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Through spite of our worst enemies, thy friends;
Through local banishment from thee; [ends,
Through the loud thoughts of less-concerning
As easy shall my passage be,

As was the amorous youth's o'er Helle's sea:
In vain the winds, in vain the billows, roar;
In vain the stars their aid deny'd ;
He saw the Sestian tower on th' other shore:
Shall th' Hellespont our loves divide?
No, not the Atlantic ocean's boundless tide,
Such seas betwixt us easily conquer'd are;
But, gentle maid! do not deny

To let thy beams shine on me from afar;
And still the taper let me espy:

For, when thy light goes out, I sink and die.

SILENCE.

Curse on this tongue, that has my heart betray'd,
And his great secret open laid!
For, of all persons, chiefly she
Should not the ills I suffer know;
Since 'tis a thing might dangerous grow,
Only in her to pity me:

Since 'tis for me to lose my life more fit,
Than 'tis for her to save and ransom it.
Ah! never more shall thy unwilling ear
My helpless story hear;
Discourse and talk awake does keep
The rude unquiet pain

That in my breast does reign;

Silence perhaps may make it sleep:
I'll bind that sore up I did ill reveal;
The wound, if once it close, may chance to heal.
No, 'twill ne'er heal; my love will never die,
Though it should speechless lie.

A river, ere it meet the sea,
As well might stay its source,
As my love can his course,

Unless it join and mix with thee:

If any end or stop of it be found,

We know the flood runs still, 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,
Themselves have met a real sprite.

I thought, I'll swear, an handsome lye
Had been no sin at all in poetry;
But now I suffer an arrest,
For words were spoke by me in jest.
Dull, sottish god of love! and can it be
Thou understand'st not raillery?

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

In things where fancy much does reign,
'Tis dangerous too cunningly to feign;
The play at last a truth es grow,
And custom i to Na ure go:
By this enrst art of begge L'ame
Lame, with counterfei ing lame.
My lines of amorous desire

I wrote to kindle and blow others' fire;
And 'twas a barbarous delight
My fancy promis'd from he sight:
But now, by love, the mighty Phalaris, I
My burning Bull the first do try.

THE INCONSTANT,

I NEVER yet could see that face
Which had no dart for me;
From fifteen years, to fif y's space,
They all victorious be.

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

Colour, or shape, good limbs, or face,
Goodness, or wit, in all I find;
In motion or in speech a grace ;

If all fail, yet 'tis woman-kind;
And I'm so weak, the pistol need not be
Double or treble charg'd to murder me.
If tall, the name of Proper slays;

If fair, she 's pleasant as the light; If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night? If yellow-hair'd, I love, lest it should be Th' excuse to others for not loving me. The fat, like plenty, fills my heart; The lean, with love makes me too so: If straight, her body's Cupid's dart To me; if croo' ed, 'tis his bow: Nay, age itself does me to rage incline, And strength to women gives, as well as wine. Just half as large as Charity

My richly-landed Love's become; And, judg'd aright, is Constancy,

Though it take up a larger room: Him, who loves always one, why should they call More constant than the man loves always all? Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all Love's gardens and his fields; And, like the wise, industrious bee,

No weed but honey to ine yields! Honey still spent this diligence still supplies, Though I return not home with laden thighs.

My soul at first indeed did prove

Of pretty strength aga nsi a dart, TII I this habit got of love;

But my consum'd and wasted neart, Once burnt to tinder with a strong desire, Since that, by every spark is set on fire.

THE CONSTANT.

GREAT and wise conqueror, who, where'er Thou com'st, dost fortify, and settle there!

Who canst defend as well as get,
And never hadst one quarter beat-up yet;
Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part
With one inch of my vanquish'd heart;
For, since thou took'st it by assault from me,
'Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee
It fears no beauteous enemy.

Had thy charming strength been less,
I'ad serv'd ere this an hundred mistresses:
I'm better thus, nor would compound
To leave my prison to be a vagabond;
A prison in which I still would be,
Though every door stood ope to me.
In spite both of thy coldness and thy pride,
All love is marriage on thy lover's side,
For only death can them divide.

Close, narrow chain, yet soft and kind
As that which spirits above to good does bind,
Gentle and sweet Necessity,

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

HER NAME.

WITH more than Jewish reverence as yet
Do I the sacred name conceal;
When, ye kind stars, ah when will it be fit
This gentle mystery to reveal?

When will our love be nam'd, and we possess
That christening as a badge of happiness?
So bold as yet no verse of mine has been,
To wear that gem on any line;

Nor, till the happy nuptial Muse be seen,
Shall any stanza with it shine.

Rest, mighty name! till then; for thou must be
Laid down by her, ere taken up by me.
Then all the fields and woods shall with it ring;
Then Echo's burthen it shall be;
Then all the birds in several notes shall sing,
And all the rivers murmur, thee;
Then every wind the sound shall upwards bear,
And softly whisper 't to some angel's ear.
Then shall thy name through all my verse be
spread,

Thick as the flowers in meadows lie,
And, when in future times they shall be read,

(As sure, I think, they will not die)
If any critic doubt that they be mine,
Men by that stamp shall quickly know the coin.
Meanwhile I will not dare to make a name

To represent thee by;

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

WEEPING.

SEE where she sits, and in what comely wise Drops tears more fair than others' eyes!

Ah, charming maid! let not Ill-fortune see
Th' attire thy sorrow wears,

Nor know the beauty of thy tears;

For she 'll still come to dress herself in thee.
As stars reflect on waters, so I spy

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

Like a Narcissus does appear, Whilst in his flood the lovely boy did gaze. Ne'er yet did I behold such glorious weather, As this sun-shine and rain together. Pray Heaven her forehead, that pure hill of snow, (For some such fountain we must find, To waters of so fair a kind)

Melt not, to feed that beauteous stream below! Ah, mighty Love! that it were inward heat

Which made this precious limbeck sweat! But what, alas! ah, what does it avail,

That she weeps tears so wondrous cold,
As scarce the ass's hoof can hold,
So cold, that I admire they fall not hail?

DISCRETION. DISCREET! what means this word discreet? A curse on all discretion! This barbarous term you will not meet In all Love's lexicon. Jointure, portion, gold, estate,

Houses, household-stuff, or land, (The low conveniences 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 interests.

Passion 's half blind, nor can endure
The careful, scrupulous eyes;
Or else I could not love, I'm sure,
One who in love were wise.
Men, in such tempests tost about,

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

As well might martyrs, who do choose
That sacred death to take,

Mourn for the cloaths which they must lose,
When they're bound naked to the stake.

THE WAITING-MAID. THY Maid! ah! find some nobler theme Whereon thy doubts to place;

Nor by a low suspect b'aspheme
The glories of thy face.

Alas! she makes thee shine so fair,

So exquisitely bright,

That her diin lamp must disappear

Before thy potent light.

Three hours each morn in dressing thee
Maliciously are spent;

And make that beauty tyranny,

That 's else 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 their face, For which by men they worship'd be;

But their high office and their place. Thou art my goddess, my saint she; I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

COUNSEL.

AH! what advice can I receive!

No, satisfy me first;
For who would physic-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 whilst you speak, it moves me much,
But straight I 'm just the same;
Alas! th' effect must needs be such
Of cutting through a flame.

THE CURE.

COME, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove;

Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love.

There is no danger, if the pain

Should me to a fever bring;

Compar'd with heats I now sustain,

A fever is so cool a thing,

(Like drink which feverish men desire)

That I should hope 'twould almost quench my fire.

THE SEPARATION.

Ask me not what my love shall do or be
(Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!)
When I am separated from thee;
Alas! I might as easily show,
What after death the soul will do;

"Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know. The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move, But all that while a lifeless carcase prove;

For 'tis the body of my love:
Not that my love will fly away,

But still continue; as, they say,

Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray.

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I cut my love into his gentle bark,

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

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

With the large history of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear à With art as strange 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 strong poison with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:

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

Or characters could ne'er do this..

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'Tis a strange kind of ignorance this in you,
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!

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

That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilst all the people smell and see
The odorous flames I offer thee,

Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear,
Thy constant, zealous worshipper.

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

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove Quick-ey'd enough to spy my love; Nor does the cause in thy face clearlier shine, Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel! by what unjust decree

Must I, who with such restless care
Would make this truth to thee appear,
Must I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity?

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain:
Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It shall itself by a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!
Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers' hopes are full of art,
And thus dispute-That, since my heart,
Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

2

THE GAZERS.

[call;

COME, let's go on, where love and youth does
I've seen too much, if this be all.
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty!

To show such stores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.
For Love to die an infant is lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.
We 'ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,

As man and wife in picture do:
The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,

But th' amour at last improv'd;
The Statue itself at last a woman grew,
And so at last, my dear, should you do too.
Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther bliss,

Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
t grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as strike:

I would not, salamander-like,

In scorching heats always to live desire,
But, like a martyr, pass to Heaven through fire.
Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring,

And gently kisses every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower, Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour:

Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat, He does still new flowers beget. The Sun himself, although all eye-he be, Can find in love more pleasure than to see.

THE INCURABLE.

I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all;

I apply'd receipts of business 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, sermons, frequent prayer,
But those did worse than useless prove;
For prayers are turn'd to sin, 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 desire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.
Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd,

'Gainst this, some new desire to stir, And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd Some faint resemblances of her.

The physic made me worse, with which I strove
This mortal ill t'expel;

As wholesome med'cines the disease improve
There where they work not well.

HONOUR.

SHE loves, and she confesses too;
There's then, at last, no more to do!
The happy work 's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won 3
The fruits of conquest now begin;
Iö, triumph! enter in.

What's this, ye gods! what can it be?
Remains there still an enemy?
Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;

Have I o'ercome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose?

Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms!
But I shall find out counter-charms,
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy!
Unlike to every other sprite,
Thou attempt'st not men to fright,
Nor appear'st but in the light.

THE INNOCENT ILL.

THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses be
Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty;
Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away
One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;
Yet such a swectness, such a grace,
In all thy speech appear,

That what to th' eye a beauteous face,
That thy tongue is to th' ear:

So cunningly it wounds the heart,

It strikes such heat through every part,
That thou a tempter worse than Satan art.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have
So much as of original sin,
[been
Such charms thy beauty wears, as might
Desires in dying confess'd saints excite:

Thou, with strange adultery,
Dost in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do lust for thee,
And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Ne'er before did woman live,
Who to such multitudes did give
The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.
Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,

That a fly's death's a wound to thee;
Though savage and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woes
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Whose rage was of so large extent;
The ills thou dost are whole thine own;
Thou'rt principal and instrument:
In all the deaths that come from you,
You do the treble office do

Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,

Which God did for our faults create!
Thou pleasant, universal ill,
Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague do
kill!

Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny!
Thon chaste committer of a rape!
Thou voluntary destiny,

Which no man can, or would escape!

So gentle, and so glad to spare, So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.

DIALOGUE.

She. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee,

Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?

Me thou 'ast robb'd; but what art thou.
Thyself the richer now?

Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten

treasure!

He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in

me,

But noblest charity in thee.
I'll the well-gotten pleasure
Safe in my memory treasure:

What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and sweeter last.

She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,
And nothing can restore 't again.
Art and labour to bestow,
Upon the carcase of it now,

Is but t' embalm a body dead;

The figure may remain, the life and beauty's fled.

He. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone
By Love, but Indiscretion.

To th' wise it all things does allow;
And cares not what we do, but how.

Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let in air, for ever shines and burns.
She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault
commit,

Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
For men, with Roman pride, above
The conquest do the triumph love;

Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, Unless they through the streets their captive lead enchain'd.

He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid,
The bawd to his own wife is made;
Beside, what boast is left for me,
Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?

'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you Who have not only ta'en, but bound and

gagg'd me too.

She. Though public punishment we escape, the

Will rack and torture us within: [sin
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does
waste,

When long 't bas gnaw'd within,will break the
skin at last.

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He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I sought,

That wounded balm is all my fault;

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VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER, AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay

'Gainst what an oracle shall say; Fool that I was, to venture to deny A tongue so us'd to victory!

A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
That never yet it spoke but gain'd an heart:
Though what you said had not been true,
If spoke by any else but you;
Your speech will govern Destiny,
And Fate will change rather than you should lye.
'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide,

Reason, methinks, was on my side;
But that's a guide, alas! we must resign,
When th' authority's divine.

She said, she said herself it would be so;
And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no:

Never so justly, sure, before,

Errour the name of blindness bore;
For whatso'er the question be,

There's no man that has eyes would bet for me.
If Truth itself (as other angels do

When they descend to human view)
In a material form would deign to shine,
'Twould imitate or borrow thine:

So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear,
So well-proportion'd would the parts appear!
Happy the eye which Truth could see
Cloath'd in a shape like thee;
But happier far the eve

Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy.
Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more

Than what I ow'd to thee before: Who would not venture for that debt to play, Which he were bound howe'er to pay? If Nature gave me power to write in verse, She gave it me thy praises to rehearse : Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Has such a sovereign right to it, That no man's Muse for public vent is free, Till she has paid her customs first to thee.

BATHING IN THE RIVER.

THE fish around her crowded, as they do
To the false light that treacherous fishers shew,
And all with as much ease might taken be,

As she at first took me ;

For ne'er did light so clear
Among the waves appear,

Though every night the Sun himself set there.

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