Ambition never to her hopes did faine
A greatnesse, but I really obtaine
In my Castara. Wer't not fondnesse then
T" imbrace the shadowes of true blisse? And when
My Paradise all flowers and fruits doth breed,
To rob a barren garden for a weed.
HOW HAPPY, THOUGH IN AN OBSCURE fortune.
WERE we by Fate throwne downe below our feare,
Could we be poore? Or question Nature's care
In our provision? She who doth afford
A feathered garment fit for every bird,
And onely voyce enough t' expresse delight:
She who apparels lillies in their white,
As if in that she'de teach man's duller sence,
Wh' are highest, should be so in innocence:
She who in damask doth attire the rose,
(And man t' himselfe a mockery to propose,
'Mong whom the humblest judges grow to sit)
She who in purple cloathes the violet:
If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence,
Shall we suspect in us her providence ?
WHAT Can the freedome of our love enthral?
Castara, were we dispossest of all
The gifts of Fortune: richer yet than she
Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.
Love in himself's a world. If we should have
A mansion but in some forsaken cave,
Wee'd smooth misfortune, and ourselves think then
Retir'd like princes from the noise of men,
To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,
That should the silence of our cell infest,
With clamour, seeking prey: wee'd fancie were
Nought but an avaritious courtier.
Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more
Of treasures bave, than we, is onely poore.
ON THE DEATH OF
THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE EARL OF S.
BRIGHT saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse
Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,
To envie Heaven. For fame itselfe now weares
Griefe's livery, and onely speaks in teares.
And pardon you, Castara, if a while
Your memory I banish from my stile:
When I have paid his death the tribate due
Of sorrow, I'le return to love and you.
Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre
Can force from every eye? And hath even powre
To alter Nature's course? How else should all
Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall?
Th' illiterate vulgar, in a well-tun'd breath,
Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death
For its bold rape, while the sad poet's song
Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.
Th' amaz'd mariner having lost his way
In the tempestuous desart of the sea,
Lookes up, but finds no starres. They all conspire
To darke themselves, t' enlighten this new fire.
The learn'd astronomer, with daring eye,
Searching to tracke the spheares through which
you flie,
(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,
And blushing says,
The subtlest art is fraile,
And but truth's counterfet." Your flight doth
teach,
Fair vertue hath an orbe beyond his reach.
But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde Fate,
To play the tyrant, and subvert the state
Of setled goodnesse! Who shall henceforth stand
A pure example to enforme the land
Of her loose riot? Who shall counterchecke
The wanton pride of greatnesse, and direct
Strayed honour in the true magnificke way?
Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t' obey,
The loud commands of reason? And how sweet
The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?
Who will with silent piety confute
Atheisticke sophistry, and by the fruite
Approve religion's tree? Who'll teach his blood
A virgin law, and dare be great and good?
Who will despise his stiles? and nobly weigh
In judgment's ballance, that his honour'd clay
Hath no advantage by them? Who will live
So innocently pious, as to give
The world no scandall? Who'll himself deny,
And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?
My grief distracts me. If my zeal hath said,
What checks the living: know, I serve the dead.
The dead, who need no monumental vaults,
With his pale ashes to intombe his faults;
Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore
For benefit, for worth, the rich adore.
Who liv'd a solitary phoenix, free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be
Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did
Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love,
Alone he flourisht, till the fatal houre
Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre
Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest
He took his flight to everlasting rest.
There shine, great lord, and with propitious eyes
Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.
TO MY WORTHY COUSIN, MR. E. C.
IN PRAISE OF THE CITY LIFE, IN THE LONG VACATION.
I LIKE the green plush which your meadows weare,
I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare
Their wealthy burthen to th' industrious Bore.
Nor do I disallow, that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
But hate that he, who's warme with holy fire
Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast
On nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
And graze i'th' country. Why did Nature wrong
So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language, if converse you hold
With oxen in the stall, and sheepe i'th' fold?
But now it's long vacation, you will say
The towne is empty, and who ever may
To th' pleasure of his country-home repaire,
Flies from th' infection of our London aire.
In this your errour. Now's the time alone
To live here, when the city dame is gone
Imagines there's no land, but Barbary,
T'her house at Brandford; for beyond that she
Where lies her husband's factor. When from hence
Rid is the country justice, whose non-sence
Corrupted had the language of the inne,
Where he and his horse litter'd: we beginne
To live in silence, when the noyse o'th' bench
Nor deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the
By the vacation's powre, translated are
To cut-worke bands: and who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The aire by this is purg'd, and the terme's strife
Thus fled the city: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day
Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara, and meet such a fire
Of mutual love, that if the city were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.
Thou art return'd (great light) to that blest houre
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Ioyn'd with Castara hearts: and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increast, but that by Love's decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.
But tell me, (glorious lampe) in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
Those tragicke raptures, which your name shall
From the black edict of a tyrant grave. [save
Nor shall your day ere set, till the Sunne shall
From the blind Heavens like a cinder fall:
And all the elements intend their strife,
To ruine what they fram'd: then your fame's life,
When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire,
Attended by the world i'th' general fire.
Fame lengthens thus her selfe: and I, to tread
Your steps to glory, search among the dead,
Where Vertue lies obscur'd, that as I give
Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live,
Now I resolve, in triumph of my verse,
To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse,
Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:
Then to sing Herbert, who so glorious rose,
With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine
Yet in the faith of noblest Pembroke's line.
To speak the mighty Percy, neerest heire,
Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare
In merits as in blood, to CHARLES the great:
Then Darbie's worth and greatnesse to repeat,
Or Morley's honour, or Monteagle's fame,
Whose valour lives eternized in his name.
But while I think to sing these of my blood,
And my Castara's, Love's unruly flood
Breakes in, and beares away whatever stands
Built by my busie fancy on the sands.
UNCHASTITY TO THE SEX OF WOMEN.
THEY meet but with unwholesome springs,
And summers which infectious are:
They heare but when the meremaid sings,
And only see the falling starre :
Who ever dare
Affirme no woman chaste and faire.
Goe, cure your feavers; and you'le say
The Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:
In copper mines no longer stay,
But travel to the west, and there
The right ones fee
And grant all gold's not alchimie.
What madman, 'cause the glow-wormes's flame
Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?
'Cause some make forfeit of their name,
And slave themselves to man's desire:
Shall the sex free
From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?
Nor grieve, Castara, though 'twere fraile,
Thy vertue then would brighter shine,
When thy example should prevaile,
And every woman's faith be thine;
And were there none,
'Tis majesty to rule alone.
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'Bour the husband oke the vine
Thus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:
Their streames thus rivers joyne,
And lose themselves in the embrace.
But trees want sence when they infold,
And waters, when they meet, are cold.
Thus turtles bill, and grone
Their loves into each other's eare: Two flames thus burn in one,
When their curl'd heads to Heaven they reare; But birds want soule, though not desire, And flames material soone expire.
If not prophane, we'll say,
When angels close, their joyes are such; For we no love obey
That's bastard to a fleshly touch. Let's close, Castara, then, since thus We pattern angels, and they us.
TO THE HONOURABLE G. T.
LET not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,
Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,
Which last Narcissus kist: let no darke grove
Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.
What tho' the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile
By virtue of a cleane contrary gale,
Into some other port? Where thou wilt find
It was thy better genius chang'd the wind,
To steere thee to some island. in the West,
For wealth and pleasure that transcends thy East.
Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre,
Eclipse her selfe; i'th' sky of beauty are
Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she,
And who, with milder beames, may shine on thee.
Nor yet doth this eclipse beare a portent,
That should affright the world. The firmament
Enjoys the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,
And the young Spring doth like a bride appeare,
As fairly wed to the Thessalian grove
As e're it was, though she and you not love.
And we two, who like bright stars have shiu'd
I'th' heaven of friendship, are as firmly joyn'd
As blood and love first fram'd us. And to be
Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,
Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend
An honour, equals that of Talbot's friend,
Nor envie me that my Castara's flame
Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came
To marriage happy islands: Seas to thee
Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.
Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine:)
To this delicious port: and make love thine.
THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE.
We saw and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soule contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,
Prophane the temple of delight,
And purchase endlesse penitence,
With the stolne pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensuall idol of our clay,
For though the Sunne doe set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day.
Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent,
The troubled stream is still impure,
With vertue Aies away content.
And though opinions often erre,
Wee'le court the modest smile of fame,
For sinne's blacke danger circles her,
Who hath infection in her name.
Thus when to one darke silent roome,
Death shall our loving coffins thrust:
Fame will build columnes on our tombe,
And adde a perfume to our dust.
Lucullus' surfets, were but types of this, And whatsoever riot mentioned is
In story, did but the dull zany play,
To this proud night, which rather weel'e term day,
For th' artificial lights so thicke were set,
That the bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit.
But seven (whon whether we should sages call
Or deadly sinnes, I'le not dispute) were all
Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare
Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare
Not halfe that quantity of victuall when
He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen.
The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke
That linx himself, though his sight fam'd so
quicke,
Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth
Of the Canaries was exhaust, the health
Of his good majestye to celebrate,
Who'le judge them loyal subject without that:
Yet they, who some fond priviledge to maintaine,
Would have rebeld, their best freehold, their
Surrender'd there: and five fifteenes did pay
To drink his happy life and raigne. O day
It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene
Found accessory else to this fond sinne.
But I forget to speake each stratagem
By which the dishes enter'd, and in them -
Each luscious miracle, as if more bookes
Had written beene o'th' mystery of cookes
Than the philos'pher's stone, here we did see
All wonders in the kitchin alchimy:
But Ile not leave you there, before you part
You shall have something of another art.
A banquet raining down so fast, the good
Old patriarch would have thought a generall flood.
Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre
Of amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre
Vpon our heads, and suckets from our eye
Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,
That it was question'd whether Heaven were
Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;
But I too long detaine you at a feast
You hap❜ly surfet of; now every guest
Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave
Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.
TO MY NOBLEST FRIEND, SIR I. P. KNIGHT.
THOUGH my deare Talbot's fate exact a sad
And heavy brow: my verse shall not be clad
For him this houre in mourning: I will write
To you the glory of a pompous night,
Which none (except sobriety) who wit
Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.
I (who still sinne for company) was there
And tasted of the glorious supper, where
Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest
O'th' Phoenix rifled seemd t' amaze the feast,
And th' ocean left so poore that it alone
Could since vaunt wretched herring and poore John.
VOL. VI.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
ARCHIBALD EARLE OF AR.
IF your example be obey'd
The serious few will live i'th' silent shade:
And not indanger by the wind
Or sunshine, the complexion of their mind:
Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin
That it decayes with the least taint of sin.
Vice growes by custome, nor dare we
Reject it as a save, where it breaths free,
And is no priviledge deny'd;
Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.
Wherefore your lordship in your selfe (Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe Of humbler fortune) lives at ease, [seas. Safe from the rocks o'th' shore, and stormes o'th' Your soule's a well built city, where There's such munition, that no war breeds feare: No rebels wilde destractions move;
For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love, Hh
And therefore you defiance bid
To open enmity, or mischiefe hid
In fawning hate and supple pride,
Who are on every corner fortifide.
Your youth not rudely led by rage
Of blool, is now the story of your age,
Which without boast you may averre
'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:
Glory not purchast by the breath
Of sycophants, but by encountring death.
Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes
Did make you fight, but justice of the cause.
For but mad prodigals they are
Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.
When well made peace had clos'd the eyes
Of discord, sloath did not your youth surprize.
Your life as well as powre, did awe
The bad, and to the good was the best law:
When most men vertue did pursue
In hope by it to grow in fame like you.
Nor when you did to court repaire,
Did you your manners alter with the ayre.
You did your modesty retaine
Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.
Nor did all the soft flattery there
Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.
And though your roofes were richly guilt,
The basis was on no ward's ruine built.
Nor were your vassals made a prey,
And forc't to curse the coronation day.
And though no bravery was knowne
To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.
For 'twas the indulgence of Fate,
To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state:
But I, my lord, who have no friend
Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.
'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire
Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire,
Yet better lost i'th' multitude
Of private men, than on the state t'intrude,
And hazard for a doubtfull smile,
My stocke of fame, and inward peace to spoile.
I'le therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke
That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke,
With my Castara, or some friend,
My youth not guilty of ambition spend.
To my owne shade (if fate permit)
I'le whisper some soft musique of my wit.
And flatter so my selfe, l'le see
By that, strange motion steale into the tree:
But still my first and chiefest care
Shall be t' appease offended Heaven with prayer:
And in such mold my thoughts to cast,
That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last.
How ere it's sweete lust to obey,
Vertue thought rugged, is the safest way.
Of thy abode on Earth, yet every hours
Of thy brave youth by vertue's wondrous powre
Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Fach well-spent day
Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.
Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind
Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
Fit for example; that when then we read,
We envy Earth the treasure of the dead.
Why doe the sinfull riot and survive
The feavers of their surfets? Why alive
Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they
Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?
Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:
Who sold the vigour of their strength and wit
To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
But I'le not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh
Those first from the darke prison of their clay
Who are most fit for Heaven. Thou in warre
Hadst ta'ne degrees, those dangers felt, which are
The props on which peace safely doth subsist
And through the cannons blew and horrid mist
Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat
That naught but death did want to make thee
great.
Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee.
And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we
Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase
Of reall glory both in warre and peace,
We all did share: and thou away we feare
Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.
Each then be his owne mourner. Wee'le to thee
Write hymnes, upon the world an elegie.
WHY should we feare to melt away in death;
May we but dye together. When beneath
In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove
Religious, and call it the shrine of love.
There, when o'th' wedding eve some beautious maid,
Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vowes: o'th' sudden shee
Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:
And cry out, "Ye sweet emblems of their zeale
Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale
The story of our future joyes, how we
The faithfull patterns of their love shall be;
If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,
And I will weepe and wither hence with you."
AN ELEGY UPON THE HONOURABLE
HENRY CAMBELL,
SONNE TO THE EARIE OF AR.
It's false arrithmaticke to say thy breath
Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death
Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares
Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live.
Though time but twenty years' account can give
OF WHAT WE WERE BEFORE OUR CREATION.
WHEN Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell
But now from angry Heaven, to heavenward swell:
When th' Indian ocean did the wanton play,
Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:
And the whole earth was water: O where then
Were we Castara? In the fate of men
Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile
Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noah's floating isle?
We had no being then. This fleshly frame
Wed to a soule, long after, hither came
A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
But the last age, no newes of us did heare.
What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day
Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.
TO THE MOMENT LAST PAST.
O WHITHER dost thou flye? cannot my vow
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,
And thou art gone? like ships which plough the sea,
And leave no print for man to tracke their way.
O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can
Out-vie the jewels of the ocean,
The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee
Had beene a purchase for eternity!
We will not loose thee then. Castara, where
Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;
And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth
Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth;
Vndone in thrift! while we besought his stay,
Ten of his fellow moments fled away.
OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE.
WHERE sleepes the north-wind when the south in-
Life in the spring, and gathers into quires [spires
The scatter'd nightingales; whose subtle eares
Heard first th' harmonious language of the
spheares;
Whence hath the stone, magneticke force t'allure
Th' enamourd iron; from a seed impure
Or naturall did first the mandrake grow;
What powre i'th' ocean makes it ebbe and flow;
What strange materials is the azure skye
Compacted of; of what it's brightest eye
The ever flaming Sunne; what people are
In th' unknowne world; what worlds in every star;
Let curious fancies at this secret rove;
Castara, what we know, wee'le practise, love.
Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
But I here pay my vowes to the devine
Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare
In its full lustre, would make Nature live
In a state equall to her primitive.
But sweetly that's obscur'd. Yet though our eye Cannot the splendour of your soule descry In true perfection, by a glimmering light, Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde. The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind How hastily doth Nature build up man To leave him so imperfect? For he can See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule So farre his sight he ne're discern'd a soule. For had yours beene the object of his eye; It had turn'd wonder to idolatry.
THE HARMONY OF LOVE.
AMPHION, O thou holy shade!
Bring Orpheus up with thee:
That wonder may you both invade,
Hearing love's harmony.
You who are soule, not rudely made
Vp, with material! cares,
And fit to reach the musique of these spheres.
Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move
By my first moving eyes,
How great the symphony of love,
But 'tis the destinies
Will not so farre my prayer approve,
To bring you hither, here
Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.
'Tis no dull sublunary flaine
Burnes in her heart and mine.
But some thing more, than bath a name.
So subtle and divine,
We know not why, nor how it came.
Which shall shine bright, till she And the whole world of love, expire with me.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE COUNTESSE OF C.
MADAM,
SHOULD the cold Muscovit, whose furre and stove
Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
But view the wonder of your presence, he
Would scorne his winter's sharpest injury:
And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse,
As a dull poet even he would say,
Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
Till that bright minute; that he now admires
No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
From their unhappy clyme; it doth pursue
The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick sea
Is set at freedome, while the yee away
Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
The wealthiest mines below, above the spring.
Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
Religion to beleeve, there were a saint
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND
SIR ED. P. KNIGHT.
You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,
To listen to the noyse of warre;
And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,
Who by the number of the dead
Reckon their glories and thinke greatnesse stood
Vnsafe, till it was built on blood.
Secure i'th' wall our seas and ships provide
(Abhorring war's so barb'rous pride,
And honour bought with slaughter) in content
Let's breath, though humble, innocent.
Folly aud madnesse! Si ce 'tis ods we ne're
See the fresh youth of the next yeare.
Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose
Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,
Why doth ambition so the mind distresse
To make us sco ne what we possesse?
Aud looke so farre before us? Since all we
Can hope, is varied misery?
Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe, And gently 'mong their violets throw^
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