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SIR,

TO A FRIEND.

WHETHER these lines do find you out,
Putting or clearing of a doubt;
(Whether Predestination,
Or reconciling Three in One,
Or the unriddling how men die,
And live at once eternally,

Now take you up) know 'tis decreed
You straight bestride the college steed.
Leave Socinus and the schoolmen,

(Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men),
And come to town; 'tis fit you shew
Yourself abroad, that men may know
(Whate'er some learned men have guest)
That oracles are not yet ceas'd:
There you shall find the wit and wine
Flowing alike, and both divine:
Dishes, with names not known in books,
And less amongst the college cooks,
With sauce so poignant that you need
Not stay till hunger bids you feed.
The sweat of learned Jonson's brain,
And gentle Shakespear's easier strain
A hackney-coach conveys you to,
In spite of all that rain can do:
And for your eighteen-pence you sit
The lord and judge of all fresh wit.
News in one day as much we've here
As serves all Windsor for a year;
And which the carrier brings to you,
After t' has here been found not true.
Then think what company's design'd
To meet you here, men so refin'd,
Their very common talk at board,
Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord:
And makes him capable to be
Umpire in's father's company.
Where no disputes nor forc'd defence
Of a man's person for his sense
Take up the time; all strive to be
Masters of truth, as victory:

And were you come, I'd boldly swear
A synod might as eas❜ly err.

THE CARELESS LOVER.

NEVER believe me if I love,

Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;
And yet in faith I lie, I do,

And she's extremely handsome too;

She's fair, she's wondrous fair,

But I care not who knows it,

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THOU vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou base dull aid
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;
Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move :
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,

E'er I'll die for love, I fairly will forego it. When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,

This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore:
She's fair, &c.

When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;

Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale,
No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail
That had her love, for what else could he seek?
We short'ned days to moments by Love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part

Our love had been of still eternity;
Much less could have it from the purer fire,
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire;
Our mutual love itself did recompense:
Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n,
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free:

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving lost unpitied it lament!

I must forbear her sight, and so repay

In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,

Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster? even And in one year outlive Methusalem.
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.

GEORGE WITHER-A. D. 1588-1667.

FROM the fourth eclogue of the shephERD'S HUNTING. Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia's Pastorals) not to give over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with; describes the comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him.

Willy. For a song I do not pass

'Mongst my friends, but what, alas!
Should I have to do with them,
That my music do contemn?

Roget. What's the wrong?
Willy.
Wherewithal I can dispense;
But hereafter, for their sake,
To myself I'll music make,"

A slight offence,

Roget. What, because some clown offends, Wilt thou punish all thy friends?

Willy. Honest Roget, understand me, Those that love me may command me;

But thou know'st I am but young,

And the pastoral I sung

Is by some supposed to be

(By a strain) too high for me;
So they kindly let me gain
Not my labour for my pain.
Trust me, I do wonder why
They should me my own deny.
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
On the wings of borrow'd wit.
I'll make my own feathers rear me
Whither others' cannot bear me.
Yet I'll keep my skill in store,
Till I've seen some winters more.

Roget. But in earnest mean'st thou so?
Then thou art not wise, I trow.
That's the ready way to blot
All the credit thou hast got.
Rather in thy age's prime
Get another start of time;
And make those that so fond be,
Spite of their own dullness, see,
That the sacred Muses can
Make a child in years a man.
Envy makes their tongues now run,
More than doubt of what is done.
See'st thou not in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;

And the vapours that do breathe

From the earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem they not with their black streams
To pollute the sun's bright beams;
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemish'd, fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be

With Detraction's breath on thee.
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.

As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains

Gross conceits from muddy brains,

Mists of envy, fogs of spite,

"Twixt men's judgments and her light.

But so much her power may do, That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power: Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more, Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with fame at last. Let nought therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight. For, if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly, Till I reach'd eternity. But alas! my Muse is slow, For thy place she flags too low; Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipt of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a muing. But, if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did. And, though for her sake I'm crost, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble

Ten times more than ten times double;
I should love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.
For, though banish'd from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,

With those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;
Though of all those pleasures past
Nothing now remains at last
But remembrance (poor relief)

That more makes than mends my grief;
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will;
Whence she should be driven too,
Were't in mortals' power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals, which give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of Neglect,
Wall'd about with Disrespect :
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,

She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this;
Poesy, thou sweet's content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;
Though thou be to them a scorn,
Who to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of sadness,
If I love not thy madd'st fits
Above all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What make knaves and fools of them.

WALLERA. D. 1605-87.

ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
SUCH was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd:
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.

All the rich flow'rs through his Arcadia found,
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

PHEBUS AND DAPHNE.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,

Or form some image of his cruel fair,
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus, thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST.

HAD Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.

Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confus'd heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!-
Go, Boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

OF LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
For women (born to be control'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,

All to one female idol bend,

While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu'ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pity'd now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled.
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He strait resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

MARRIAGE of the DWARFS.
DESIGN or Chance makes others wive,
But Nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she deny'd her little bed

To him, for whom Heav'n seem'd to frame
And measure out this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme
As if the world held none but them.

To him the fairest nymphs do shew

Like moving mountains topp'd with snow;
And ev'ry man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem:

None may presume her faith to prove;
He proffers death that proffers love.

Ah Chloris! that kind Nature thus
From all the world had sever'd us;
Creating for ourselves us two,
As Love has me for only you!

ON A BREDE of diverS COLOURS. TWICE twenty slender virgin-fingers twine This curious web, where all their fancies shine. As nature them, so they this shade have wrought, Soft as their hands, and various as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He wooes the female to his painted bed: No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies, So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR. WE must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim In storms, as loud as his immortal fame :

His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile;
About his palace their broad roots are tost

Into the air.. So Romulus was lost!

New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread.
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent

Ravish'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last legacy to Britain left.

The ocean, which so long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle:
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage;
And, with wise conduct, to his country shew'd
The ancient way of conquering abroad.

Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
To him that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes that fear'd him grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores her billows roll'd,
Th' approaching fate of their great ruler told.

TO AMORET.

FAIR! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me when I set
My blest eyes on Amoret;
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains;
But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine;
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection,

I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:
But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

"Tis amazement more than love Which her radiant eyes do move:

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