'Twould grieve me much to find fome bold ro

mance,

That fhould two kind examples fhew,
Which before us in wonders did advance;
Not that I thought that story true,

But none fhould Fancy more, than I would Do.
Through fpite of our worst enemies, thy friends;
Through local banifhment from thee;
Through the loud thoughts of lefs-concerning
ends,

As eafy fhall my paffage be,

As was the amorous youth's o'er Helle's fea :
In vain the winds, in vain the billows, roar;
In vain the ftars their aid deny'd;
He faw the Seftian tower on th' other shore :
Shall th' Hellefpont our loves divide?
No, not the Atlantic ocean's boundless tide.

Such feas betwixt us easily conquer'd are;
But, gentle maid! do not deny
To let thy beams fhine on me from afar;
And fill the taper let me elpy:
For, when thy light goes out, I fink and die.

CURSE

SILENC E.

RSE on this tongue, that has my heart
betray'd,

And his great fecret open laid!
For, of all perfons, chiefly the
Should not the ills I fuffer know;

Since 'tis a thing might dangerous grow,
Only in her to pity me:

Since 'tis for me to lofe my life more fit,
Than 'tis for her to fave and ranfom it.

Ah! never more shall thy unwilling ear

My helpless story hear;

Difcourfe and talk awake does keep
The rude unquiet pain

That in my breaft does reign;
Silence perhaps may make it fleep :
Ill bind that fore up I did ill reveal;
The wound, if once it clofe, may chance to heal.
No 'twill ne'er heal; my love will never die,

Though it fhould speechless lie.
A river, ere it meet the fea,
As well might ftay its fource,
As my love can his courfe,

Unless it join and mix with thee:

If any end or top of it be found,

We know the flood runs flill, though under ground.

THE DISSEMBLER.

UNHURT, untouch'd, did I complain,

And terrify'd all others with the pain: But now I feel the mighty evil; Ah! there's no fooling with the devil! So, wanton men, whilst others they would fright, Themfelves have met a real fprite.

I thought, I'll fwear, an handsome lye Had been no fin at all in poetry; But now I fuffer an arreft, For words were spoke by me in jest. Dull, fottish God of love! and can it be Thou underfland'ft not raillery?

Darts, and wounds, and flame, and heat, I nam'd but for the rhyme, or the conceit; Nor meant my verfe should raised be To this fad fame of prophefy: Truth gives a dull propriety to my style, And all the metaphors does fpoil.

In things where fancy much does reign, 'Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign; The play at laft a truth does grow, And Custom into Nature go: By this curft art of begging I became Lame, with counterfeiting lame.

My lines of amorous defire

I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire;
And 'twas a barbarous delight

My fancy promis'd from the fight: But now, by Love, the mighty Phalaris, I, My burning Bull the first do try.

I

THE INCONSTANT.

NEVER yet could fee that face Which had no dart for me; From fifteen years, to fifty's space,

They all victorious be.

Love, thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one; For fure in me thy name is Legion.

Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face,

Goodness, or wit, in all I find;
In motion or in fpeech a grace;
If all fail, yet 'tis woman-kind;
And I'm fo weak, the piftol need not be
Double or treble charg d to murder me.
If tall, the name of proper flays;

If fair, fhe's pleafant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night? If yellow-hair'd, I love, left it fhould be Th' excufe to others for not loving me. The fat, like plenty, fills my heart; The lean, with love makes me too so: If ftraight, her body's Cupid's dart To me; if crooked, 'tis his bow: Nay, age itself docs me to rage incline, And ftrength to women gives, as well as wine, Juft half as large as Charity

My richly-landed Love's become ; And, judg'd aright, is Conftancy, Though it take up a larger room:

Him, who loves always one, why should they

call,

More conftant than the man loves always all?

Then all the fields and woods fhall with it ring;
Then Echo's burden it fhall be ;

Then all the birds in feveral notes fhall fing,
And all the rivers murmur, thee;

Then every wind the found fhall upwards bear,
And foftly whisper 't to fome argel's ear.

Then fhall thy name through all my verfe be fpread,

Thick as the flowers in meadows lie, And, when in future times they shall be read (As fure, I think, they will not die)

If any critic doubt that they be mine,

Men by that stamp fhall quickly know the coin.
Meanwhile I will not dare to make a name
To reprefent thee by;

Adam (God's nomenclator) could not frame
One that enough fhould fignify:
Aftrea or Celia as unfit would prove
For thee, as 'tis to call the Deity Jove.

Who cant defend as well as get,

And never hadft one quarter beat-up yet;
Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part
With one inch of my vanquish'd heart;
For, fince thou took'ft it by affault from me,
'Tis garrison'd fo ftrong with thoughts of thee,
It fears no beauteous enemy.

Had thy charming ftrength been lefs,

I 'ad ferv'd ere this an hundred miftreffes:
I'm better thus, nor would compound
To leave my prifon to be a vagabond:
A prifon in which I ftill would be,
Though every door ftood ope to me.

In fpite both of thy coldness and thy pride,
All love is marriage on thy lover's fide,
For only death can them divide.

Clofe, narrow chain, yet foft and kind

As that which fpirits above to good does bind,
Gentle and fweet Neceffity,

Which does not force, but guide our liberty!
Your love on me were spent in vain,
Since my love ftill could but remain
Juft as it is; for what, alas! can be
Added to that which hath infinity
Both in extent and quality?

WITH

HER NAME.

WITH more than Jewish reverence as yet
Do I the facred name conceal;
When, ye kind ftars, ah when will it be fit

This gentle mystery to reveal?
When will our love be nam'd, and we poffefs
That chriftening as a badge of happiness?

So bold as yet no verfe of mine has heen,
To wear that gem on any line;

Nor, till the happy nuptial Mufe be seen,
Shall any ftanza with it fhine.

Reft, mighty name! till then; for thou must be
Laid down by her, ere taken up by me,

SEE

WEEPING.

EE where the fits, and in what comely wife Drops tears more fair than others' eyes! Ah, charming maid! let not ill-fortune fee Th' attire thy forrow wears,

Nor know the beauty of thy tears;
For fhe'll still come to drefs herself in thee.
As ftars reflect on waters, fo I fpy

In every drop, methinks, her eye.
The baby, which lives there, and always plays
In that illuftrious sphere,

Like a Narciffus does appear,
Whilft in his flood the lovely boy did gaze.

Ne'er yet did I behold fo glorious weather,
As this fun-fline and rain together.
Pray Heaven her forehead, that pure hill of fnow
(For fome fuch fountain we must find,
To waters of so fair a kind)

Melt not, to feed that beauteous ftream below!

Ah, mighty Love! that it were inward heat
Which made this precious limbeck sweat!
But what, alas! ah, what does it avail,

That fhe weeps tears fo wondrous cold,
As fcarce the afs's hoof can hold,

So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.

DISCRETION.

DISCREET! what means this word difcrect?

A curfe on all difcretion!

This barbarous term you will not meet
In all Love's lexicon.

Jointure, portion, gold, eftate,

Houfes, household-stuff, or land, (The low conveniencies of Fate)

Are Greek no lovers understand.

Believe me, beauteous one! when love

Enters into a breast,

The two first things it does remove

Are friends and intereft.
Paffion's half blind, nor can endure
The careful, fcrupulous eyes;
Or else I could not love, I'm fure,

One who in love were wife.
Men, in fuch tempests toft about,

Will, without grief or pain, Caft all their goods and riches out, Themselves their port to gain.

As well might martyrs, who do choofe

That facred death to take,

Mourn for the cloaths which they muft lofe, When they're bound naked to the ftake.

THE WAITING-MAID.

THY Maid! ah! find fome nobler theme
Whereon thy doubts to place;
Nor by a low fufpect blafpheme
The glories of thy face.

Alas! the makes thee fhine fo fair,

So exquifitely bright,
That her dim lamp must disappear
Before thy potent light.

Three hours each morn in dreffing thee
Maliciously are fspent ;

And make that beauty tyranny,

That's elfe a civil government. Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barbarous skill;

'Tis like the poisoning of a dart
Too apt before to kill.

The ministering angels none can see ;
'Tis not their beauty' or face,
For which by men they worship'd be ;
But their high office and their place.
Thou art my Goddefs, my Saint fhe;
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

COUNSEL.

AH! what advice can I receive!

No, fatisfy me first;

For who would phyfic-potions give
To one that dies with thirst?

A little puff of breath, we find,

Small fires can quench and kill;

But, when they're great, the adverse wind

Does make them greater still.

Now whilft you speak, it moves me much,
But ftrait I'm just the fame ;

Alas! th' effect must needs be fuch
Of cutting through a flame.

A

THE SEPARATION.

SK me not what my love fhall do or be
(Love, which is foul to body, and foul of
me!)

When I am feparated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily show

What after death the foul will do;

'Twill laft, I'm fure, and that is all we know.'

The thing call'd foul will never ftir nor move, But all that while a lifelefs carcafe prove;

For 'tis the body of my love: Not that my love will fly away, But fill continue; as, they fay,

Sad troubled ghofts about their graves do ftray.

I

THE TREE.

CHOSE the flourishing'ft tree in all the park,
With fresheft boughs and fairest head;

I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead: My very written flames fo violent be,

They've burnt and wither'd up the tree. How should I live myself, whofe heart is found Deeply graven every where

With the large history of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear? With art as ftrange as Homer in the nut, Love in my heart has volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a ftrong poifon with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:

Love (I fee now) a kind of witchcraft is,

Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this fhade;

And pardon me, thou gentle tree;

I thought her name would thee have happy made, And bleffed omens hop'd from thee;

"Kotes of my love, thrive here," said I," and

IS a ftrange kind of ignorance this in you!
That you your victories fhould not fpy,
Victories gotten by your eye!

That your bright beams, as thofe of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who!

That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilft all the people fmell and fee

The odorous flames 1 offer thee,

Thou fitt'ft, and doft not fee, nor imell, nor hear, Thy conftant, zealous worshiper.

They fee't too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-eyed enough to spy my love;

Nor does the caufe in thy face clearlier fhine,
Than the effect appears in mine
Fair infidel! by what unjust decree

Muft I, who with fuch reftless care
Would make this truth to thee appear,
Muft I, who preach it, and pray for it, be

Damn'd by thy incredulity?

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltlefs flain :

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It fhall itfelf by a miracle maintain,

And raife me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may feem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers' hopes are full of art,
And thus difpute-That, fince my heart,
Though in thy breaft, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'it not know thine own.

I've seen too much, if this be all.
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty!

To fhew fuch ftores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.
For love to die an infant's leffer ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still
We 'ave both fat gazing only hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do;
The richest crop of joy is ftill behind,
And he who only fees, in love, is blind.

So, at firft, Pygmalion lov'd, But th' amour at last improv'd; The ftatue itself at laft a woman grew, And fo at laft, my dear, fhould you do too.

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,

Unless it lead to farther blifs,
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
It grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as ftrike;

I would not, falamander-like,

In fcorching heats always to live defire,
But, like a martyr, pass to heaven through fire.
Mark how the lufty fun falutes the spring,
And gently kiffes every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treasures, all the fweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does ftill new flowers beget.

The fun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to fee.

I

THE INCURABLE.

TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found

Love made them nonfenfe all;

I 'apply'd receipts of bufinefs to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematic doubts debate;
As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the dispatches of a state.

I try'd devotion, fermons, frequent prayer,
But thofe did worfe than ufeless prove;
For prayers are turn'd to fin, in those who are
Out of charity, or in love.

I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire:
Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the defire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and infipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rife.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at laft 1 try'd,
'Gainft this fome new defire to stir,
And lov'd again, but 'twas where I efpy'd
Seme faint refemblances of her.

The phyfic made me worfe, with which I ftrove
This mortal ill t' expel:

As wholefome medicines the disease improve,
There where they work not well.

HONOUR.

HE loves, and the confeffes too;
There's then, at last no more to do;

The happy work 's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou haft won;
The fruits of conquest now begin;

Io triumph! Enter in.