
This as a firm rule infallibly true,  
Not to be changed for one more weak, more new;  
That Reason holds the head, and highest part;  
The Affections lower are placed in the heart,  
To show that they must serve and still obey;  
Reason must Ruler be, and bear the sway.  
From this pure fountain see how pure the streams  
Do run, from this bright Sun how fair the beams.  
Anger w●●lst he a servant true persisteth,  
Whetteth mild just●ce sword, Valour assisteth:  
But when his power to himself he taketh,  
He nought but brawls & wars & slaughters maketh;  
Furthereth revenge, injustice, wrong, and hate;  
Nothing but blood his fury can abate:  
And that but for a while, for hot and dry,  
He thirsteth oft, as oft for blood doth cry.  
And so of all the affections of the mind,  
When them we do in due obedience find,  
Great helps they are, and ministers of good,  
But else to vice a fierce and headlong brood.   

What privilege beyond the rest hath Love;  
Show his exemption, and his freedom prove:  
Is he no Affection? then is he worse:  
A Passion, the body's waster, minds curse.  
As long as he to Reason yields subjection,  
He is the best and principal affection;  
Effects most good, the cement, band and tie  
Of human fellowship, wherein doth lie  
All the dear comforts which makes life a life:  
Without whose influence, nothing but strife  
would bring us together, or we should live  
Straggling alone, and no account could give  
That e'er we had been here; with us would die  
(Summed in our deaths) life of posterity.  
When best things are corrupt, they most are so;  
Love once defected doth most Traitor grow,  
And works 'gainst Reason with more violence  
Than all the rest, and with more smooth pretence:  
I need not here repeat, will not enlarge  
His faults, I loathly take 'gainst Love that charge;  
I only say, that Reason is his King.  
And Love at highest, is his underling.   

You do confess, or truth doth it extort,  
That Reason sovereign is, in dearest sort;  
Committing unto Love the senses state,  
Which shows Love's Power is but subordinate:  
But then again, where you would end the strife,  
Making Love the Husband, Reason the Wife,  
You begin anew; Error hath no stay,  
Runs infinitely on, but not one way;  
Crosseth itself, findeth no resting place;  
Appeareth always with another face;  
Increaseth faster, and doth multiply  
Beyond the breed of any spawned fry.  
Truth is still one, it's one centre and end  
Still like itself, and to itself a friend.  
Who gave the soul's Abstract, Intelligences,  
Bodies and Sex (nearer to bring the senses  
Acquainted with them, and their high enjoy)  
Made love a lasting and perpetual Boy;  
Still in minority, never of age,  
Because to govern he is most unfit,  
By nonage fair excuse they him acquit.   

Nature's best observers, the wise Egyptians  
In their abstruse and mystical descriptions,  
Did of each Element two Sexes frame,  
Which yet (for Marriage sake) had but one name:  
Of Fire the Mast'ring heat, they made the Male;  
The Female, what was flaming, weak and pale:  
Of air, the Man was active, bustling wind,  
The rainy weeping Clouds of womankind;  
The deep and boundless Sea was Masculine,  
The shallow slender Rivers Feminine;  
Of Earth the constant Rocky part was he,  
The gentle yielding tilled vein a she.  
So in the Soul, Understanding, and Will,  
Betwixt themselves hold such proportion still,  
As Male and Female: He strongly imprints  
Upon her easiness, she never stints,  
But straight pursues with ready inclination,  
Or quickly shuns with shrinking aversation,  
As is the object he begets on her,  
So her desires do duly move and stir.   

What else is reason (to be more exact)  
But the redoubled and reflected act  
Of Understanding? what th' affections?  
But the agitations and ejections  
Of Will where love is one; as all may see  
To Reason born a servant by degree.  
If you in aught conformity had held  
With nature's course, and not 'gainst all rebelled,  
But Reason Husband, Love for wife had meant,  
I straight to be at peace had given consent;  
Not thought it strange, but should been well apaid,  
That Reason now had married her handmaid,  
In hope that she in duty for that honour  
Which he in grace had thus bestowed upon her,  
Would strive by all obedience to appear  
More lovely in his eyes, and still more clear.   

Thus having made it safe, That every way  
Love must as a servant, or as a wife obey,  
I here might rest against Truth's brazen wall,  
And not regard the drops which on it fall.  
Yet will I wipe away, as they do lie,  
Some spots, which you have dashed in passing by;  
And first, That Love doth hurt and overthrow,  
Doth him no Master make, but Monster show;  
A Master's strength preserves, a Monsters spoils,  
It is the use that Force from Vice assoyles:  
Strange things of wars and stratagems you tell,  
And little business with great words doth swell:  
What helps twixt truth and me this grave formality,  
Love is a sneaking corner-seeking quality,  
Which hates the light, chooseth false times & shapes,  
To make his drifts to cover his escapes;  
And when he is descried, his vizard torn,  
He proves a lucky jest, a fertile scorn.  
Love sends rot me, nor need I vainly go  
To fetch the meanings which I always know,  
Her single heart is one, and one to me  
Dares show itself, it is so clean, so free;  
From thence such warrant have I of her smiles,  
That I mistrust them not for glittering wiles;  
But know when the deep channel of her heart  
With joy is over-filled, it doth impart  
Some to the banks, and flows into her face,  
Which leaves thereon a fresh and springing grace.  
Her frowns I know not what, nor that they are,  
When Reason rules, Love feasts on no such fare;  
Tastes nought but what is pure, and truly sweet,  
Then bodies do but bring the souls to meet.  
Who light shines through, and all within discovers,  
No thought lies hid twixt such beloved Lovers;  
Sly reservations, shuffling excuses,  
Minced favours, made frowns, welcome abuses  
Lose then their use, and have at all no place,  
When Love is Master, they have only grace.  
A Proverbs proof is not so soon put off  
By slight neglect, or by a mighty scoff;  
Whose truth his life hath hitherto maintained,  
And through so many ages credit gained;  
They are the Quintessence of Truths, extract  
From vulgar use, and of such strength compact,  
That they have lived (indeed) in living men,  
Since many volumes writ by mortal pen  
Are dead and gone, and more to ruin tend,  
Whilst these from Sire to Son do still descend,   

Nor needs it as a fault be here excused,  
That I expressed a Nature most confused,  
In terms so like itself, for Love once gone  
From Reason, hath no hold to rest upon.  
But our unseas'ned flesh you rather blame,  
Which unto me doth just appear the same,  
As if you should condemn the Mice, not Swine,  
Who love to wallow there, and think it fine.  
Likewise the friendship which such love doth breed,  
Doth end in hate both of themselves, and deed:  
When ever you can Love to Reason marry,  
I will not from that happy wedding tarry;  
So that you sex them right by nature's law,  
But yield them all the service, fear, and awe,  
Which unto such a King and Queen belong,  
Whose force will so united grow more strong.   

I mean not to deny, had rather cure  
The pangs your heart infected doth endure;  
And for Love's scorching fits I fear them nor,  
Reason or Love shall be my antidote,  
But not to love, then scorn in love is worse:  
This baseness is to man, the greatest curse,  
A scorn no being hath, cannot proceed  
From an inferior in word or deed:  
How can we so unman ourselves, and fall  
Beneath that creature which was made of all  
Next under us, to be more evident,  
Who stands as he was born, cannot consent.   

Bad usage soon would force my heart to turn,  
And made the fire of Love to anger burr;  
But you do all so willingly abide,  
As that your ease would be the sicker side.  
A small reward will you contentment give,  
When but a Phoenix death you wish to live,  
Where may you burn in flames both short & sweet,  
Thus since our wills will not our Prayers meet.    

P.  

MEn sad and settled, love not to contend,  
Dispute my wounds may vex, but never mend;  
If Love had pleased I might have tasted joy  
In as full measure as I prove annoy:  
But Princes show on some their Power, their Grace  
On some, and both without control do place.  
Me for the first, O me Love kept in store,  
When to that cruel Fair he gave me o'er,  
In whom all worth so eminent appears,  
As her disdain the style of justice bears;  
And thus with me Love played a Master-part,  
When with one choice he hurt & pleased my heart.   

For than I am, let me more wretched prove,  
If her (Howe'er unkind) I leave to love;  
Thus to be fond of scorn, you sickness call,  
In truth 'tis I, to love my Lord am thrall;  
'Tis he that makes me find these wonders true,  
And he may work the same as well in you;  
For even in your sound health I find this strife,  
Love late was Reasons Lackey, now his wife:  
But to conclude debate, whilst you are free,  
You may make Love even what you list to be,  
As those that will describe an unknown Land,  
Place Cities, Rivers, Hills where none do stand;  
Even so you deal with Love, and straight will know  
How far he shoots, that never felt his bow;  
One day you may, and then confess with me,  
You love his Fetrers more than to be free.    

R.  

NOr will I now your wound exulcerate,  
But rather grieve at your deplored estate;  
Yet must I not myself so much forsake,  
As not to show wherein you me mistake.   

For Peace and you I was content to find,  
How Love and Reason might be near combined,  
But not their natures alter or confound,  
Nor I remove at all from my first ground  
Of due obedience which just Love doth owe  
To Reason, thought it should to highest grow.  
'Twas not well done of you thus to object,  
That which I did for you in your respect;  
Beside, your argument is drawn amiss,  
From that which may be, unto that which is.  
I did not Love for Reasons wife avow,  
But only gave it possible, and how  
That I am disengaged, untouched, and free,  
Makes me of Love the fitter judge to be;  
Self-interest doth so corrupt and blind  
The clearness quite, and sadness of the mind,  
That Justice still to it hath born a grudge,  
Nor Law allows a party to be Judge;  
In what we earnest are, ourselves we lose,  
A loo●er on more than a gamester sees.  
To say my heart was maimed in Cupid's Wars,  
And pity beg by showing of my scars,  
Or tell what losses I have had by fire,  
Doth sure a weaker heart than mine require▪  
Yet have I loved, and may do so again,  
A strong lynk I have been in that fair chain  
Which you a fetter call, and rightly too,  
But that a breaking lynk did me undo;  
You pierce me deep to say I never loved,  
When it by so much truth hath been approved;  
Yet for all this we will not disagree,  
Each lover thinks none ever loved but he.    

Sonnet. P.  

I.  
CAnst thou love me, and yet doubt  
So much falsehood in my heart,  
That a way I should find out  
To impart  
Fragments of a broken love to you,  
More than all, being less than due:  
O no! Love must clear distrust,  
Or be eaten with that rust:  
Short love liking may find jars,  
The love that's lasting knows no wars.   

II.  
This belief begets delight,  
And so satisfies desire,  
And in them it shines a light,  
No more fire;  
All the burning Qualities appeased  
Each in others joining pleased;  
Not a whisper, not a thought,  
But twixt both in commons brought;  
Even to seem two they are loath,  
Love being but one soul in both.    

Song. P.  

I.  
SOul's joy when I am gone,  
and you alone,  
which cannot be,  
Since I must leave myself with thee,  
and carry thee with me;  
oh give no way to grief,  
but let belief  
of mutual love,  
This wonder to the vulgar prove,  
Our bodies not we move.   

II.  
Yet when unto our eyes  
absence denies  
each others' sight,  
And makes to us a constant night;  
when oaths change to delight,  
Fools have no way to meet  
but by their feet;  
Why should our Day  
Over our spirits so much sway,  
To tie us to that way.    

P. I left you, and now the gain of you is to me a double Gain.  
DEar, when I think upon my first sad fall  
From thy fair eyes, I needs must feel withal  
The many widowed hours I since have numbered,  
Which in wished shades I might have safely slumbered,  
Rocked into endless heavenly Trances, by  
Thy soul inchanting-Graces harmony,  
Whilst I enjoyed not what I did possess,  
But like an unthrift of my happiness,  
Did not my loss (till 'twas too late) espy  
As Children kill their birds, and after cry?  
But since those Clouds that so eclipsed thy Light  
(And gave my every day so many a night,  
As my life had but a dead Winter been,  
Had I no better after sunshine seen)  
Are fled, let us (thou best of me) redeem  
Those hours we fondly did so disesteem:  
And since past joys are but bewailed in vain,  
Come and we'll prove them over all again,  
That small division so will come the meeter,  
To make the music of our bliss the sweeter.   

R. On the Countess of Pembroke's Picture.  
HEre (though the lustre of her youth be spent)  
Are curious steps to see where beauty went;  
And for the wonders in her mind that dwell,  
It lies not in the power of Pens to tell.  
But could she but bequeathe them when she dies,  
She might enrich her Sex by Legacies.   

P. That she is only Fair.  

DO not reject those titles of your due,  
Which nature's Art hath styled on your face;  
The Name of Fair only belongs to you,  
None else that title justly can embrace:  
You Beauties heir, her Coat sole spotless wear,  
Where others all, some mark abatement bear.  
'Tis not their Cheeks touched with Vermilion Ord,  
Stained with the tincture of enchanting skill,  
Nor yet the curled devices of their head,  
Their breasts displayed, their looks framed to their will;  
Their quick-turn'd-eye, nor all their proud attire,  
Can make me their Perfections to admire.  
All this done without nature's consent,  
Thy beauty needs not Art's enticing aid;  
Thine nature gave, theirs nature only lent;  
Thine shall endure, when theirs are quite decayed:  
Thy beauty others doth as much excel,  
As Heaven base Earth, or Earth accursed Hell.   

Others are fair if not compared to thee,  
Compared to them, thy beauty doth exceed:  
So lesser Stars give light, and shine we see  
Till glorious Phoebus lifteth up his head;  
And then as things ashamed of their might,  
They hide themselves, & with themselves their light   

Since nature's skill hath given you your right,  
Do not kind Nature and yourself such wrong,  
You are as fair as any earthly wight,  
You wrong yourself if you correct my tongue:  
Though you deny (her and) yourself your due,  
Yet duty bids me Fair entitle you.    

P.  
MUse get thee to a Cell; and wont to sing,  
Now mourn, nay now thy hands, thy heart now wring;  
And if perhaps thine eyes did ever weep,  
Now bleed, and in eternal sorrow sleep;  
O, she that was, and only was, is gone,  
And I that was but one, am left alone.  
Who says that I for things ne'er mine am sad?  
That was all mine which others never had:  
No sighs, no tears, no blood but mine was shed  
For her that now must bless another's bed:  
As fate bound me, had Fortune made me free,  
None had had her but I, she none but me.  
O had not I been swallowed up with night,  
Before I saw your sun, that glorious light,  
Whose beams alone do only comfort bring,  
Where I still weep, had ever made me sing;  
Now on a strange Horizon it doth rise  
Where all do live, or else where each thing dies.   

P. A Sonnet.  
HE that his mirth hath lost  
When comfort is dismayed,  
Whose hopes in vain, whose faith is scorned,  
Whose trust is all betrayed.  
If he hath held them dear,  
And cannot cease to moan;  
Come let him take his place by me,  
He shall not grieve alone.  
But if his smallest sweet  
Be mixed with all his sour;  
If in the day, the month, the year  
He feel one happy hour:  
Then rest he with himself,  
He is no Mate for me:  
Whose cheer is fallen, whose succour void,  
Whose hurt his death must be;  
Yet not the wished death  
That hath ne plaint, ne lack,  
Which making free the better part,  
Is only nature's wrack:  
Oh no! that were too well,  
My death is of that kind,  
That always yields extremest pains,  
And keeps the worst behind,  
As one that lives in show,  
But inwardly doth die,  
Whose knowledge is a bloody field  
Where all helps slain do lie:  
Whose heart the altar is,  
Whose spirit the sacrifice  
Unto the Powers whom to appease,  
No sorrows can suffice.  
My fancies are like thorns,  
On which I go by night;  
My arguments are like an Host  
That force hath put to flight.  
My sense like passions spy,  
My thoughts like ruins old  
Of famous Carthage, and of Troy,  
That Sinon bought and sold.  
My Corn to Nettles, now  
My field is turned to flint,  
Where sitting in the cypress shade,  
I read this Hyacinth.  
The peace, the rest, the life  
Which I enjoyed of yore,  
Came to that lot that by the loss  
They might me sting the more.  
So to unhappy men  
The best frames to the worst;  
O time, O place, O words, O looks  
Deer then, but now accursed.  
In Was, stands my delight,  
In Is (and Shall) my woe,  
My sorrows fastened in the yeas,  
My hopes hang in the No.  
I look for no relief,  
Relief would come too late;  
Too late I find, I find too well,  
Too well stood my estate.  
Then Love where is thy favour,  
That makes thy tyrements sweet?  
Where is the Cause that men have thought  
Their death through thee, but meet?  
The stately chaste disdain,  
The secret thankfulness,  
The Grace reserved, the common light  
That shines through worthiness.  
O that it were not so,  
Or I it could excuse!  
Oh that the wrath of jealousy  
My judgement might abuse!  
O frail unconstant Sex!  
O Faith and trust in none!  
No women Angels are, but lo,  
My Mistress is a woman.  
Yet hate I but the fault,  
And not the faulty one,  
Ne can I rid me of the bands  
I which I lie alone.  
I love, I like, whose like  
By love was never yet,  
The Prince, the Poor, the old, the young,  
The fond, or full of wit.  
Here still remain, must I,  
By wrong, by death, by shame;  
I cannot blot out of my breast,  
That Love wrought in her name:  
I cannot set at nought  
That I have held so dear;  
I cannot make it seem so far,  
That is indeed so near.  
I do not mean henceforth  
Such strange will to profess,  
As one that could betray such troth  
To build on sickleness:  
But it shall never fail  
That my Faith bare in hand;  
I gave my word, my word gave me,  
Both word and gift shall stand:  
Since than it must be thus,  
And this is all too ill,  
I yield me Captive to my course  
My hard fate to fulfil.  
The solitary woods  
My City shall become;  
The darkest Dens shall be my lodge,  
In which I rest or run.  
Of Hebon black, my board,  
The worm my feast shall be,  
Wherewith my body shall be fed,  
Till they do feed on me:  
Of N●●be my wine,  
My bed of craggy Rock,  
The Serpents hiss my harmony,  
The screeching owl my Clock.  
My exercise nought else  
But raging agonies,  
My Books of spiteful fortune's foils  
And doleful tragedies.  
My walks the Parks of Plaints,  
My prospect into hell,  
Where Sisyphus and all his Peers  
In endless pains do dwell.  
My Muse if any ask,  
Whose wrathful state is such,  
Die ere thou let his Name be known,  
His folly shows so much.   

P. That Lust is not his aim.  
OH do not tax me with a brutish Love,  
Impute not Lust alone to my desire,  
No such profane aspersions ought to me  
From you the sacred Author of my fire.  
I seek your love, and if you that deny.  
All joys that you and all the world can give,  
My love-sick soul would little satisfy;  
Which wants your Grace, not food to make it live,  
It is your better part I would enjoy,  
Your fair affections I would call mine own;  
'Tis but a prostitute, and bestial joy  
Which seeks the gross material use alone:  
The towns not ours, the market place unwon,  
Nor do I her enjoy, whose heart's not mine,  
Heart's Conquest is the worthy ambition:  
Seal of our worth, as ravishment Divine,  
Invincible to strength of human hand,  
Union Divine of mutual burning hearts,  
Which both subdued, triumphing, both command  
Sovereign delights, which God to man imparts.  
Oh let me in this true joy happy be,  
Or never may you be enjoyed by me.   

Verses made by Sir B. R,  
OH faithless world, and thy most faithless part,  
A woman's heart:  
The true shop of variety, where sits  
Nothing but fits  
And fevers of desire, and pangs of Love,  
Which toys remove:  
Why was she born to please, or I to trust  
Words writ in dust.  
Suffering her looks to govern my despair,  
My pain for air;  
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,  
the food of youth.  
Untrue she was, yet I believed her eyes,  
instructed spies:  
Till I was taught that Love is but a school  
to breed a fool:  
Or was it absence that did make her strange,  
base flower of change?  
Or sought she more than triumphs of denial,  
to see a trial,  
How far her smiles commanded on my weakness,  
Yield and confess:  
Excuse not now thy folly, nor her nature,  
blush and endure  
As well thy shame, as passions that were vain;  
and think thy gain,  
To know that love lodged in a woman's breast,  
is but a guest:   

Sonnet. P.  
WRong not dear Empress of my heart,  
The merits of true passion,  
With thinking that he feels no smart  
That sues for no compassion;  
Since if my plaints seem not to prove  
The Conquest of thy Beauty,  
It comes not from defect of Love,  
But from excess of duty.  
For knowing that I sue to serve,  
A Saint of such perfection,  
As all Divine, but none deserve  
A place in her affection.  
I rather choose to want relief  
Then venture the revealing,  
Where glory recommends the grief,  
Despair destroys the healing.  
Thus those desires that climb too high  
For any mortal Lover,  
When Reason cannot make them die,  
Discretion doth them cover:  
Yet when Discretion doth bereave  
the plaints which I should utter,  
Then thy Discretion may perceive  
that silence is a suitor.  
Silence in Love bewrays more woe  
Than words though ne'er so witty;  
The beggar that is dumb you know  
may challenge double pity.  
Then wrong not dear heart of my heart,  
my true, though secret passion,  
He smarteth most that hides his smart,  
and sues for no compassion.   

P. That he will still persevere in his Love.  
NAy, I must love thee still;  
Be it for those good deeds thou hast done,  
That thou hast loved me once, hath won,  
And made me ever thine;  
Though I am tempted and provoked with scorn,  
My Love cannot decline.  
Though I with hopes, doubts, and despairs am torn,  
Nay should I fret, think, grieve and die  
For thee, and know not why;  
Yet I must love thee still.  
Nothing removes my heart,  
Ages that changes, and (slow things) move,  
May wear my body, not my Love,  
So fixed I am on thee,  
That all thy spite cannot devise  
A wrong to trouble me.  
Alas I dote in all thy injuries,  
Though all thy looks were feigned, & thy sighs wind,  
Though thy free vows thou shouldst unbind,  
Nothing could move my heart.  
Nay I must ●ove thee, still  
Love that wears, and into ashes goeth, in thee  
Raiseth new bodies up in me:  
I am Love's wildfire right,  
Whose powerful tempered flames being rightly bred,  
Burns by his opposite.  
Hopes kill, and violent despairs have fed  
My passions, I have power to live and die;  
Nay, should it opposed destiny,  
Yet I must love thee still:   

P. A Sonnet.  

DEar leave thy home and come with me,  
That scorn the world for love of thee:  
Here we will live within this Park,  
A Court of joy and pleasures Ark.   

Here we will hunt, here we will range,  
Constant in Love, our sports we'll change:  
Of hearts if any change we make,  
I will have thine, thou mine shalt take.   

Here we will walk upon the Lawns,  
And see the tripping of the Fawns;  
And all the Deer shall wait on thee,  
Thou shalt command both them and me.   

The Leaves a whispering noise shall make,  
Their Mufick-notes the birds shall take,  
And while thou art in quiet sleep,  
And the green wood shall silence keep.   

And while my herds about thee feed,  
Love's lessons in thy face I'll read,  
And feed upon thy lovely look,  
For beauty hath no fairer book.   

It's not the weather, nor the air,  
It is thyself that is so fair;  
Nor doth it rain when heaven lours,  
But when you frown, then fall the showers.   

One Sun alone moves in the sky,  
Two Suns thou hast, one in each eye;  
Only by day that sun gives light,  
Where thine doth rise, there is no night.   

Fair starry twins, scorn not to shine  
Upon my Lambs, upon my Kine;  
My grass doth grow, my Corn and wheat,  
My fruit, my vines thrive by their heat.   

Thou shalt have wool, thou shalt have silk,  
Thou shalt have honey, wine and milk;  
Thou shalt have all, for all is due,  
Where thoughts are free, and love is true.    

P. A Sonnet,  

DORON the sad shepherd's swain,  
Who abroad had long time been,  
Coming to those Fields again,  
Where he Cloris oft had seen.   

With love and sorrow waxes faint,  
None but his poor cur and he,  
As he on his sheep-hooked leaned,  
It was his chance that bank to see.   

Near a little pearling Brook,  
Where the Mistress of his heart,  
Leave of faithful Doron took,  
From her presence to depart.   

He quickly found the ancient flame  
Which had oft bereaved his rest;  
When back now to that place he came,  
Where her eyes first pierced his breast.   

Looking on the Mead and Grove  
Where her herds are wont to browse,  
Faithful witness of his Love,  
Which so oft had heard his vows.   

Where he had seen his Cloris merry,  
Walking in the pleasant spring,  
Tended by the Frisking Fairy,  
Dancing many a wanton Ring.   

Woods (quoth he) I saw you woo her,  
And as through your shades she passed,  
Humbly bowed your lops unto her,  
With each little trembling blast.   

I have seen this wandering-will  
Oft the silent murmur break,  
And from the natural course stand still,  
Ravished to hear her speak.   

In these Meadows richly dight,  
Gathering strowing for her bowers,  
The bees are dazzled in her sight,  
Taking her blue veins for Flowers.   

Stingless on her temples stuck,  
Famine could not threaten death,  
But their labour quite forsook,  
For the sweetness of her breath.   

I have seen the gentle wind  
His most speedy course forbear,  
And it wondr'ous sport to find,  
In dallying with her braided hair.   

Never did the morn awake her  
If herself but once she showed,  
But the birds would music make her,  
Still to welcome her abroad.   

Then poor shepherd Swain quoth he,  
Let thy thoughts of her suffice,  
It is to high a task for thee  
To tell the wonders of her eyes.   

O dear Cloris then come to us,  
Bless the Summer with thy sight;  
Or thy absence will undo us,  
For the world will half be night.    

P. On one heart made of two.  

IF that you must needs go,  
What shall our one heart do?  
This one made of our two.  
Madam, two hearts we broke,  
And from them both did take  
The best, one heart to make.   

It told me in your breast,  
Where it might hope to rest;  
For if it were my guest,  
For certainly it knew,  
That I would still anew  
Be sending it to you.   

Half this is of your heart,  
Mine in th' other part,  
Joined by our equal art.  
Were it cemented, or sown  
By shreds or pieces known,  
We each might find our own.   

Never I think had two  
Such work, so much to do  
An Unity to woo;  
Yours was so cold and chaste,  
whilst mine with Zeal did waste,  
Like fire with water placed.   

But 'tis dissolved, and fixed  
So curiously, and mixed,  
No difference is betwixt;  
But shall we agree  
By whom it kept shall be,  
Whether by you or me?   

How my heart did entreat,  
How pant, how it did beat,  
Till it could give yours heat;  
Till to that temper brought,  
With either's mixture wrought,  
That blessing either's thought.   

It cannot two breasts fill,  
One must be heartless still  
Until the other will.  
It was with me to day,  
When I willed it to say  
With whether it would stay.   

In such a height it lies  
From this base world's dull eyes,  
That heaven it not envies.  
All that this Earth can show,  
Our hearts shall not once know,  
For it too vile and low.    

P. That he would not be beloved.  
DIsdain me still, that I may ever love,  
For who his Love enjoys, can love no more,  
The war once past, with peace men Cowards prove,  
And Ships returned, do rot upon the shore:  
Then though thou frown, I'll say thou art most fair,  
And still I'll love, though still I must despair.  
As heats to life, so is desire to love,  
For these once quenched, both life and love are done;  
Let not my sighs nor tears thy virtue move,  
Like basest mettles, do not melt too soon.  
Laugh at my woes, although I ever mourn,  
Love surfeits with rewards, his Nurse is scorn.   

Benj. Rudier of Tears.  

WHo would have thought there could have been  
Such joy in Tears wept for our sin!  
Mine eye hath seen, my heart hath proved  
The most and best of earthly joys,  
The sweet of love, and being loved,  
Masks, Feasts, and plays, and such like toys.  
Yet this one tear which now doth fall,  
In true delight exceeds them all.   

Indeed mine eyes at first let in  
Those guests that did these woes begin:  
Therefore mine eyes in tears and grief  
Are justly drowned, but that these tears  
Should comfort bring, 'tis past belief.  
O God, in this thy Grace appears;  
Thou that mak'st light from darkness spring,  
Mak'st joys to weep, and sadness sing.   

O where am I! what may I think!  
Help, help, alas my heart doth sink:  
Thus tossed in seas of woe,  
Thus laden with my sin,  
Waves of despair dash in,  
And threat mine overthrow.   

What heart oppressed with such a weight,  
Can choose but sink and perish straight.   

Yet as at sea in storms, men choose  
The ship to save, their goods to lose.  
So in this fearful storm,  
This danger to prevent,  
Before all hopes be spent,  
I'll choose the lesser harm.  
My tears to seas I will convert,  
And drown mine eyes to save my heart.    

R.  

O God my God what shall I give  
To thee in thanks? I am and live  
In thee; and thou dost safe preserve  
My health, my fame, my goods, my rent:  
Thou mak'st me eat, whilst others starve,  
And sing, whilst others do lament.  
Such unto me thy blessings are,  
As though I were thine only care.   

But oh my God, thou art more kind,  
When I look inward on my mind,  
Thou fill'st my heart with humble joy,  
With patience, meek, and fervent love,  
(All other loves which doth destroy)  
With Faith which nothing can remove,  
And hope assured of heaven's bliss:  
This is my state, thy Grace is this.    

Of Friendship.  

FRiendship on earth we may as easily find,  
As he the North-East Passage, that is blind;  
'Tis not unlike th' imaginary stone,  
That tattered chemists long have doted on:  
Sophisticate affection is the best  
This age affords, no friend abides the test;  
They make a glorious show, a little space,  
But tarnish in the rain, like Copper-lace.  
Or nealled in affliction but one day,  
They smoke, and stink, and vapour quite away.  
We miss the true materials, choosing Friends,  
On virtue we project not, but our ends.  
So by degrees when we embrace so many,  
We courted are like whores, not loved of any:  
Good turns ill placed, that we on all men heap,  
Are seeds of that ingratitude we reap.  
And he that is so sweet, he none denies,  
Was made of honey for the nimble flies.  
Choose one of two Companions of thy life,  
Then be as true as thou wouldst have thy wife.  
Though he live joyless that enjoys no friend,  
He that hath many, pays for't in the end.    

P. A Sonnet.  
SAint did never yet object  
Former knowledges defect  
Against those whose zealous vows,  
True devotion avows:  
If my merit yet be small  
To procure your love withal,  
Time alone to you must prove,  
How well I will deserve your love.  
Grace in Saints ought to abound,  
Grace ne'er grows on merit's ground.  
Be then gracious, as I true,  
Constant and faithful unto you;  
And my Fortunes that have crowned  
Me happy on that relics ground,  
Shall be all ascribed to serve  
You that do all praise deserve.   

P. To his Mistress, of his Friends Opinion of her, and his answer to his Friend's Objections, with his constancy towards her.  

ONe with admiration told me,  
He did wonder much & marvel,  
(As by chance he did behold ye)  
How I could become so servile  
To thy beauty, which he swears  
Every Ale house lettuce wears.   

Then he frames a second notion  
From thy revoluting eyes,  
Saying, such a wanton motion  
From their lustre did arise,  
That of force thou couldst not be  
From the shame of women free.   

Then he blames the work of Nature,  
'Cause she framed thy body tall,  
Alleging that so high a stature  
Was most subject to a fall:  
Still detracting from thy worth,  
That which most doth set thee forth.   

So the Buzzard Phoebus flies,  
When the eagles' piercing eye  
See those noble mysteries  
Which adorn the azur'd sky;  
Bravest objects so we find,  
Strike the weaker judgements blind.   

For I know thy native beauty,  
Teaching Art her imitation;  
Owes no mortal Power a duty,  
But as free from alteration  
(If not whiter) as the skin  
Of the spotless Ermylin.   

And those Love-alluring Darts  
Shot from thy tralucent eye,  
To the knowing man imparts  
Such an awful Majesty,  
That each man may read the mirror  
Of thy mind, and he his error.   

If thy curious body's frame,  
To thy making add no splendour,  
Why adore we Cynthia's Name,  
And our poet's most commend her  
When amongst her Nymphs she crushes,  
Cedar-like 'mongst lower bushes.   

But my Julia I am sure,  
Be thou low or high of stature,  
Thou from blemish art, and as pure  
As the yester-night-born creature;  
And though blind men talk of light,  
None can judge that wants his sight.    

P. To his Mistress on his Death.  
OH let me groan one word into thine ear,  
And with that groan break all my vital strings;  
Thou that wouldst never, now vouchsafe to hear  
How Leda's bird on sweet Meander sings:  
So dying tapers lend their fiery flashes,  
And deadest Cinders have some burning ashes.  
Those were the looks that once maintained my strength,  
Those were the words that all my parts did cherish;  
And what (Unkindest) wilt thou gain at length,  
If by the same, I miserably perish:  
This, that a frown did in a minute starve,  
That which a smile did many years preserve.   

B. R. his Ballet.  

SInce every man I come among,  
Sings praises of his choice,  
I'll make my Love some pretty song,  
she'll fit it for a voice.   

As for descent and birth in her,  
You see before you seek;  
The house of York and Lancaster  
United in her Cheek.   

I have a Bracelet of her hair.  
I have a ribbon too;  
The Fleece and Garter never were  
Such Orders as these two.   

My mind unto her once I broke,  
And whispered in her ear  
A tale of Love, an easy yoke,  
Which far her betters bear.   

And told her, if she lost that hour;  
Her blossom would be dead;  
She said she meant to keep that flower  
To deck her wedding-bed.   

I gave her homely country Gloves,  
She took 'em as th' were meant;  
For those as well can show men's Loves,  
As can a Spanish scent.   

I told her that poor modesty  
Was out of fashion quite;  
She said that proof looked like a lie,  
And did my Reason slight.   

I said the thing for which I woo,  
Is pain and not desire;  
She said 'twas work each man would do,  
And take it for his hite.   

So when those ways I hoped would wean  
Her from her fond intent,  
The fool replied, she did not mean  
To sin by precedent.    


When mine eyes, first admiring your rare beauty,  
Secretly stole the Picture of your face;  
They, fearing they might err, with humble duty,  
Through unknown paths, conveyed it to that place,  
Where Reason and true Judgement hand in hand  
Sat, and each workmanship of senses stand.   

Reason could find no Reason but to love it,  
So rich of beauty was it, full of Grace:  
True Judgement scanned each part, and did approve it  
To be the model of some heavenly face;  
And both agreed to place it in my heart,  
Whence they decreed it never should depart.   

Then, since I was not born to be so blessed,  
Your real self fair Mistress to obtain,  
Yet must your image dwell within my breast,  
And in that secret Closet still remain:  
Where all alone retired, I'll sit and view  
Your Picture, Mistress, since I may not you.    

R.  

WHy do we love these things which we call Women,  
Which are like Feathers blown with every wind,  
Regarding lest those which do most esteem them,  
And most deceitful when they seem most kind;  
And all the virtue that their beauty graces,  
It is but painted like unto their faces.   

Their greatest glory is in rich attire,  
Which is extracted from some hopeful livers,  
Whose wits and wealth are bent to their desire,  
When they regard the gift more than the givers.  
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,  
They'll sometimes stretch their conscience for a kiss.   

Some love the winds that bring in golden flowers,  
And some are merely won with commendation;  
Some love and hate, and all within two hours,  
And that's a fault amongst them most in fashion:  
But put them all within a scale together,  
Their worth in weight will scarce pull down a feather.   

And yet I would not discommend them all,  
If I did know some worth to be in any:  
'Tis strange, that since the time of Adam's fall,  
That God did make none good, and made so many;  
And if he did, for those I truly mourn,  
Because they died before that I was born.    

Why with unkindest swiftness dost thou turn  
From me, whose absence thou didst truly mourn;  
Of which thou mad'st me such a seeming view,  
As Unbelievers would have thought it true.  
We have been private, and thou know'st of mine,  
(Which is even all) as much as I of thine:  
Dost thou remember? Let me callit ' account  
Thy pleasant Garden, and that leafy Mount,  
Whose top is with an open Arbour crowned.  
Dost thou remember (O securest beauty)  
Where of thy own free motion (more than duty)  
And unrequir'd, thou solemnly didst swear,  
(Of which avenging heaven can witness bear)  
That from the time thou gav'st thy spoils to me,  
Thou wouldst maintain a spotless chastity,  
And unprofaned by any second hand,  
From sport and love's delight removed stand,  
Till I (whose absence seemingly was mourned)  
Should from a foreign Kingdom be returned:  
Of this thou mad'st Religion, and an oath.  
But see the frailty of a woman's troth;  
Scarce had the sun (to many rooms assigned).  
Been thrice within the changeful waves confined,  
And I scarce three days' journey from thine eyes,  
When thou new love in thy heart didst devise,  
And gav'st the relics of thy Virgin-head,  
Upon the easiest prayer that could be said.  
'tis true, I left thee to a dangerous age,  
Where vice in angel's shape does title wage  
With ancient virtue, both disguising so,  
That hardly weaker eyes can either know:  
Besides, I left thee in the hour of fears,  
And in the covetous spring of all thy years,  
what time a beauty that hath well begun,  
Asks other than the solace of a Nun.  
But since thy wanton soul so dear did prize  
The game, that thou for it didst underprize  
Thy faith, and all that to good fame belongs;  
Couldst thou not cover it from common tongues.  
But cheapest eyes must see thee do amiss?  
My Rhimes that won thee, never taught thee this:  
Thou might'st have wandered in the paths of love,  
And neither leaf-less hill, nor shady grove  
Have been unpressed by thy wanton weight,  
Yet thou thought honest, hadst thou used slight.  
Much care and business hath the chastest Dame  
To guard herself from undeserved blame;  
What artifice and cunning than must serve  
To colour them that just reproof deserve?  
'Tis not a work for every woman's wit,  
And the less marvel thou neglectedst it.  
That which amazes me the most, is this,  
That having never trodden but amiss,  
And done me wrongs, that do as much deny  
To suffer measure, as infinity:  
When I approach, thou turn'st thy head awry,  
As if sore eyes and scorn could satisfy,  
Can second wrongs the former expiate,  
And work them out of memory and date;  
Or teach me ill in human Precepts durst,  
That second wrongs can expiate the first?  
Thou art malicious, as incontinent,  
And mightst have met with such a Patient,  
Whose wronged virtue to just rage invited,  
Would have revenged, and in thy dust delighted.  
But I that have no gall, when once I love,  
And whom no great thing under heaven can move,  
Am well secured from fortune's weak alarms,  
And free from apprehension, as from harms.  
Thus do I leave thee to the multitude,  
That on my leaving hastily intrude.  
Enjoy thou many, or rejoice in one,  
I was before them, and before me none.   

A DIALOGUE.  MAN. P. 
BE not proud, 'cause fair and trim,  
But let those lips be basted,  
Those eyes will hollow prove, and dim,  
That lip and brow be wasted.  
And to love, who'll be persuaded,  
Sullied Flowers, or beauty faded?  WOMAN. R. 
Could Rose or lily purer be,  
'Cause they smelled, or looked like me?  
Yet pride should never reach my mind,  
But beauty though it useless lie,  
Is kept from stains by being laid by:  
So'ts better to be chaste then kind.  MAN. P. 
Oh thou art soft as is the air,  
Or the words that court thee fair.  
Then let those flames by Lovers felt,  
That scorched my heart, make thine to melt.  WOMAN. R. 
Thy words are sweet as is deceit,  
Sugared as the lover's bait,  
And do whisper in mine ear,  
Love makes bargains sweet, but dear.  MAN. P. 
Thou know'st not then that all the fair,  
Give youth to Love, and age to Prayer▪  WOMAN. R. 
'tis a Doctrine cannot be  
Sound in you, or safe in me.   

R. On black Hair and Eyes.  

IF shadows be the Pictures Excellence,  
And make them seem more lively to the sense;  
If stars in the bright day are lost from sight,  
And seem most glorious in the mask of Night;  
Why would you think (rare Creature) that you lack  
Perfection, cause your hair and eyes are black;  
Or that your heavenly beauty that exceeds  
The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads.  
The damask colour of your cheeks and lips,  
Should suffer by their darkness an eclipse:  
Rich Diamonds shine brightest being set,  
And compassed within a foil of Jet:  
Nor was it fit that Nature should have made  
So bright a sun to shine without some shade:  
It seems that Nature when she first did fancy  
Your rare Composure, studied Negromancy,  
That when to you this gift she did impart,  
She used altogether the black Art;  
By which infused Power from magic took,  
You do command all spirits with a look;  
She drew those magic Circles in your eyes,  
And made your hair the Chain wherewith she ties  
Rebelling hearts; those blue veins which appear,  
Winding Meanders about either Sphere  
Mysterious Figures are; and when you list  
Your voice commandeth as the Exorcist.   

Oh if in magic you have power so far,  
Vouchsafe me to be your Familiar.   

Nor hath Dame Nature her black Art revealed  
To outward parts alone, some lie concealed:  
For as by heads of Springs men often know  
The nature of the streams that run below;  
So your black hair and eyes do give direction,  
To think the rest to be of that complexion;  
That rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,  
That Indian Mine, that straight of Magilon;  
That world-dividing Gulf, where he that ventures  
With swelling sails, and ravished senses, enters  
To a new world of bliss. Pardon I pray,  
If my rude Muse presumeth to display  
Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast  
In praising sweetness, which I never did taste:  
Starved men do know there's meat, & blind men may  
Though hid from light, presume there is a day.  
The Rover in the mark his arrow sticks  
Sometimes, as well as he that shoots at pricks:  
And if that I might aim my shaft aright,  
The black mark I would hit, and not the white.     

BENJ. rudier TO THE PRINCE At his Return from SPAIN.  

SIR, such my fate was, that I had no store  
T'erect a goodly Pile before my door;  
Nor were my Flagons tired by being taught  
Their several stages up and down the Vault,  
Upon the great blessed Day of your return,  
Wherein nothing at all was seen to mourn,  
Except it were the Heavens, and well they might,  
Fearing our triumphs should outshine their light:  
So open hearted men were, as 't''ve been  
No point of faith to think excess a sin.  
The poor man tricked himself with wine that day,  
And did not fear to make his Landlord stay;  
The Tradesman shut his shop and did not care  
For the retailing his neglected ware;  
For well he knew there landed on the shore,  
A prize that him and all the Isle might store.  
The inland liver that could never find  
The east from west, but by a Church, nor wind  
In his lives compass ever yet did know,  
But that which to his Summer-fruit's a foe,  
Was better learned; and now he knew by art  
What filled your sails, & what wind filled his heart:  
I that have sense of blessings cannot show  
In outward things, the joy that I do owe;  
And thanks to heaven for your safe return,  
Yet have a fire within them that do burn  
As bright as theirs, which never shall decay  
Till fate assign to me a further day.   

R. Of deformity in a Man.  
WHat if rude Nature hath less care expressed  
About thy shape, or wantonly in jest  
Composed thee? or maliciously in despite?  
Or lame with her left hand, or without light?  
Be but as bold, thou mayst as well find Grace,  
As one that hath the most corrected face,  
Or leveled trunk, whose neatness to beget  
A tailor, and a barber's virtue met  
Upon a sempster; for a woman's eye  
Seldom betrays her heart to Cemetry:  
But some ill-favoured thought, that bears more sway  
To foulest hope, oft times prepares a way,  
Either that beauty fairest doth appear  
When some deformed obects planted near:  
Or Sovereignty (at which they chiefly aim)  
Is then most absolute when men can claim  
lest favour, he who hopes, or strives t' approve  
His person, doth submit, and yield to Love  
Upon conditions; but that man whose state,  
Himself considered, seems quite desperate,  
Stoops to all usage, and will live, or die  
To serve, or suffer under tyranny.  
Some of these Reasons, or some else unknown,  
It may be more, or it may be none.   

An Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.  
Underneath this sable hearse,  
Lies the subject of all Verse;  
Syan●y's Sister, Pembroke's Mother:  
Death, ere thou hast killed another,  
Learned, fair, and good as she,  
Time shall throw a dart at thee.  
Marble Giles let no man raise  
To her Name for after-days;  
Some kind woman born as she,  
Reading this (like Niobe)  
Shall turn Marble, and become  
Both her Mourner, and her Tomb.   

Sonnet. P.  
BLind beauty! If it be a loss  
To lose so poor a man,  
As neither multiply nor cross  
good or bad fortune can;  
Then are you poorer than you were,  
for I am gotten free;  
Unwilling to acquaint your ear  
with what your eye might see.  
What needed words, when from mine eyes  
such sparks of Love flew out,  
That you might easily surmise  
his fires were there about.  
Though I forsook the beaten way,  
the path in which I trod,  
Such as know all Love's country, say  
was nearer than the Road.  
The tongue did great exploits at first,  
so did the Canon too;  
But both those now have done their worst,  
and no such wonders do:  
As Engines of a naughty sort  
for Love to use in fight,  
After to make a loud report,  
then carry to the white▪  
I was a lantern all of Love,  
though of the closer kind,  
Directing you which way to move,  
When it did others blind:  
And you might always undescried  
have walked from place to place;  
Had you not turned the shining side  
backwards upon your face:  
So since not want of light in me,  
but that ill governed light;  
Both made yourself unapt to see,  
And taught the blind their sight:  
Henceforth I'll close the lantern quite,  
To expiate that sin;  
And seem without as dark as night,  
though bright as day within.  
Mark how you Eddie steals a way,  
From the rude stream into the Bay:  
There locked up safe, she doth divorce  
Her waters from the Channels course,  
And scorns the torrent that did bring  
Her headlong from her native spring.  
Now doth she with her new Love play,  
Whilst he runs murmuring away.  
Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they  
As amorously their arms display  
T' embrace, and clip her silver waves;  
See how she strokes their sides, and craves  
An entrance there, which they deny;  
Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly  
Home to her stream, and begin to swim  
Backward, but from the channels brim  
Smiling returns into the Creek,  
With thousand dimples on her cheek.  
Be thou this Eddie, and I'll make  
My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take  
Secure repose, and never dream  
Of the quite forsaken stream;  
Let him to the wild Ocean haste,  
There lose his Colour, name, and taste:  
Thou shalt save all, and safe from him  
Within these arms for ever swim.   

Of jealousy.  

Qu. FRom whence was first this Fury hurled,  
This jealousy into the world?  
Came she from hell? No, there doth reign  
Eternal hatred with disdain;  
But she the daughter is of Love,  
Sister of beauty. Resp. Then above  
She must derive from the third sphere  
Her heavenly offspring.   

Ans. Neither there,  
From those immortal flames could she  
Draw her cold frozen pedigree.   

Qu. If not in heaven, nor hell, where then  
Had she her birth?   

An: I'th' hearts of men:  
Beauty and Fear did her create  
Younger than Love, elder than Hate;  
Sister to both, by beauty's side  
To Love, by Fear to Hate allied:  
Despair her issue is, whose race  
Of frightful issues, drowns the space  
Of the wide Earth, in a swollen flood  
Of wrath, revenge, spite, rage and blood.   

Qu. Oh how can such a spurious Line  
Proceed from Parents so divine?   

Ans. As streams which from the crystal spring  
Do sweet, and dear, their waters bring:  
Yet mingling with the brackish Main,  
Nor taste, nor colour they retain.   

Qu. Yet Rivers twixt their own banks flow  
Still fresh; Can jealousy do so?   

Ans. Yes; while she keeps the steadfast ground  
O hope, and fear, her equal bound:  
Hope sprung from favour, worth, or chance,  
Towards the fair Object doth advance;  
Whilst fear as watchful sentinel,  
Doth the invading foe repel;  
And jealousy (thus mixed) doth prove  
The season, and the salt of Love.  
But when fear takes a larger scope,  
Stifling the child of Reason, Hope  
Then sitting in the usurped throne,  
She like a tyrant rules alone;  
As the wild Ocean unconfined,  
And raging as the Northern wind.    

P. Sonnet.  

LAdies flee from love's sweet tale,  
Oaths steeped in tears do oft prevail,  
Grief is infectious, and the air  
Inflamed with sighs, will blast the Fair;  
Then stop your ears when Lovers cry,  
lest yourself weeping with soft eye,  
Shall with a sorrowing tear repay  
That pity which you cast away.   

Young men flee when beauty darts  
Amorous glances at your hearts;  
A quick eye gives the surer aim,  
And Lady's lips have power to maim:  
Now in her lips, now in her eyes,  
Laped in a kiss, or smile, Love lies:  
Then flee betimes; for only they  
Do conquer Love, that run away.    

Sonnet.  

Fie that men should so complain  
Of women for unkindness,  
And accuse them of disdain,  
when 'tis but their own blindness.  
For though at first they do seem coy,  
and use a faint denial;  
It is not fit they should enjoy,  
that can abide no trial:   

Constant Love is like to Fire,  
that being oppressed, burns clearer,  
And women know when they retire,  
It makes true Love love dearer:  
How many favours should they miss,  
what wooing and protesting,  
Were't not they use some art in this,  
and feed them with contesting.   

Women therefore wisely seem  
at first the more disdainful,  
Because they think that men esteem  
that sweet, that's somewhat painful.  
But henceforth learn, although they swear  
And vow they cannot love you,  
Do not believe them, never fear,  
'Tis but their art to prove you.    

P. SONG.  

SAy pretty wanton, tell me why  
Thou canst not love so well as I;  
Sit thee down, and thou shalt see  
That I delight in none but thee.   

Say pretty wanton, be not coy,  
For thou alone art all my joy:  
If a smile thou wilt not lend,  
Yet let thy gentle ears attend.   

If thou stop those gentle ears,  
Then look upon these brinish tears;  
Which do force me still to cry,  
Pity me now, or else I die.   

Fairest fair, my Love, my Jewel,  
Wilt thou never cease to grieve me?  
Look and pity, be not cruel,  
Let thy love at length relieve me;  
Stay and hear my tongue's sad speaking,  
Words must keep my heart from breaking.   

Long and dearly have I loved thee,  
Love by right should be rewarded:  
Words and Vows could never move thee,  
Tears and sighs were not regarded.   

Oh let Love cause some relenting,  
Death succeeds thy not consenting.    

P. A Sonnet.  
SO glides a long the wanton Brook  
With gentle pace into the main,  
Courting the banks with amorous look,  
He never means to see again.  
And so does Fortune use to smile  
Upon the short lived favorite's face,  
Whose swelling hopes she doth beguile,  
And always casts him in the race;  
And so doth the fantastic boy,  
The god of the ill-managed flames,  
Who ne'er kept word in promised joy  
To Lover, nor to to loving Dames:  
So all alike will constant prove,  
Both Fortune, running streams, and Love.   

P. Of a fair Gentlewoman scarce Marriageable.  
WHy should Passion lead thee blind,  
Cause thy Lydia proves unkind:  
She is too young to know delight,  
And is not plumed for Cupid's flight:  
She cannot yet in height of pleasure,  
Pay her Love with equal measure;  
But like a Rose new blown, doth feed  
The Eye alone, but yields no Seed.  
She is yet but in her Spring,  
And bears no Fruit till Cupid bring  
A hotter season with his Fire,  
Which soon will ripen her desire:  
Autumn will shortly come and greet her,  
Making her taste and colour sweeter;  
And then her ripeness will be such,  
That she will fall e'en with a touch.   

P. A Paradox, that Beauty lies not in womens' faces, but in their lover's Eyes.  

WHy should thy look requite so ill  
all other Eyes,  
Making them prisoners to thy will,  
Where alone thy Beauty lies:  
When mens' Eyes first looked upon thee,  
They bestowed thy Beauty on thee.   

When thy Colours first were seen  
By judging sight,  
Had mens' Eyes praised Black or Green,  
Then thy Face had not been Bright:  
He that loved thee, than would find  
Thee as little fair as kind.   

If all others had been blind,  
Fair had not been;  
None thy Red and White could find  
Fleeting, if thou wert unseen.  
To touch white Skins is not Divine,  
Ethiopes Lips are soft as thine.    

P. A Lover to his Mistress.  

THe purest piece of Nature is my choice,  
this days breath,  
and to morrow's death,  
Have several dooms from her all-charming voice,   

So beyond fair, that no glass can her flatter;  
so sweetly mild,  
that tongues defiled,  
Dare not on her their envious stories scatter.   

The witty forms of beauty that are shed  
in flaming streams,  
from poet's themes,  
Like shadows when herself appears, are fled.  
O let me live in th' heaven of her bright eye▪  
Great Love, I'll be thy constant Votary.    

Description of a wished Mistress.  

NOt that I wish my Mistress,  
Or more or less than what she is,  
Write I these lines; for 'tis too late,  
Rules to prescribe unto my fate.   

But yet as tender stomachs call  
For some choice meats that bear not all;  
So a queasy Lover may impart  
What Mistress 'tis must take his heart.   

First, I must have her richly sped  
With nature's blossoms, white and red;  
For flaming hearts will quickly die,  
That have no fuel from the eye.   

Yet this alone will never win,  
Except some treasure lie within;  
For where the spoyl's not worth the stay,  
Men raise the siege, and march away.   

I'd have her wise enough to know  
When, and to whom a Grace to show;  
For she that doth at random choose,  
She will her choice as soon refuse.   

And yet methinks I'd have her mind  
T' a flowing courtesy inclined,  
And tender-hearted as a maid,  
Yet pity only when I prayed.   

And I could wish her true to be,  
(Mistake me not) I mean to me;  
She that loves me, and loves one more  
Will love the Kingdom o'er and o'er.   

And I would have her full of wit,  
So she know how to huswife it;  
But she whose insolence makes her dare  
To cry her wit, will sell more ware.   

Some other things delight will bring,  
As if she dance, or play, or sing;  
If hers be safe, what though her parts  
Catch ten thousand foreign hearts.   

But let me see, should she be proud,  
A little pride must be allowed:  
Each amorous Boy will sport & prate  
Too freely, where he sees no state.   

I cared not much if I let down  
Sometimes a chiding or a frown;  
But if she wholly quench desire,  
'Tis hard to kindle a new fire,   

To smile, to toy, 'tis not amiss  
Sometimes to interpose a kiss,  
But do not cloy; Sweet things are good  
And pleasant, but are nought for food.   

But stay! Nature hath over-writ my Art  
In her, to whom I offer up my heart:  
And Evening-Passengers shall sooner trace  
The wanton beams that dance on Thames smooth face;  
And find the tract where once the foot did stray  
On the moist Sands, which tides have washed away;  
Then men shall know my heart, or find her spot,  
If a revolt of hers procure it not.    

R, One that was a suitor to a Gentlewoman more virtuous than fair, wrote these to a friend of his that disliked her.  

WHy slights thou her whom I approve,  
Thou art no Peer to try my Love,  
Nor canst discern where her form lies,  
Unless thou saw'st her with my eyes;  
Say she were foul, or blacker than  
The Night, or sunburnt Indian,  
Yet rated in my fancy, she  
Is so as she appears to me:  
It is not Feature, nor a Face,  
That doth my free Election grace;  
Nor is my fancy only led  
By a well tempered white and red;  
Could I enamoured be on those,  
The lily and the blushing Rose  
United in one stock, might be  
As dear unto my thoughts as she.   

But I search farther, and do find  
A richer Treasure in her mind,  
Where something is so lasting fair,  
That Art nor Age cannot impair.   

Hadst thou a Perspective so clear,  
That thou couldst view my object there;  
When thou her virtue shall espy,  
Then wonder and confess, that I  
Had cause to like her; & learn thence,  
To love by Judgement, not by sense.    

The EPICURES Paradox.  
NO, worldling, no; 'tis not thy Gold,  
Which thou dost use but to behold;  
Nor Fortune, honour, nor long Life,  
Nor large Possession, without strife,  
That makes thee happy, these things be  
But shadows of felicity.  
Give me a Virgin of Fifteen,  
Already voted to the Queen  
Of Lust and Lovers, whose soft Hair  
Fanned with the breath of gentle Air,  
O▪ respreads her shoulders like a Tent,  
And is her Veil and Ornament,  
whose tender touch would make the blood  
Wyld in the Aged, and the Good;  
Whose Kisses fastened to the mouth  
Of threescore years, and longer sloth,  
Renews the Age, and whose bright eye,  
Obscures those lesser lights of sky;  
Whose snowy Breasts (if we may call  
That Snow which never melts at all)  
Make Jove invent a new disguise,  
In spite of Juno's Jealousies;  
Whose every part doth reinvite  
The old decayed Appetite;  
And in whose sweet embraces I  
Might melt myself to lust, and die.  
This is true belief, and I confess  
There is no other happiness.   

Opporiunity neglected.  
YEt was her Beauty as the blushing Rose,  
And greedy passionate was my desire,  
And Time, and Place, my reconciled Foes,  
Did with my wish, and her consent conspire:  
Why then o'er-reachless of my love's fruition,  
So eagerly pursued with rough intent,  
So dearly purchased with performed condition,  
Kept I my rude Virginity unspent?  
Did she not sweetly kiss? and sweetly sing?  
And sweetly play? and all to move my pleasure?  
And every dalliance use, and every thing,  
And show my sullen Eyes her naked Treasure?  
All this she did, I wilfully forbore;  
And why? Because me thought she was an whore.   

P. A Lover's Dedication of his Service to a virtuous GENTLEWOMAN.  
WHat I in Woman long have wished to see,  
Rarest of thousands, I have found in thee;  
Goodness, with Beauty: O! that crowns ye all,  
That makes thee perfect and Celestial.  
Beauty hath time to wither, we know;  
But Goodness after death hath time to grow.  
Let then those Rarities in you remain,  
To show that Earth from heaven so much can gain,  
That you a Pattern should to others be;  
But such as aftertimes shall never see.  
Believe (sweet Lady) that all this is true,  
And these few Lines belong to none but you.   

P. Sonnet.  

A Restless Lover I espied  
That went from place to place,  
Lay down & turned from side to side,  
And sometimes on his face.  
And when that medicines were applied  
In hope of intermission;  
As one that felt no ease, he cried,  
Has Cupid no Physician?   

What do the Ladies with their looks,  
Their kisses, and their smiles?  
Can no receipts in those fair Books,  
Repair their former spoils?  
But they complain as well as we,  
Their pains have no remission,  
And when both Sexes wounded be,  
Hath Cupid no Physician?   

Have we such Palsies, and such pains,  
Such fevers, and such fits,  
No Quintessential chemic Grains,  
No Esculapian wits;  
No Creature can (beneath the Sun)  
Prevail in opposition;  
And when all wonders can be done,  
Has Cupid no Physician?   

Into what poison do they dip  
Their Arrows and their Darts,  
That touching but an Eye or Lip,  
The pain goes to our hearts.  
But now I see before I get  
Into their Inquisition,  
That Death had never Surgeon yet,  
Nor Cupid a Physician.    

A Pastoral.  

LOVER. P.  

SHepherd, gentle Shepherd hark,  
As one that canst call rightest,  
Birds by their Name,  
Both wild and tame,  
And in their Notes delightest:  
What Voice is this, I prithee mark,  
with so much music in it?  
Too sweet methinks to be a Lark,  
too loud to be a Linnet?   

Nightingales are more confused,  
And discant more at random,  
Whose warbling throats,  
(To hold out Notes)  
Their airy tunes abandon.  
Angels stoop not now adays,  
Such Quirresters forsake us;  
Yet sirens may  
Our Loves betray,  
And wretched prisoners make us;  
Yet they must use some other way,  
Then singing to deprive us  
Of our poor lives, since such sweet lays  
As these would soon revive us.    

SHEPHERD. R.  
'Tis not Siren we descry,  
Nor Bird in Grove residing,  
Nor Angel's Voice,  
Although as choice,  
Fond Boy thou hear'st dividing;  
But one if either thou or I  
Should face to face resemble her,  
To any of these would blushing cry,  
Away, away Dissembler.    

P. A straggling Lover reclaimed.  

TIll now I never did believe,  
A man could love for virtue's sake,  
Nor thought the absence of one Love could grieve  
That man that freely might another take.  
But since mine Eyes betrothed my heart to you,  
I find both true.  
Thy Innocence hath so my Love refined,  
I mourn thy body's absence for thy Mind.   

Till now I never made an Oath,  
But with a purpose to forswear;  
For to be fixed upon one Face, were sloth,  
When every Lady's Eye is Cupid's sphere:  
But if she merit Faith from every Breast,  
Who is the best  
Of womankind; how can I then be free  
To love another, having once loved thee.   

Such is the great and happy power  
Of Goodness, that it can dilate  
Itself, to make him virtuous in an hour,  
Who lived before perhaps a Reprobate.  
But since on me those wonders thou hast done,  
In truth work on  
Upon thyself, thy Sex doth want that Grace,  
To love my Truth more than a better Face.    

P. To a LADY weeping.  
DRY those fair, those crystal Eyes,  
Which like growing Fountains rise,  
To drown their Banks; Griefs sullen Brooks,  
Would better flow from furrowed looks:  
Thy lovely Face was never meant  
To be the Seat of Discontent:  
Then clear those waterish stars again,  
That else portend a lasting Rain,  
lest the Clouds which settle there,  
Prolong my Winter all the year;  
And thy Example others make,  
In Love with sorrow, for thy sake.   

P. A compliment to his Mistress.  

ASk me no more whither do stray  
The Golden Atoms of the Day;  
For in pure Love, Heavens did prepare  
This Powder to enrich your Hair.   

Ask me no more whither doth haste  
The Nightingale when May is past;  
For in your sweet dividing throat,  
She winters, and keeps warm her Note.   

Ask me no more where Jove bestows  
(When June is past) the fading Rose;  
For in your Beauties Orient deep,  
All Flowers as in their Causes sleep.   

Ask me no more where stars so bright,  
Do downward stoop in dark of Night;  
For in your Eyes they sit, and there  
Fixed become, as in their sphere.   

Nor ask me whether East or West,  
The Phoenix builds her spiced Nest,  
For unto you at last she flies,  
And in your fragrant bosom dies.    

A Paradox in praise of a painted WOMAN.  
NOt kiss? by Love I must, and make impression  
As long as Cupid dares to hold his session  
Upon my flesh of blood, our kisses shall  
Out-minute time, and without number fall.  
Do not I know those Balls of blushing read,  
Which on thy cheeks thus am'rously be spread;  
Thy sinewy neck, those veins upon thy brow,  
Which with their azure winckles sweetly bow;  
Are artsull borrowed, and no more thine own  
Then Chains which on saint George's day are shown  
Are proper to the wearer; yet for this  
I Idol thee, and beg a luscious kiss:  
The Fucus, and Ceruse, which on thy face  
Thy cunning hand lays on to add new grace,  
Deceive me with such pleasing fraud, that I  
Find in thy Art what can in nature lie.  
Much like a Painter that upon some wall  
On which the splendent sunbeams use to fall;  
Paints with such art a guilded Butterfly,  
That silly maids with slow moved fingers try  
To catch it, and then blush at their mistake;  
Yet of this painted Fly much reckoning make:  
Such is our state, since that we look upon  
Is nought but colour, and proportion  
Take me a face as full of fraud and lies  
As Gypsies, or your running Lotteries;  
That is more false, or more sophisticate  
Than are saints relics, or a man of state;  
Yet such being glazed by the slight of art  
Gains admiration, wins in many a heart;  
Put case there be a difference in the mould,  
Yet may thy Venus be more choice, and hold  
A dearer treasure; oftentimes we see  
Rich Candian wines in wooden boles to be.  
The odoriferous Civet doth not lie  
Within the Musk-cats nose, or ear, or eye;  
But in a baser place, for prudent nature  
In drawing up of various forms and stature,  
Gives from the curious shop of her rich treasure  
To fair parts comeliness, to baser pleasure.  
The fairest flowers which in Spring do grow  
Are not so much for use, as for the show;  
As lilies, Hyacinth, and Gorgeous birth  
Of all pied flowers which diaper the earth,  
Please more with their discoloured purple train,  
Then wholesome pot herbs which for use remain.  
Shall I a gaudy speckled serpent kiss?  
Because the colour that he wears is his?  
A perfumed Cordavant who will wear?  
For that his scent is borrowed otherwhere.  
The robes and vestments which grace us all  
Are not our own, but adventitial.  
Time rifles nature's Beauty, but sly Art  
Repairs by cunning this decaying part.  
Fills here a wrinkle, and there purls a Vein,  
And with her cunning hand runs o'er again  
The Breaches dented in the Arm of Time,  
And makes deformity to be no crime;  
As when great men are gripped with sickness hand,  
Industrious physic pregnantly doth stand  
To patch up foul Diseases, and doth strive  
To keep their tottering carcases alive:  
Beauty a candle is, which every puff  
Blows out, and leaves nought but a stinking snuff  
To fill our nostrils with this boldly think,  
Your clearest candle yields the greatest stink;  
As your pure food, and choicest nutriment,  
Yields the most hot, and nose-strong excrement:  
Why hang we then on things so apt to vary,  
So fleeting, brittle, and so temporary?  
That agues, coughs, tooth-aches, and catarrh,  
Slight touches of diseases, spoil or mar:  
But when old age their beauty hath in chase,  
And ploughs up furrows in their own smooth face,  
Than they become forsaken, and do show  
Like stately abbeys ruined long ago.  
Nature but gives the model and first draught  
Of fair Complexion, which by art is taught  
To speak itself a complete form and birth,  
So stands a Copy to the shapes on earth.  
Love grants me then a reparable face,  
Which whilst that colours are, can want no grace.  
Pygmalion's painted statues I could love,  
So it were warm, and soft, and could but move.   

Sonnet. P.  

NOw being caught in Cupid's Net,  
And no way forth that I can get;  
My heart being fixed, I cannot move,  
Where I settle, I must love:  
My Love must still with you remain,  
Although my hoping be in vain.   

By Vows and Oaths now am I sure;  
But misery my heart must endure:  
So fickle are the Female kind,  
Which troubleth much my grieved mind;  
Missing the corpse I should enjoy,  
Brings me to ruin and annoy.   

But let them not then so false prove,  
But likewise join their Love for Love;  
Or else come Cupid with thy dart,  
And quickly pierce my wounded heart.  
Seeing with her I can't remain,  
Let me be rid out of my pain.   

Being I am thus crossed in Love,  
I needs must play the Turtle-Dove.  
For seeing that I have lost my Mate,  
My Joy is turned into hate.  
Therefore abroad then must I fly,  
And seek me out a place to die.   

Well Captain, now thou hast my heart,  
For thy sake now sore doth it smart;  
With sobs and tears than do I cry,  
To think on thy false treachery.  
Thy sight to me even now is death,  
Come gentle Cupid stop my breath,    

P. On a Strawberry.  
HOw like a Virgin, white and red,  
A young Rose particoloured,  
Blusheth these Berries; or like the Sun,  
Whose days journey's new begun,  
Look here 'tis white, and on this side  
'Tis like the lily in her pride,  
Or newfallen Snow, or like fresh May,  
Which was blown but yesterday;  
Both which Colours making one,  
Imitate perfection,  
Making it to seem as fair  
As a beauty past compeer;  
Or the Apple cast from Jove  
To those of the Hesperian Grove:  
Yet not jealous where it grows,  
Everywhere they march in rows;  
Fields, and banks, and Roots of trees  
Are often spangled o'er with these;  
Which though good themselves, yet be  
The better by Community.  
Taken how it hangs the head  
Like a Virgin ravished;  
Bowing down, as if afraid,  
Like Daphne when she cried for aid;  
Or like Calisto, that had been  
Tempted by great Jove to sin,  
And seeing that Diana spied it,  
straight held down the head to hide it.  
I would a Mistress just like thee,  
Thou pattern of humility;  
As fair, fresh, patient, and free  
Of any thing but Chastity;  
As silent, and which best would please,  
No less willing to increase.   

P. on VENNS and ADONIS.  
Venus' that fair loving Queen,  
Was sporting in the fairest Green,  
There fair Adonis did she see,  
As he was sleeping by a tree;  
Swift as thought to him she hies,  
When she pursues, than still he flies;  
O stay, stay, stay, sweet Boy quoth she,  
And come sit down, down, down by me:  
O stay, said she, my only joy;  
Then in her arms she clipped the Boy.  
To speak, said she, let pity move;  
But he said, No, I cannot love.  
Yet still she moved him for a kiss,  
Sweet, scant not that which plenty is.  
Into his arms herself she flung,  
But he cried, fie, I am too young.  
Her Robes as fair, as fair might be,  
The Goddess plucked above her Knee;  
In her fair twine she held him fast,  
And made him yield to love at last:  
Was ever Lady thus disgraced?  
Art thou a God, and yet shame, faced?  
Then blushing, down his head he hung,  
And still cried, fie, I am too young:  
Though he was young, yet stubborn. hearted,  
Away he flung, and so they parted.  
Her rosy Cheek, fair Lady then,  
With sorrow looked pale and wan.  
Now for thy sake, wild Boy, quoth she,  
Love's God is blind, and still shall be.  
Then sigh she did, with many a groan,  
And still sat weeping all alone.   

R, aposy for a necklace.  
LO, on my Neck whilst this I bind,  
For to hang him that steals my mind;  
Unless he hang alive in Chains,  
I hang and die in lingering pains.  
Those threads enjoy a double grace,  
Both by the gem, and by the place.   

P. For an EARRING.  
'tIs vain to add a Ring or Gemm,  
Your Ear itself out-passeth them;  
When idle Words are passing here,  
I warn, and pull you by the Ear,  
This Silken Chain stands waiting here  
For Golden Tongues to tie on there.  
Here silence twine their locks, you see,  
Now tell me which the softer be.   

P. SONG.  
COme saddest thoughts possess my heart,  
And in my grief come bear a part;  
Let all my words be turned to groans,  
Those sounds do best befit my moans;  
Each breath I take a sigh must be  
To make up sorrows harmony:  
Mine eyes once glutted with delight,  
Are now eclipsed from that sight,  
From whose pure light and influence  
I borrowed both life and sense:  
Whilst then I draw this tedious breath,  
I shall but lead a living death:  
In sable weeds I'll clothed be,  
And put on sorrow's livery;  
Then to some desert will I go,  
The fittest place to harbour woe;  
Where Owls and Ravens horrid cries  
Shall echo forth my miseries:  
My meat shall be of troubled cares,  
My drink shall be of brinish tears;  
My house shall be of the dark Cell,  
Where no house is, there will I dwell;  
The hardest rock shall be my bed  
Whereon to rest my troubled head;  
In stead of man's society,  
Wild beasts shall keep me company;  
I will converse without all fear  
With lion, Tiger, Woolf, or Bear;  
No music but their roaring cries  
Each night shall close my wretched eyes;  
Death's living Tomb thus will I be,  
And living die continually.  
To Birds and worms I'll it expose,  
That on my body when I die  
They may engrave this elegy:  
No solemn burial will I crave,  
My Cell shall be my Tomb and Grave;  
And ere I breathe my last thereon,  
I'll write this sad Inscription;  
Here lies enclosed in this Tomb,  
He that endured love's Martyrdom.   

Amyntas. P.  
CLoris sat, and sitting slept,  
Sleeping fighed, and sighing wept;  
Sat, slept, and sighed, & wept again  
For Ami tas that was slain:  
Oh! had you seen his face, said she;  
How fair, how full of Majesty.  
And there she stopped,  
And there she cried,  
Amyntas, Amyntas,  
And so she died.   

Sonnet. P.  

GO Soul, the body's Guest,  
Upon a thankless Errand;  
Fear not to teach the best,  
The truth shall be thy warrant.  
Go since thou must needs die,  
And tell them all they lie.  
Say to the Court it glows,  
and shines like rotten wood;  
Say to the Church it shows  
what's good, but doth not good  
If Court and Church reply  
Then give them all the lie.   

Tell Protestants they live  
acting but others actions,  
Not loved unless they give;  
not strong but by their factions.  
It Protestants reply,  
Give Protestants the lie.   

Tell men of high Condition,  
that rule affairs of State,  
Their purpose is ambition,  
their practice only hate:  
And if they once reply,  
Then give them all the lie.   

Tell Wit it wants Devotion,  
tell Love it is burr Lust;  
Tell time it is but motion,  
tell Flesh it is but Dust,  
And wish them not reply,  
For thou must give the lie.   

Tell those that brave it most,  
They beg for more by spending,  
And in their greatest cost,  
seek nothing but commending,  
And if they once reply,  
Then give them all the lie.   

Tell Age it daily wasteth,  
tell Honour how it altars,  
Tell Beauty how she blasteth,  
tell favour that she falters:  
And as they do reply,  
Give every one the lie.   

Tell Wit how it wrangles,  
in tricks and points of niceness;  
Tell Wisdom she entangles  
Herself in others' wiseness;  
And as they do reply,  
So give them all the lie.   

Tell physic of her boldness,  
tell Skill it is perversion,  
Tell Charity of her coldness,  
tell Law it is contention;  
And if they do reply,  
Then give them all the lie.   

Tell Fortune of her blindness,  
tell Nature of decay;  
Tell Friendship of unkindness,  
tell Justice of delay,  
And if they do reply,  
Then give them all the lie.    

P. On a Fountain.  
THE Dolphins trifling each on others side,  
For joy leapt up, and gazing there abide:  
And whereas other Waters fish do bring,  
Lo here from Fishes do the Waters spring;  
Who think 'tis more glorious to give,  
Then to receive the Juice by which they live;  
And by this Milk-white basin learn they may,  
That pure hands you should bring, or bear away:  
For which each basin wants no Furniture,  
Each Dolphin wailing, makes his Mouth an ewer.  
You're welcome then, you well may understand,  
When Fish themselves give Water to your hand.   

To a Friend. P.  
LIke to a hand which hath been used to play  
One Lesson long, still runs the usual way,  
And waits not what the Hearers bids it strike,  
But doth presume by Custom this will like.  
So run my thoughts, which are so perfect grown,  
So well acquainted with my passion,  
That now they dare prevent me with their haste,  
And ere I think to sigh, my sigh is past;  
'Tis past, and flown to you; for you alone  
Are all the Objects that I think upon.  
And did not you supply my soul with thought,  
For want of action they would muse of nought:  
What though our absent hands may not enfold  
Real ●mbraces; yet we firmly hold  
Each other in Possession; thus we see  
The Lord enjoys his Lands wherever be.  
If Kings possessed no more than where they sat,  
How were theirs greater than a mean Estate?  
This makes me firmly yours, you firmly mine,  
That something more than bodies us combine.   

P. On his Mistress.  
KEep on your Mask, and hide your Eye,  
For with beholding you I die:  
Your fatal Beauty, gorgonlike,  
Dead with astonishment will strike:  
Your piercing Eyes, if them I see,  
Are worse than Basilisks to me:  
Shut from my sight those Hills of Snow,  
Their melting valleys do not show;  
Those Azure paths lead to despair,  
O! vex me not, forbear, forbear:  
For whilst I thus in torments dwell,  
The sight of heaven is worse than Hell.  
Your dainty Voice, and warbling-breath,  
Sounds like a Sentence past for death;  
Your dandling Tresses are become,  
Like Instruments of Final Doom,  
O! if an Angel torture so  
When Life is done, where shall I go.   

P. In praise of his Mistress IRONICE.  
MY Mistress hath a precious Eye,  
But that alas, it looks awry;  
And like the Silver is her Hair,  
But it is Nitty everywhere;  
And for a Brow, as black as Jet,  
But it is greasy all with sweat:  
As for her Nose, O dainty Bill!  
But it is ever dropping still:  
And for her Lips, both fair & smooth,  
But slavers like a Landress Booth;  
And not a Tooth within her head,  
But like a Pearl unpolished:  
As for her Tongue, without compare,  
It never talks but out of square.  
And for her Chin, O pretty chap,  
But that it hath a woolly Nap!  
As for her Neck, both fair and white,  
But carries not the head aright.  
And for her breasts, both full and soft,  
But that it hath been milcht too oft.  
As for her belly, and her back,  
Acquainted how to bear a pack.  
And for the best, that is untold,  
Alas, it hath been bought and sold.  
As for her Thighs, good flesh and fat,  
But rough and furred like a Cat.  
And for her Feet, and for her Toes,  
If that you do not stop your Nose,  
The scent will teach your patience,  
She is all sweet, Sir-reverence.   

Translated out of FRENCH.  

LOVE the great Workman, a new World hath made,  
The Earth's my Faith, with steady firmness crowned;  
The Earth's of the Universe for Centre laid,  
So is my Faith of this fair World the Ground.   

If any motion of a jealous War  
Shakes my heart's Faith, and lead it into error,  
'Tis as when Winds that in the Earth pris'ned are,  
Make Earthquakes that affect the earth with terror.   

My tears are th' Ocean; for to draw them dry,  
Were no less work then to suck up the Sea:  
The storms that raise these billows in mine eye,  
Are (dear) the fears of you not loving me.   

The Sea is salt, although his Waters be  
Assembled Rivers first, and sweet enough;  
Much Salter are my tears, and far to me,  
Sweeter their Sources since they spring from you.   

The Air's my will, that in its own Power free,  
Restless about my Faith hath his repair.  
The Winds are like desires that rage in me,  
And move my will, as the Wind moves the Air.   

The Fire invisible, that this Air unfolds,  
Is the dear Flame wherein for you I languish;  
And as no lie that subtle Fire beholds,  
So from the whole world hidden is my anguish.   

The Moon is Hope, which still doth wax and wane,  
Borrowing the Light it hath, from you alone;  
When the Moon's clouded, 'tis then when in vain  
My thoughts err after you, and cause my moan.   

The Sun's your Eye (the fairest Light we see)  
Fair Sun of Love, light and life of our hours;  
For if the other Sun the world's light be,  
What Lover but derives his Light from yours.   

The Summer is your smile that quickens me,  
Winter, my fears, benumbing all my powers;  
But what boots fear, if my love's Autumn be,  
As void of fruit, as was his Spring of flowers.    

P. A DREAM.  
WHen as the cheerful Light was overspread  
With misty darkness, and the Sun was fled  
Unto the Western Island; who to rest,  
It called from toilsome labour man and beast.  
Methought within a shady blooming Grove,  
Where I was walking sad, perplexed with Love:  
Not far I spied a Damsel passing fair,  
Which might for Beauty with the Nymphs compare:  
She laid her down upon the Grass to rest  
Her tired Limbs, with weariness oppressed:  
Her pretty Fingers there I did behold,  
How cunningly her Tresses did unfold;  
I saw her lily Arm, her tender thigh,  
Her little waste, yet durst I not come nigh  
For fear she should descry me by her light  
Of horned Luna, which even then in sight  
Was seen to come from old Endymion's Bed,  
Scarce ' Work, still shaking of his drowsy head.  
I lay down still, at length I did espy  
Her eyes with sleep fast shut, then presently  
I roused my spirits without fear of shame;  
And to the place whereas I lay, she came.  
How fitly there her Legs abroad she laid,  
Betwixt, Dame nature's Privity bewrayed  
Itself; how fit she lay for to be pressed:  
Still was I cheerful, till at length possessed  
With more inflaming Lust, I softly fell  
Upon her Body; Judge you that can tell  
The rest: So having finished without pain,  
From whence I came, I did return again.   

P. To a Lady residing at the Court.  

EAch greedy hand doth catch and pluck the flower  
When none regards the stock it grows upon.  
Each Nature loves the fruit still to devour,  
But leaves the Tree to fall, or stand alone:  
Then this advice fair Cteature take from me,  
Let none pluck fruit, unless he take the Tree.   

Believe no Vows, nor much-protesting-men,  
Credit no Oaths, nor no bewailing Song;  
Let Courtiers swear, forswear, and swear again,  
Their hearts lie ten Regions from their Tongue:  
And when with Oaths thy heart is made to tremble,  
Believe them least, for than they most dissemble.   

No; Let not Caesar's self corrupt thy heart,  
Nor fond Ambition scale thy modesty;  
Say to the King, Thou only constant art,  
He cannot pardon thine impurity:  
For if with one, with thousands thou'lt turn Whore;  
Break Ice in one place, and it cracks in more.    

APOLLO'S Oath.  

When Phoebus first did Daphne love,  
And could no way her fancy move,  
He craved the Cause: the Cause, quoth she,  
Is, I have vowed Virginity.  
Then Phoebus raging, swore, and said,  
Past Fifteen none should die a Maid.   

If Maidens then perchance are sped  
Ere they can scarcely dress their head,  
Yet pardon them, for they are loath  
To make Apollo break his Oath;  
And better it is a Child were born,  
Then that a God should be forsworn.   

Yet silly they, when all is done,  
Complain our wits their hearts have won;  
When 'tis for fear that they should be  
Like Daphne, turned into a Tree:  
And who herself would so abuse,  
To be a Tree, if she could choose.    

P. ASONG.  
DRaw not too near,  
Unless you drop a tear  
On the Stone  
Where I groan,  
And will weep  
Until the eternal sleep  
Shall charm my wearied eyes.  
Cloris lies here  
Embalmed with many a tear,  
Which the Swain  
From the Plain  
Here hath paid,  
And many a Vestal Maid  
Hath mourned her Obsequies;  
Their snowy breasts they tear,  
And rent their golden hair;  
Casting cries  
To celestial Deities,  
To return  
Her beauty from the Urn,  
To remain  
Unparalleled on earth again,  
When straight a sound  
From the ground  
Piercing the Air;  
Cried, she's dead,  
Her soul is fled  
Unto a place more rare.  
You Spirits that do keep  
The dust of those that sleep  
Under ground,  
Hear the sound  
Of a Swain,  
That folds his arms all in vain  
To the Ashes he adores;  
For pity do not fright  
Him wandering in the night,  
When he laves  
Virgins graves  
From his eyes,  
Contributing sad laments  
Unto their memories;  
And when my name is read  
In number of the Dead,  
Some one may  
In charity repay  
My soul the tribute that I gave;  
And howl some Requiem on my grave,  
Then weep no more, weep no more,  
Soul's rest from care;  
Since she is dead,  
Her soul is fled  
Unto a place more rare.   

A Prognostication upon Cards and Dice.  
BEfore the sixth day of the next New-year  
Strange wonders in this Kingdom shall appear;  
Four Kings shall be assembled in this Isle,  
Where they shall raise great tumults for a while;  
Many men than shall have an end of crosses,  
And many likewise shall sustain great losses:  
Many that are now joiful, and full glad,  
Shall at that time be sorrowful and sad:  
Full many a Christians heart shall quake for fear,  
The dreadful sound of Trump when he shall hear.  
Dead Bones than shall be tumbled up and down  
In every City, and in every Town;  
By day and night this tumult shall not cease,  
Until a Herald shall proclaim a Peace;  
A Herald strange, whose like was never born,  
Whose mouth is flesh, and very beard is horn.   
FINIS.