love A Sonnet The Rose and Lily COurted by Cupids and the Amorous Air Upon a shady Throne at her Repose She sate than whom none e're so sweet or fair It was the Queen of Flowers the Blushing Rose With no less pride upon his Bed of State A Lily pale with Envy look'd that way With humble Flowers encompass'd round he sate And scorn'd the Scepter at her Feet to lay To Arms with Thorns and Prickles they prepare And each designs to try it out by War Till on good Counsel they in Rule combine So in your Face the lovely White and Red Cynthia I see all Quarrels banished And Rose and Lily do in Empire joyne A Defiance returning to the Place of his past Amours A Heart of Ice did here my Heart inflame Bound with loose Hairs a Pris'ner I became â—ere first sweet Love thô bitter in the end â—latter'd with Spight with Kindness did offend â—ut from Assaults a new Defence I 'm taught â—nd my past Ills an Antidote have brought â—o the poor Bird that once escape has made â—eturns with caution where the Net is laid â—ith my late Damp all Sparks of Love expire My Feet approach yet does my Soul retire â—hô near her Presence I can justly say My Eyes and Mind tend quite another way With her my Lute could no Attention find â—ow will I please my self not sing to th' Wind With Laurel here where Cypress late I wore â—ll triumph more than e're I griev'd before DISTANCE FAR from the Fire I burn and run in vain Slowly from winged Love to 'scape the Pain So the swift Arrows flying quick as Wind Wound them that run when th'Archer stays behind Love tho' I strive with Art to shun the Blow Fiercely assaults my Heart where e're I go As he can best a mortal Stroak command Who has most compass for his striking Hand Hoping to 'scape I as the Bird do fare That has his Foot entangled in a Snare Fears Death or in a Prison to be cast Flutters its Wings and strives but still is fast So I with all my Toyl no Ease have got My Strugling does but faster tye the Knot For Cynthia imitating Heavens swift Ray Near or at distance can her Flames convey A Sonnet On Signor Pietro Reggio his setting to Music several of Mr. Cowley's Poems â—F Theban Pindar rais'd his Country's Fame Whilst its great Deeds he does in Odes rehearse And they made greater by his Noble Verse Gratitude are Trophies to his Name â—hen English Pindar shall for ever live Since his Divine and Lofty Poetry Secur'd Great Reggio by thy Harmony â—all to it self Immortal Glory give â—he World 's amaz'd to hear the sweet Consent â—â—wixt thy charming Voice and Instrument They 'd stop the Bays which from Apollo fled â—â—y skilful Notes would make in full Carreer â—â—â—ebus the God of Musick stay to hear And with his Daphne crown thy Rival Head From a Drinking Ode of Alcaeus Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 DRink on thô Night be spent and Sun do shine Did not the Gods give anxious Mortals Wine To wash all Care and Sorrow from the Heart Why then so soon should Jovial Fâ—llows part Come let this Bumper â—or the next make way Who 's sure to live and drink another Day An EPITAPH On a Dutch CAPTAIN HERE lies a Souldier not oblig'd to Fame Being forc'd his own Atchievements to reherâ—â— He dy'd not rich yet I would tell his Name Could I but comprehend it in my Verse On Cynthia singing a Recitative Piece of Musick O Thou Angelick Spirit Face and Voice Sweet Syren whose soft Notes our Souls rejoice â—et when thou dost recite some Tragick Verse Thy Tone and Action make it sweetly fierce â—â— thou soft loud sad or brisk Note dost hit â—â— carries still our Hearts along with it Thou canst heat cool grieve us or make us smile â—ay stab or kill yet hurt us not the while Thy Gesture Shape and Mien so pleasing are With thee no Humane Being can compare Thy Passions all our Passions do excite And thy feign'd Grief does real Tears invite â—â—istning to thee our Bodies seems as dead â—or our rapt Souls then up to Heav'n are fled â—o great a Monarch art thou that thy Breath â—as power to give us either Life or Death A Sonnet On the Picture of Cavalier Guarini Author of Il Pastor Fido painted by the Famous Borgianni and set up in his Funeral Pile at Rome YOU who to Fam'd Guarini now he 's dead Your Verses consecrate and Statues reare For that sweet Padan Swan your Tears have shed Sweetest that ever did or will sing here Behold this Picture on his Fun'ral Pile Your mournful Spirits 't will with Joy revive Tho' th'Artist cheats your Senses all the while For 't is but Paint which you would swear does live This serves to keep our Friend in Memory Since Death hath robb'd us of his better Part And that he so might live as ne're to dye He drew himself too but with diff'rent Art Judge which with greatest Life and Spirit looks Borgianni's Painting or Guarini's Books On old Rome HERE was old Rome that stretch'd her Empire far In Peace was fear'd triumphant was in War Here 't was for now its place is only found All that was Rome lyes buried under Ground These Ruines hid in Weeds on which Man treads Were Structures which to Heav'n rais'd their proud Heads Rome that subdu'd the World to Time now yields With Rubbish swells the Plains and strews the Fields Think not to see what so Renown'd has been Nothing of Rome in Rome is to be seen Vulcan and Mars those wasting Gods have come And ta'ne Romes Greatness utterly from Rome They spoyl'd with Malice e're they would depart What e're was rare of Nature or of Art It s greatest Trophies they destroy'd and burn'd She that o're turn'd the World to Dust is turn'd Well might she fall 'gainst whom such Foes conspire Old Time Revengeful Man and Sword and Fire Now all we see of the Great Empress Rome Are but the Sacred Reliques of her Tomb. A SONG Revenge against Cynthia SEE Cupid we have found our lovely Foe Who slights thy Pow'r and does my Flame despise Now thou art arm'd with all thy Shafts and Bow And she at Mercy 'twixt two Enemies Asleep she 's laid upon this Bed of Flowers Her Charms the sole Defence to save her Breast Thoughtless of injur'd me or of thy Powers Oh that a Guilty Soul can take such rest Now may'st thou eas'ly with a single Dart Revenge thy self and me upon her Heart A Sonnet Love's Contrariety I Make no War and yet no Peace have found With heat I melt when starv'd to death with cold I soaâ— to Heav'n whilâ— groveling on the Ground Embrace the World yet nothing do I hold I 'm not confin'd yet cannot I depart Nor loose the Chain thô not a Captive led Love kills me not yet wounds me to the Heart Will neither have m' alive nor have me dead
keep it so was it to take Homer's Verses and make them his own This is an Art which to perform it very well but few attain to the Skill and is not only allowed of but commended by Horace in his Art of Poetry If I should be blamed for thus exposing my self when so many of our Ingenious Poets have of late published their Works with such general Applause I hope I may be allowed without being thought arrogant to say as some of those might with Theognis 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 And if for the Credit of my several Authors whom I have here promiscuously shuffled in with mine own Things Together with the Genius of the Age which seems to be delighted with such Variety shall make this Piece acceptable to the Iudicious Reader I shall not care for the Bolts of those Censurers who make it their Business to cry down every thing which comes to their hands and which they many times understand not to such I shall apply this of the afore-recited Author 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 To Philip Ayres Esq On his POEMS AS when with utmost Skill some Architect Designs a Noble Structure to erect Searches what e'er each Country does produce For outward Ornament or inward Vse So Friend from divers Books thy lab'ring Thought Has all the huddled am'rous Notions sought And into form shape the unlickt Cubs has brought Here Proteus Love thou shew'st in various Dress From Gawdy France to more Mejestick Greece Something thou gather'st too from Roman Ore And Spain contributes to thy well-got Store Whence each by thee refin'd in English Mold Verse smooth as Oyl does slow and pure as Gold Thus the laborious Bee with painful Toil From various Flowers of a various Soil Duly concocting the abstracted Iuice In plenty does th'Ambrosial Food produce C. Dartiquenave Lyric Poems The PROEM To LOVE A Sonnet LET others sing of Mars and of his Train Of great Exploits and Honourable Scars The many dire Effects of Civil Wars Death's Triumphs and Encomiums of the Slain â—sing the Conflicts I my self sustain With her Great Love the Cause of all my Cares Who wounds with Looks and fetters with her Hairs This mournful Tale requires a Tragick Strain â—yes were the Arms did first my Peace controul Wounded by them a Source of Tears there sprung â—unning like Blood from my afflicted Soul Thou Love to whom this Conquest does belong â—eave me at least the Comfort to condole And as thou wound'st my Heart inspire my Song The REQUEST To LOVE A Sonnet O Love who in my breast 's most noble part Didst that fair Image lodge that Form Divine In whom the Summ of Heavenly Graces shine And there ingrav'dst it with thy golden Dart. Now mighty Work man Help me by thy Art Since my dull Pen trembles to strike a Line That I on paper copy the Design By thee express'd so lively in my Heart Lend me when I this great Attempt do try A Feather from thy wings that whil'st to write My hand 's imploy'd my thoughts may soar on high Thy Torch which fires our hearts and burns so bright My darker Fancy let it's Flame supply And through my numbers dart celestial Light The COMPLAINT A Sonnet NOW angry Iuno sends from Heaven in spight Rivers and Seas instead of moderate showres Horror invests the World and the bright Hours â—f Delos God are chang'd to dismal Night â— crowds of anxious Thoughts on ev'ry side Invade my Soul and through my restless Eyes I shed such streams of Tears my Heart e'en tryes â—eath's pangs whilst I by force in Life abide â—â—t the brisk Gales which rising by and by â—here Sol at night in Thetis Lapp shall ly Will make Heaven clear and drive away the Rain 〈◊〉 Cynthia That the blasts of Sighs I vent â—â—uld ease my Breast of cloudy Discontent Which still with fresh Assaults renews my Pain From Girolamo Preti out of Italian on a Race-Horse SON of the Air Rival of Winds when high Swift Courser thou that without Wings dost fly Quicker than Arrows from a Parthian Bow Compar'd to thee Iove's Thunderbolts are slow Men come from Lands remote thy Race to see But when thou' rt pass'd no Eye can follow thee Thine far exceeds the Motion of the Sphears Thought cannot equal thee in thy Carrears Thy Feet shake th' Earth whilst Sparks do thee surround Yet tread not on the Flints nor touch the Ground Thee for his Charrot Sol would have away But that he knows thy Speed would shorten Day Invites Poets and Historians to write in Cynthia's Praise A Sonnet COME all ye Wits that with Immortal Rhymes Glory to others and your selves create And you that gratifie the future Times Whilst Tales of Love and Battles ye relate â—ome turn your Studies and your Eyes this way This Theme will crown your heads with lasting Bays T is Cynthia's Beauty Heavenly Cynthia Come swell your Volumes all with Cynthia's Praise â—osterity will then your Works admire And for her sake shall them as Jewels prize 〈◊〉 things to Cynthia's Glory must conspire She shall be worshipp'd with the Deities To her make foreign Lands pay Honours due Thus shall you live by her and she by you Cynthia on Horse-back A Sonnet FAIR Cynthia mounted on her sprightly Pad Which in white Robe with silver Fringe was clad And swift as wind his graceful steps did move As with his Beauteous Guide he 'd been in love Though fierce yet humble still to her command Obeying ev'ry touch of her fair hand Her golden Bitt his foaming mouth did check It spread his Crest and rais'd his bending Neck She was the Rose upon this Hill of snow Her sparkling Beauty made the glorious Show Whence secret Flames men in their bosoms took The Graces and the Cupids her surround Attending her while cruel she does wound With Switch her Horse and Hearts with ev'ry Loâ— On the Death of Cynthia's Horse A Sonnet WHate're the World could boast of fair or good Thy back with pride has born thou happy Horse By which thou' rt fall'n in middle of thy course Too feeble to sustain so great a Load Oh happy Fall Oh dying full of Bliss Whilst she that guided Love did guide thy Head Big with this thought thou willingly art dead Scorning another burden after this A Heaven of Beauty over-press'd thy Back This might have made Alcides shoulders crack And Atlas truckl'd under such a weight Heav'n thee amongst its Horses long'd to see As here the World was late in love with thee When carrying her who to the Sun gave light On a Fountain and its Architect A Watry Heap by a fresh Torrent fed Hoary with Froth lifts up its reverend Head Whence various Currents falling their Recoyl Makes them when cold as Ice appear to boyl Out from his Temples in an artful Crown Clear Drops like strings of Pearls come trickling down Which quickly caught
Husband a vexatious Thing Yet these Advantages to him she gives By her in his Posterity He lives She takes of him when sick a prudent Care In his Misfortunes bears an equal share To her for Ease he does his Griefs impart Her pleasant Converse often chears his Heart And when if she survive he ends his Life She does the Office of a pious Wife Set these against her Ills and you will find Reasons to quiet your uneasy Mind But if you 'll strive her Temper to reclaim Slight these good Things the bad expose to Shame And no Compliance to her Humour lend To your Vexations ne'er shall be an End Simonides 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 On Man's LIFE Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 NO Humane thing in Constancy will stay The Learned Chian us'd of old to say Our Life was frailer than the Fading Leaves Which Man â—orgets and scarce its Flight perceives He harbours Idle Fancies in his Brain Many which he from Childhood did retain And whilst his Vigour lasts he 's still inclin'd To fill with Trifles his unsetled Mind On Age or Death ne'er thinks nor takes he care Health to preserve or Active Limbs to spare We to more serious Things our Minds should give Youth hasts and we have little time to live To weigh this well is a Material Part This Thought 's of VVorth record it in thy Heart From two Elegies of Mimnermus 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 The Contempt of Old Age. The first being imperfect begins 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 'T IS a short time our precious Youth will stay Like some delightful Dream it steals away And then comes on us creeping in its stead Benumming Old Age with its hoary Head Which Beauty spoils our Nerves with Crampings binds It clouds our Eyesight and disturbs our Minds When Iove to Tithon endless Old Age gave 'T was sure of greater Terrour than the Grave Some have in Youth been for their Beauty pris'd Which when deform'd by Age become despis'd Then peevish grown and vex'd at Childrens Slight Take not abroad nor at their Homes delight Bed-rid and scorn'd with Pains and Rheums they lye The Gods on Age throw all this Misery From Anaxandrides the Rhodan Poet. In Praise of Old Age. Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 OLD-Age which we both hope and fear to see Is no such Burden as it seems to be But it uneas'ly if we undergo 'T is then our selves take pains to make it so A yielding Patience will create our Ease So do the VVise compound in Youth for Peace VVho thus complies both to himself is kind VVhilst he secures the Quiet of his Mind And to his Friends a just Respect does show VVhich gains him Love and Veneration too From Crates the Philosopher on the same Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 SOME giddy Fools do Rev'rend Age deride But who enjoy'd it not untimely di'd VVe pray we may to good Old Age attain And then of its Infirmities complain But their insâ—tiate Minds I must admire VVho Old Infirm and Poor can longer Life desire The timely MEMENTO THE shipwrack'd Bark cannot more sure convey Our Humane Life into the Raging Sea Nor Darts to Mark can more directly fly Nor Floods to th' Ocean than we post to dye Then happy thou who dost so well begin And so thy Race hold on the Palm to win Blest Runner that when tyr'd and lying down Dost rise possess'd of an Eternal Crown Only by closing here thy Mortal Eyes Opens the Passage to Coelestial Joys Then let him take the Earth who loves to raign Yet a small Tract e'er long shall him contain Where he as Monarch cannot be obey'd For sawcy Worms his Limits shall invade â—f all must dye why should we fear and grieve â—ince Dying is the only way to live On Good Friday The Day of our Saviour's Passion WEep this great Day Let Tears oreflow your Eyes When Father gave his Son in Sacrifice This Day for us his pretious Blood was spilt Whose Dying made Atonement for our Guilt He on a Cross with Shame gave up his Bâ—eath E'en He who could not dye did suffer Death Closing his Eyes to Heav'n He op'd a way And gave those Life who then expiring lay Death did against our Souls those Arms prepare But He the Fury of the Conflict bare To guard our Lives his Body was the Shield And by our Gen'ral's Fall we gain the Field When Graves shall open Temples Vail be torn The El'ments weep Heav'ns themselves shall mourn O Hearts more hard than Stones not to relent May we shed pious Tears and of our Sins repent Rhianus the Cretan 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Of IMPRUDENCE 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 WHat is 't that thus frail Men with Errour blinds Who bear Heav'n's Gifts in such imprudent Minds The Poor with Eyes and Hearts dejected go Charging the Gods as Authors of their Woe They suit their Habit to their humble State And scarce their Minds with Vertues cultivate How they should speak or move they stand in fear When 'mongst the Rich and Pow'rful they appear They ev'ry Gesture do to Sadness frame And blushing Faces shew their inward Shame But he whom Heav'n has blest with lib'ral Hand And giv'n him o'er his Fellow Men Command Forgets he on the Earth his Feet does place Or that his Parents were of Mortal Race He swell'd with Pride in Thunder speaks like Iove Does in a Sphere above his Betters move But thô so Rich so Stately and so Grave Has not more stock of Brains than others have Yet would he climb to Heav'n to find a Seat Amongst the Gods and at their Banquets eat Till swift-wing'd Ate Mischief's Deity Light on his Head e'er he her Coming spy Who can her self in various Shapes disguize When Old or Young she would in Snares surprize She on Poor Fools as well as those in Height Does to great Iove and to Astraea Right Timocles the Athenian His Remedies against the Miseries of Man's LIFE More at large exemplified 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 COnsider well this Truth for 't is of Use Nature did ne'er a Thing like Man produce So charg'd with Ills from which so seldome free Sometimes his Life 's a Scene of Misery Nor Humane Industry can Respite gain For his Soul's Anguish or his Body's Pain But by reflecting what some Men endure Which to himself may present Ease procure And Tales of what in former times was done Laid in the Scale and weigh'd against his own Art thou reduc'd to beg from door to door When Telephus was young he suffer'd more In Woods expos'd without Relief he lay For some devouring Beasts a Royal Pray If thou with his thy Miseries compare Thou wilt confess he had the greatest share Have Troubles turn'd thy Brain to make thee rage Thoughts of Alâ—maeon may thy Griefs asswage By Fury's scourg'd he Mad in Torments di'd Yet justly suffer'd for his Parricide Wert thou by chance or made by others blind Call OEdipus the Theban
and blow the Fire 'Gainst their Assaults let us our Forces join Dissolve the Weather by the strength of VVine A COMPLAINT WHEN first I here to Cynthia spake my Mind Near these sweet Streams which to our thoughts were kind â—h then in perfect Harmony we met â—nd to our Concert joyn'd the Rivulet â—he Flowers Plants Echo's Craggy Rocks and Dales â—he pleasant Meads proud Hills and humble Vales â—em'd then o're-joy'd at my Felicity Which now condole with me in Misery â—t still the wing'd Inhab'tants of the Wood â—g as my Change they had not understood â—ô sure the Melancholy Tunes they vent â—e rather Notes of Grief than Merriment â— Nymphs that in these Crystal Streams do dwell â—d after Sport rest quiet in your Cell â—ce clear as yours a Happy Life I led â—ô now o'erwhelm'd with Grief and live as dead Thus we through various Turns of Fortune run And sind no certain Rest till Life be done Love's Garden Translated from Girolamo Preti I To Love's Garden came with my Attire Was wove with Herbs of Hope and of Desire Branches of Trouble too by me were worn VVhose Flowers and Fruit were Prejudice and Scort 'T was wall'd with Pain and Anguish round about And from a thousand places issu'd out VVater of Grief and Air of Sighs beside Deceit and Cruelty did there reside Pride was the Keeper and to cultivate VVas Jealousie who still with mortal Hate Tare up my Happiness e're it could grow VVhilst like a Madman thus I strive to sow Under the Shadow of a Thought that 's kind I plow in Stone dig VVater stop the VVind Seeing his own Picture discourses of his Studies and Fortune â—HIS which the Shadow of my Face does give VVhose Counterfeit seems true and Art alive â—ows but the part of Man's Infirmity â—hich to Age subject must decay and dye â—t the Internal Nature's Excellence â—hich does this Earthly Shadow influence 〈◊〉 haps some Image may on Paper draw 〈◊〉 ose Essence ne'er of Time shall stand in awe 〈◊〉 by my Muses Help I hope to build 〈◊〉 Monuments as ne'er to Time shall yield 〈◊〉 er than from these Colours can be had 〈◊〉 to my Years shall greater Numbers add â— when some Noble VVork I enterprize â—t might advance my Honour to the Skies â—envious Fortune strikes a thousand ways 〈◊〉 royes my Labours and so blasts my Bays A Sonnet of Petrarc On the Death of Laura I Fill with Sighs the Air when e're I stand On yon' high Hill and thence survey the Plain Where Laura she who could my Heart command Did in her Earthly Paradise remain For now she 's dead and left me here alone Griev'd for her loss that I could gladly dye Drowning my Eyes in making of my Moan My Tears have left no space about me dry There is no Stone upon that craggy Hill Nor these sweet Fields an Herb or Plant do bring Nor Flower 'mongst all that do the Valleys â—ill Nor any drop of Water from the Spring Nor Beasts so wild that in the Woods do dwell But of my Grief for Laura's Death can tell Another of Petrarc On Laura's Death OH Death How has thy utmost Malice sped Thou hast Love's Kingdom quite impov'rished â—ropt Beauty's Flower put out our chiefest Light â—nd one small Stone deprives us of her sight â—ur Joy's extinct we 're left in Discontent â—ript of our Honour and our Ornament â—ut to her Fame thou ne're canst put an end â—hy Power but o're her Body did extend â—â—r her pure Soul above is glorify'd â—s brightest Star she 's there the Heaven's Pride â—nd here her Vertuous Deeds shall never dye â—t be admir'd by all Posterity 〈◊〉 w Glorious Angel thou that dwell'st above 〈◊〉 d with more powerful Charms attractest Love 〈◊〉 y'st thou be vanquish'd by my Piety 〈◊〉 here thy Beauty triumph'd over me Complains of the Court. IN a Great Court near a Fam'd River's side With Hopes of Greatness sed I still reside But where to fix I ne'er shall understand Foll'wing what flies and shunning what 's at hand Others from me the Gifts of Heav'n retain The lucky Fool does still the Purchace gain At Air I grasp and after Shadows strive Live for my Foes if this be said to live I slight my self love him that injures me And in soft Words find greatest Treachery I Mortal Hatred under Smiles behold And starve for want amidst great heaps of Gold Now Envy's Stroaks then Fortune's I sustain And want a Friend to whom I might complain I see th' ensuing Storm and no Help nigh Grieve for one Loss and straight another spy Being retired complains against the Court. REmote from Court where after Toil we get More Hopes than Fruit I now have chang'd my Seat And here retir'd with calmer Thoughts abide As Lea more smooth than troubled Thames does glide I need not Great Men here with Flatt'ry please No Pride nor Envy shall disturb my Ease If Love ensnares my Heart I from its Net Or servile Chain at least my Freedom get Since my new Flame brake out my old is death With Falshood kindled and with Scorn 't was fed And here the greatest Rigour pleases more Than all dissembled Favours could before There Love 's all Counterfeit and Friendship too And nothing else but Hate and Malice true If here my Nymph be cross or prove unkind Vanquish'd I triumph fighting Peace I find To Cynthia HARK how the little Birds do vie their Skill Saluting with their Tunes the welcome Day Spring does the Air with fragâ—ant Odours fill And the pleas'd Fields put on their best Array With great Serenity the Heavens move The Amorous Planet rules in fullest power All things their Cruelty away remove And seem to know of Joy the Time and Hower Only my Cynthia still this Glorious Morn Retains the frozen Temper of her Heart Of Birds and Flowers does imitation scorn Nor from her wonted Rigour will depart Ah change my Fair that harsh and cruel Mind Why should your Looks and Humour disagree Let not my Love such Opposition find You 're wo'd by Heav'n and Earth to favour me The Withered Rose GO Fading Rose a Present to my Fair To whose ungrateful Breast I gave my Heart And thô my Grief could ne'er affect her Care To her do thou my dying Mind impart I late have seen thee Lovely Sweet and Gay Perchance the influence of her Looks on thee Now pale as Death thy Beauty 's gone away Thou art the Emblem of my Misery Say if to cast an Eye on thee she deign Since no Relief from her my Life receives My Body soon as Bloodless will remain As thy once fresh but now decaying Leaves And thou perchance the Benefit may'st find For thy pale Looks and Message understood To cure thy dying Spoils she may be kind With Water of my Tears or with my Blood A Sonnet On the Death of Sylvia OH Death without regard to wrong or right All things at will thy boundless Rage devours This tender Plant
thou hast cut down in spight And scatter'd on the Ground its Fruit and Flowers Our Love 's extinct that with such Ardour burn'd And all my Hope of future Pleasure dyes Nature's chief Master-piece to Earth's return'd Deaf to my Passion and my grievous Cryes Sylvia the Tears which on thy Sepulchre Hereafter shall be shed or those now are Thô fruitless yet I offer them to thee Until the coming of th' Eternal Night Shall close these Eyes once happy with thy Sight And give me Eyes with which I thee may see To the WINDS A SONG I. YE Winds that in your hasty Flight Just kiss the Leaves and then away The Leaves that tremble with Delight And murmur at so short a stay Stop here and e're you further goe Give audience to a Lover's Woe II. Condoling Air to you I speak Since she is deaf to all my Grief You see my Heart will quickly break If careless She gives no Relief I 'm sure you 're troubled at my Pain For when I sigh you sigh again III. Go gentle Air fly to my Dear That thus with Love inflames my Breast And whisper softly in her Ear 'T is she that robs my Soul of Rest Express if possible such Moans May imitate my dying Groans IV. Or with thy rougher Breath make bold To toss the Treasure of her Hair Till thou dost all those Curls unfold Which cunningly Mens Hearts ensnare Try all thy Skill to break the Net That I like thee may Freedom get V. Then let some thicker Blasts arise And with her Face so sport and play Till the bright Rays of her fair Eyes Be qualify'd or ta'en away Make all those Charms which Men assail Of lesser force and less prevail The Silent Talkers PEACE Peace my Dear Corinna said To her enamour'd Corydon Lest we by Listners be betray'd And this our Happiness undone Our wishes answer ev'ry way And all my Thoughts center in thine If thou hast any thing to say Speak with thy Eyes I 'll speak with mine 'T is dangerous jesting with LOVE A SONG I. VEnture not with Love to jest Though he 's blind and but a Boy Whosoe'er would live at rest Must not dare with him to toy If you play he 'll seem to smile But conspire your Death the while II. â— my self was such a Sot Once to act a Lover's Part â—â—em'd to love but lov'd her not Sigh'd but sigh'd not from my Heart Long I did not this maintain E're my Play was turn'd to Pain III. â—s I gaz'd upon my Fair And of Love shew'd ev'ry Sign â—â—e play'd too the Flatterer With her Glances answering mine Till his Arrows Cupid took Pierc'd me with each Flatt'ring Look IV. Love the Jester will assail And when scorn'd the Mastry get Art I see can ne'e avail Him that plays the Counterfeit For I find now time is past Jest to Earnest turn'd at last V. Cupid drew with more desire Seeing me his Net despise Was more active with his Fire While he â—ound my heart was Ice Now my Sighs no pity â—ind But are scatter'd in the Wind. On WINE From a Fragment of Hesiod Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 WINE chears our Hearts and makes us glad When Grief and Cares have left us sad But more than Nature does suffice Will cast a Cloud before our Eyes 'T will bind the Tongue the Feet and Hands E're we perceive with strongest Bands And us its Drunken Slaves will keep Till we our Freedom get by Sleep A DREAM ONE Night with Sleep my Senses being opprest Fixt on that Thought which still o'er rul'd my Brest â— Mourning Dress with Silence did appear â—â—e of her Sex was to my Soul most Dear â—ynthia methought I said and gaz'd awhile Where 's thy accustom'd Look and cheerful Smile What sad Occasion thus disturbs thee now â—nd hangs that gloomy Sadness on thy Brow â—e only sigh'd and off'ring to depart â—natch'd her Hand and laid it to my Heart â—nd whilst I in this trembling Rapture stand â—e took and held me by my other Hand â—hought my Heart 'twixt Joy and Grief would break â—dding with Tears My Dear I prithee speak â—nd grasp'd her fast she struggling to be gone â—ll wak'd but then I found my self alone Oft have I griev'd to think what this might prove And gather'd hence ill Omens to my Love But since I may too soon the Mischief find I 'll strive to chase the Fancy from my Mind The Restless Lover THE Birds to wanton in the Air desire The Salamander sports himself in Fire The Fish in Water plays And of the Earth Man ever takes possession at his Birth Only unhappy I who born to grieve In all these Elements at once do live Grief does with Air of Sighs my Mouth supply My wretched Body on cold Earth does lye The Streams which from mine Eyes flow Night and Day Cannot the Fire which burns my Heart allay The RESOLUTION A Sonnet of Petrarc out of Italian OH Time Oh rowling Heavens that fly so fast And cheat us Mortals ignorant and blind Oh fugitive Day swifter than Bird or Wind Your Frauds I see by all my Suff'rings past But pardon me 't is I my self must blame Nature that spreads your Wings and makes you fly To me gave Eyes that I my Ills might spy Yet I retain'd them to my Grief and Shame Time was I might and Time is still I may Direct my Steps in a securer way And end this sad Infinity of Ill Yet 't is not from thy Yoke O Love I part But the Effects I will reclaim my Heart Vertue 's no Chance but is acquir'd by Skill Invokes DEATH COME Terrour of the Wise and Valiant Come And with a Sigh let my griev'd Soul have room Amongst the Shades then shall my Cares be gone All there drink Waters of Oblivion So went the Heroes of the World and so Or soon or late all that are born must go Thou Death to me art welcome as a Friend For thou with Life putt'st to my Griefs an End Of this Poor Earth and Blast of Breath ally'd How easily by thee the Knot 's unty'd This Spring of Tears which trickles from mine Eyes Is Natural and when I dye it dryes Matter for Sighs I drew with my first Breath And now a Sigh ushers my Soul to Death So Cares and Griefs determine by Consent This Favour owe I to my Monument A Hint from the Beginning of the Third Satyr of Juvenal Laudo tamen vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis Destinet atque unum Civem donare Sibyllae c. A Neighbour now shall Aged Sibyl have For I 'll withdraw to Cuma's Sacred Cave Where I Vesuvius like when Years attire My Head with Snow shall still maintain my Fire In Hatred of the World my Days I 'll spend Till with Despight my wretched Life shall end My haughty Plumes I 've clipp'd I 'll soar no more So the Fates cut what they had spun before I was when Bad of Vertuous Men despis'd And by the Scourge
Lips and thus in Anger said Here I 'm resolv'd shall a Memorial be Of this my sweet but punish'd Robbery Let him endure as great a Pain as this Who next presumes these Nectar Lips to kiss Their Sweetness shall convey revenging Smart Honey to 's Mouth but Torment to his Heart The Young Fowler that mistook his Game An Idyllium of BION 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 A Brisk Young Archer that had scarce his Trade In search of Game alone his Progress made To a Near Wood and as he there did rove Spy'd in a Box-Tree perch'd the God of Love For Joy did he his lucky Stars adore Ne'er having seen so large a Bird before Then in due Order all his Lime-twigs set Prepar'd his Arrows and display'd his Net Yet would the Crafty Bird no Aim allow But flew from Tree to Tree and Bough to Bough At which his strange Success for Grief he cry'd In Anger throwing Bow and Toyls aside And to the Man that taught him ran in Hast To whom he gave Account of all that past Making him leave his Plow to come and see And shew'd him Cupid sitting in the Tree The good Man when he saw it shook his Head Leave off Fond Boy leave off he smiling sed Hast from this Dang'rous Fowl that from you flies And follow other Game let me advise For when to riper Age you shall attain This Bird that shuns you now you 'll find again Then use your Skill 't will all your Art abide Sit on your Shoulders and in Triumph ride CUPID 's Nest. AH Tell me Love thy Nesting Place Is 't in my Heart or Cynthia's Face For when I see her Graces shine There art thou perch'd with Pow'r Divine Yet strait I feel thy pointed Dart And find thee flutt'ring in my Heart Then since amongst us thou wilt show The many Tricks thou Love canst doe Prithee for sport remove thy Nest First to my Face and then to Cynthia's Brest An Ode of ANACREON To HIMSELF 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 WHEN Fumes of Wine ascend into my Brain Care sleeps and I the Bustling World disdain Nor all the Wealth of Croesus I esteem â—â—ng of Mirth for Jollity's my Theme With Garlands I my Ruby Temples crown Keeping Rebellious Thoughts of Business down â—n Broyls and Wars while others take Delight 〈◊〉 with choice Friends indulge my Appetite Then fetch more Bottles Boy and charge us round We 'll fall to Bacchus Victims on the Ground Nor value what dull Moralists have sed I 'm sure 't is better to be drunk than dead An Ode of ANACREON To his Mistress 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 NEAR Latona's Rival makes her Mone Chang'd by the Gods into a Weeping Stone And ravish'd Philomel they say 't is true Became a Bird stretch'd out her Wings and flew But I could wish to be your Looking-Glass Thence to admire the Beauties of your Face Or Robe de Chambrè that each Night and Morn On those sweet Limbs undrest I might be worn Or else a Crystal Spring for your Delight And you to bathe in those cool Streams invite Or be some precious Sweets to please the Smell That in your Hand I near your Lips might dwell Or String of Pearls upon your Neck to rest Or Pendent Gem kissing your Snowy Brest E'en to your Feet would I my Wish pursue A Shoe I 'd be might I be worn by you To LOVE An Ode of ANACREON 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 'T IS sad if Love should miss a Heart Yet sadder much to feel the Smart But who can Cupid's Wounds indure And have no Prospect of a Cure We Lovers are not look'd upon For what our Ancestors have done Wit and good Parts have slight Regard No Vertue can obtain Reward They ask what Coyn our Purses hold No Object 's like a Heap of Gold But doubly be the Wretch accurst Who taught us to esteem it first This Thirst of Gold incites one Brother To ruine or destroy another Our Fathers we for Gold despise Hence Envy Strife and VVars arise And Gold 's the Bane as I could prove Of all that truly are in Love A Sonnet Out of Spanish from Don Luis de Gongora On a Death's-Head covered with Cobwebs kept in a Library and said to be the Scull of a King THIS Mortal Spoil which so neglected lies Death's sad Memento now where Spiders weave Their Subtil Webs which Innocence deceive Whose Strength to break their Toyls cannot suffice Saw it self Crown'd it self Triumphant saw With Mighty Deeds proclaiming its Renown Its Smiles were Favours Terrour was its Frown The World of its Displeasure stood in Awe Where Pride ordaining Laws did once preside Which Land should Peace enjoy which Wars abide There boldly now these little Insects nest Then raise not Kings your Haughty Plumes so high For in Death's cold Embraces when you lye Your Bones with those of common Subjects rest From an Imperfect Ode of Hybrias the Cretan Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 MY Riches are a Trusty Sword and Spear And a tough Shield which I in Battel wear This as a Rampart its Defence does lend Whilst with the others I my Foes offend With these I plow with these my Crops I reap With these for VVine I press the Juicie Grape These are unless I fall by Fickle Chance Machines which me to Dignities advance Oh thrice Beloved Target Spear and Sword That all these Heav'nly Blessings can afford Those who the Havock of my Weapons fear And tremble when of Blood and VVounds they hear They are the Men which me my Treasures bring Erect my Trophies stile me Lord and King And such while I my Conquests spread abroad Fall and adore me as they do their God Complains of the Shortness of Life An Idyllium of BION 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 THO' I had writ such Poems that my Name Deserv'd Enrollment in the Book of Fame Or thô my Muse could ne'er acquire the Bays VVhy thus in drudging do I spend my Days For should indulgent Heav'n prolong our Date Doubling the Term of Life prescrib'd by Fate That we might half in Care and Toyl employ And spend the other in Delights and Joy VVe then this sweet Assurance might retain To reap in Time the Fruits of all our Pain But since none can the Bounds of Life extend And all our Troubles have a speedy End VVhy do we wrack our Brains and waste our Health To study Curious Arts or heap up VVealth Sure we forget we came of Mortal Seed And the short Time Fate has for us decreed Out of Latine from Iovianus Pontâ—â—â—s Being sick of a Fever complains of the Fountain CASIS CASIS to craving Fields thou lib'ral Flood Why so remote when thou should'st cool my Blood From Mossie Rocks thy Silver Streams do glide By which the soultry Air is qualifi'd Tall Trees do kindly yield thy Head their Shade Where Choirs of Birds their sweet Retreats have made But