An English Garner: Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (4 of 8)

by Unknown

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Our Author has however already specified the number to be, at least, Iceland barks 126, and North Sea boats 237.

[8] Master William Snelling, Master Stephen Topley, and divers others of the Company of Fishmongers.

[9] And for providing of their Cordage and Nets, after the most neatest and cheapest rates.

---

[Fair VIRTUE,
THE
MISTRESS
OF
PHIL'ARETE.]
Written by
Geo. Wither.

Catul. Carmen. XV.

nihil veremur
Istos, quid in platea, modo huc, modo illuc
In re pretereunt sua occupati.

London.

Printed for John Grismand.

M.DC.XXII.

[It is singular that this truly astonishing Poem, a poetical tour de force as it is, should not hitherto have obtained a universal acceptance and recognition. In it we see Wither at his prime; and cannot but admire as much the sterling integrity of his Character, as the wonderful fertility of his poetical Invention.

His mastery herein over rhythm and rhyme, also amply vindicates the opinion of Dryden: who, considering himself unmatched by any in facility of versification, openly excepted Wither, and F. Quarles.

Well has our Poet said—

When other noble Dames,
By greater men attended,
Shall, with their lives and names,
Have all their glories ended:
With fairest Queens, shall She
Sit, sharing equal glory;
And Times to come shall be
Delighted with our Story.

First stanza on p. [386].]

THE STATIONER
TO THE READER.

This being one of the Author's first poems, was composed many years agone; and (unknown to him) gotten out of his custody by an acquaintance of his. And coming lately to my hands, without a name: it was thought to have so much resemblance of the Maker, that many, upon the first sight, undertook to guess who was the author of it; and [were] persuaded that it was likely also, to become profitable both to them and me.

Whereupon, I got it authorised, according to Order [It was entered at Stationers' Hall, on 31st January, 1622]; intending to publish it without further inquiry.

But attaining by chance, a more perfect knowledge, to whom it most properly belonged; I thought it fitting to acquaint him therewithal. And did so, desiring also both his good will to publish the same, and leave to pass it under his name. Both [of] which, I found him very unwilling to permit; least the seeming lightness of such a subject might somewhat disparage the more serious studies, which he hath since undertaken.

Yet doubting (this being got out of his custody) some more imperfect copies might be scattered abroad, in writing; or be (unknown to him) imprinted: he was pleased, upon my importunities, to condescend [agree] that it might be published without his name.

And his words were these:

"When," said he, "I first composed it, I well liked thereof; and it well enough became my years; but, now, I neither like nor dislike it. That, therefore, it should be divulged, I desire not! and whether it be; or whether, if it so happen, it be approved or not, I care not! For this I am sure of, howsoever it is valued, it is worth as much as I prize it at. Likely it is also, to be as beneficial to the world, as the world hath been to me; and will be more than those who like it not, ever deserved at my hands."

These were his speeches. And if you looked for a Prologue, thus much he wished me to tell you, instead thereof, "because," as he said, "he himself had somewhat else to do."

Yet, to acknowledge the truth, I was so earnest with him, that, busy as he would seem to be, I got him to write this Epistle for me. And have thereunto set my name: which he wished me to confess, partly, to avoid the occasion of belying my invention; and partly, because he thought some of you would suppose so much.

I entreated him to explain his meaning in certain obscure passages. But he told me how "that were to take away the employment of his interpreters [critics]: whereas he would, purposely, leave something remaining doubtful, to see what Sir Politic Would-be and his companions would pick out of it."

I desired him also to set down, to what good purposes, this Poem would serve. But his reply was how "that would be well enough found out in the perusing, by all such as had honest understandings; and they who are not so provided, he hopes will not read it."

More, I could not get from him.

---

Whether, therefore, the Mistress of Phil'arete be really a Woman, shadowed under the name of Virtue; or Virtue only, whose loveliness is represented by the beauty of an excellent Woman: or whether it mean both together, I cannot tell you!

But thus much dare I promise for your money, that, here, you shall find, familiarly expressed, both such beauties as young men are most entangled withal; and the excellency also of such as are most worthy their affection. That seeing both impartially set forth by him, that was capable of both; they might the better settle their love on the best.

Hereby, also, those women, who desire to be truly beloved, may know what makes them so to be: and seek to acquire those accomplishments of the Mind which may endear them, when the sweetest features of a beautiful Face shall be converted into deformities.

And here is described that Loveliness of theirs, which is the principal object of wanton affection, to no worse end, but that those (who would never have looked on this Poem, if Virtue and Goodness had been therein no otherwise represented, than as they are Objects of the Soul) might (where they expected the satisfaction of their sensuality only) meet with that also, which would insinuate into them an Apprehension of more reasonable, and most excellent perfections. Yea, whereas the common opinion of Youth hath been, that only old men, and such as are unable, or past delighting in a bodily loveliness, are those who are best capable of the Mind's perfections; and that they do, therefore, so much prefer them before the other, because their age or stupidity hath deprived them of being sensible what pleasures they yield: though this be the vulgar error; yet, here, it shall appear, that he who is able to conceive the most excellent Pleasingness which could be apprehended in a corpor[e]al Beauty, found it (even when he was most enamoured with it) far short of that inexpressible Sweetness, which he discovered in a virtuous and well tempered Disposition.

And if this be not worth your money; keep it!

John Marriot.

Phil'arete. To his Mistress.

Hail! thou Fairest of all Creatures,
Upon whom the sun doth shine!
Model of all rarest features,
And perfections most divine!
Thrice, All Hail! And blessed be,
Those that love and honour thee!

Of thy worth, this rural Story,
Thy unworthy Swain hath penned;
And to thy ne'er-ending glory,
These plain Numbers doth commend:
Which ensuing Times shall warble,
When 'tis lost, that's writ in marble.

Though thy praise, and high deservings,
Cannot all, be here expressed;
Yet my love and true observings
Some way, ought to be professed!
And where greatest love we see,
Highest things attemptèd be.

By thy Beauty, I have gainèd
To behold the best perfections;
By thy Love, I have obtainèd
To enjoy the best affections.
And my tongue to sing thy praise!
Love and Beauty thus doth raise.

What although in rustic shadows,
I, a Shepherd's breeding had!
And confinèd to these meadows,
So in home-spun russet clad!
Such as I, have, now and then,
Dared as much as greater men.

Though a stranger to the Muses,
Young, obscurèd, and despised;
Yet such Art, thy love infuses!
That I, thus, have poetised.
Read! and be content to see
Thy admirèd power in me!

And O grant, thou Sweetest Beauty!
(Wherewith ever Earth was graced),
That this Trophy of my duty
May, with favour be embraced!
And disdain not, in these rhymes,
To be sung to after Times!

Let those doters on Apollo,
That adore the Muses so,
(And, like geese, each other follow)
See what Love alone can do!
For in love lays, Grove and Field;
Nor to Schools, nor Courts will yield!

On this Glass of thy Perfection,
If that any women pry;
Let them, thereby, take direction
To adorn themselves thereby!
And if aught amiss they view;
Let them dress themselves anew!

Young men shall, by this, acquainted
With the truest Beauties, grow;
So the counterfeit, or painted,
They may shun, when them they know.
But the Way, all will not find;
For some eyes have, yet are blind.

Thee! entirely! I have loved:
So thy Sweetness on me wrought.
Yet thy Beauty never moved
Ill temptations in my thought.
But, still, did Beauty's ray
Sun-like, drive those fogs away.

Those, that Mistresses are named;
And for that, suspected be:
Shall not need to be ashamed,
If they pattern take, by Thee!
Neither shall their Servants fear,
Favours, openly to wear.

Thou, to no man favour deignest!
But what's fitting to bestow.
Neither Servants entertainest!
That can ever wanton grow.
For, the more they look on Thee,
Their Desires still better be!

This, thy Picture, therefore, show I
Naked unto every eye:
Yet no fear of rival know I,
Neither touch of jealousy.
For the more make love to Thee!
I, the more shall pleased be.

I am no Italian lover
That will mew thee in a gaol;
But thy Beauty I discover,
English-like, without a veil.
If thou mayest be won away:
Win and wear thee, he that may!

Yet in this, Thou may'st believe me!
(So indifferent, though I seem):
Death with tortures would not grieve me
More, than loss of thy esteem!
For if Virtue me forsake!
All a scorn of me will make.

Then, as I, on Thee relying,
Do no changing fear in Thee!
So, by my defects supplying;
From all changing, keep thou me!
That unmatched we may prove:
Thou, for Beauty! I, for Love!

Then, while their loves are forgotten,
Who to Pride and Lust were slaves;
And their Mistresses, quite rotten,
Lie, unthought on, in their graves:
King and Queens, in their despite,
Shall, to mind us, take delight.

Fair VIRTUE,
OR
The Mistress of Phil'arete.

Two pretty rills do meet; and meeting, make
Within one valley, a large silver lake:
About whose banks, the fertile mountains stood
In ages passèd, bravely crowned with wood;
Which lending cold-sweet shadows, gave it grace
To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place.
And from her father Neptune's brackish Court,
Fair Thetis thither, often, would resort;
Attended by the fishes of the sea,
Which, in these sweeter waters came to play.
There, would the Daughter of the Sea God dive:
And thither came the Land Nymphs, every eve,
To wait upon her; bringing for her brows,
Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and beechy boughs.
For pleasant was that Pool;[10] and near it, then,
Was neither rotten marsh, nor boggy fen.
It was not overgrown with boisterous sedge,
Nor grew there rudely, then, along the edge
A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,
Nor broad-leafed flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush:
But here, well ordered, was a grove with bowers;
There, grassy plots set round about with flowers.
Here, you might, through the water, see the land
Appear, strewed o'er with white or yellow sand.
Yon, deeper was it; and the wind, by whiffs,
Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffs;
On which, oft pluming, sate, unfrighted then,
The gagling wild goose, and the snow-white swan,
With all those flocks of fowls, which, to this day,
Upon those quiet waters breed and play.
For, though those excellences wanting be
Which once it had, it is the same that we,
By transposition, name the Ford of Arle:[11]
And out of which, along a chalky marl,
That river trills, whose waters wash the fort
In which brave Arthur kept his royal Court.[12]

North-east, not far from this great Pool, there lies
A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,
With leisurely ascending, to such height
As from their tops, the warlike Isle of Wight
You, in the Ocean's bosom, may espy:
Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie.
The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,
Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme,
Which grow unset. The hedgerows do not want
The cowslip, violet, primrose; nor a plant
That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;
Low sallows, on whose bloomings, bees do fall;
Fair woodbines which, about the hedges twine;
Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine;
With many more, whose leaves and blossoms fair,
The Earth adorn, and oft perfume the Air.
When you, unto the highest do attain;
An intermixture both of wood and plain,
You shall behold! which, though aloft it lie,
Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry:
So much, at least, as little, needeth more;
If not enough to merchandise their store.
In every row, hath Nature planted there;
Some banquet for the hungry passenger.
For here, the hasle-nut and filbird grows;
There, bulloes; and little further, sloes.
On this hand, standeth a fair wielding-tree;
On that, large thickets of black cherries be.
The shrubby fields are raspice orchards, there;
The new felled woods, like strawberry gardens are.
And had the King of Rivers blest those hills,
With some small number of such pretty rills
As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen
A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.
For what offence, this place was scanted so
Of springing waters, no record doth show;
Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;
But till this day, at fifty-fathom wells,
The Shepherds drink. And strange it was, to hear
Of any Swain that ever livèd there,
Who, either in a Pastoral Ode had skill,
Or knew to set his fingers to a quill:
For rude they were, who there inhabited,
And to a dull contentment being bred,
They no such Art esteemed; nor took much heed
Of anything the world without them, did.
Ev'n there, and in the least frequented place
Of all these mountains, is a little space
Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees,
And those so thick, that Phœbus scarcely sees
The earth they grow on, once in all the year;
Nor what is done among the shadows there:
Along those lovely paths, (where never came
Report of Pan's, or of Apollo's name;
Nor rumour of the Muses, till of late)
Some Nymphs were wandering, and, by chance or fate,
Upon a laund[13] arrived, where they met
The little flock of Pastor Philaret.
They were a troop of Beauties known well nigh
Through all the plains of happy Brittany.
A Shepherd's Lad was He, obscure and young,
Who, being first that ever there had sung,
In homely verse, expressèd country loves,
And only told them to the beechy groves;
As if to sound his name, he never meant,
Beyond the compass that his sheepwalk went.
They saw him not, nor them perceivèd he;
For in the branches of a maple tree,
He shrouded sate: and taught the hollow hill
To echo forth the music of his quill;
Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,
That where he was concealed, they quickly found.
And there, they heard him sing a Madrigal
That soon betrayed his cunning to them all.
Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a Song,
Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,
Was never heard, they say, by any ear,
Until his Muses had inspired him there.
Though mean and plain, his country habit seemed,
Yet by his Song, the Ladies rightly deemed
That either he had travellèd abroad,
Where Swains of better knowledge make abode;
Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that grove,
Had deignèd to enrich him with her love.
Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,
Them, him saluted; and he, them again,
In such good fashion, as well seemed to be
According to their state, and his degree.
Which greetings being passed, and much chat
Concerning him, the place, with this and that;
He, to an arbour doth those Beauties bring,
Where he, them prays to sit; they, him to sing,
And to express that untaught Country Art,
In setting forth the Mistress of his heart;
Which they o'erheard him practice, when unseen,
He thought no ear had witness of it been.
At first, as much unable, he refused,
And seemèd willing to have been excused
From such a task, "For trust me, Nymphs!" quoth he,
"I would not purposely uncivil be,
Nor churlish in denying what you crave!
But, as I hope great Pan my flock will save!
I rather wish that I might, heard of none,
Enjoy my music by myself alone;
Or that the murmurs of some little flood,
Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood,
Might be the impartial umpires of my wit;
Than vent it where the world might hear of it.
And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,
Had I but thought of any such so near.
Not that I either wish obscurified
Her matchless Beauty, or desire to hide
Her sweet Perfections. For, by Love I swear!
The utmost happiness I aim at here
Is but to compass Worth enough to raise
A high built Trophy equal to her praise.
Which, fairest Ladies! I shall hope in vain,
For I was meanly bred on yonder plain!
And though I can well prove my blood to be
Derived from no ignoble Stems, to me:
Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crosst
That with their fortunes, their esteem is lost;
And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win,
Now from myself alone, it must begin.
For I have no estate, nor friends, nor fame,
To purchase either credit to my name,
Or gain a good opinion; though I do
Ascend the height I shall aspire unto.
If any of those virtues yet I have
Which honour to my predecessors gave;
There's all, that's left me! And though some contemn
Such needy jewels: yet it was for them,
My Fair One did my humble suit affect;
And deignèd my adventurous love, respect:
And by their help, I passage hope to make,
Through such poor things as I dare undertake.
But, you may say, 'What goodly thing, alas,
Can my despisèd meanness bring to pass?
Or what great Monument of Honour raise
To Virtue, in these vice abounding days?
In which, a thousand times, more honour finds,
Ignoble gotten Means, than noble Minds.'
Indeed, the world affordeth small reward
For honest minds, and therefore her regard
I seek not after; neither do I care,
If I have bliss, how others think I fare!
For, so my thoughts have rest; it irks not me,
Though none, but I, do know how blest they be.
Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,
I pleasèd, sit alone, and many strains
I carol to myself, these hills among,
Where no man comes to interrupt my song.
Whereas, if my rude Lays, make known I should,
Beyond their home; perhaps, some carpers would
(Because they have not heard from whence we be)
Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me.
For if our great and learned Shepherds (who
Are graced with Wit, and Fame, and Favours too)
With much ado, escape uncensured may;
What hopes have I to pass unscorched, I pray!
Who yet unto the Muses am unknown,
And live unhonoured, here, among mine own?
A gadding humour seldom taketh me,
To range out further than yon mountains be;
Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name
Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame:
Nor can I think, fair Nymphs! that you resort
For other purpose, than to make a sport
At that simplicity, which shall appear
Among the rude untutored Shepherds here.
I know, that you, my noble Mistress ween,
At best, a homely milkmaid on the green,
Or some such country lass as taskèd stays
At servile labour until holidays.
For poor men's virtues so neglected grow,
And are now prizèd at a rate so low;
As, 'tis impossible, you should be brought
To let it with belief possess your thought,
That any Nymph, whose love might worthy be,
Would deign to cast respective eyes on me.
You see I live, possessing none of those
Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows.
To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither
Rings, bracelets, jewels; nor a scarf, nor feather.
I use no double-dyèd cloth to wear;
No scrip embroidered richly, do I bear:
No silken belt, nor sheephook laid with pearls,
To win me favour from the shepherds' girls.
No Place of Office or Command I keep,
But this my little flock of homely sheep.
And, in a word; the sum of all my pelf
Is this, I am the Master of myself!
No doubt, in Courts of Princes you have been!
And all the pleasures of the Palace seen!
There, you beheld brave Courtly passages
Between Heroes and their Mistresses.
You, there, perhaps, in presence of the King,
Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing!
And what contentment, then, can wood or field,
To please your curious understandings yield?
I know you walkèd hither, but to prove
What silly Shepherds do conceive of love?
Or to make trial how our simpleness,
Can Passions' force, or Beauty's power express?
And when you are departed, you will joy
To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's Boy!
But yet, I vow! if all the Art I had
Could any more esteem or glory add
To her unmatchèd worth; I would not weigh
What you intended," "Prithee, Lad!" quoth they,
"Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem!
Her nobleness can never want esteem,
Nor thy concealèd Measures be disgraced;
Though in a meaner person they were placed.
If thy too modestly reservèd quill
But reach that height, which we suppose it will;
Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong
The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song.
For, as it higher rears thy glory, that
A noble Mistress thou hast aimèd at;
So, more unto her honour it will prove
That (whilst deceiving shadows others move)
Her constant eyes could pass unmovèd by
The subtle Time's bewitching bravery;
And those obscurèd virtues love in thee,
That with despisèd meanness clouded be.
Now then, for Her sweet sake! whose beauteous eye
Hath filled thy Soul with heavenly Poesy;
Sing in her praise some new inspirèd Strain!
And if, within our power, there shall remain
A favour to be done to pleasure thee;
Ask and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be!"
"Fair Ladies!" quoth the Lad, "such words as those,
Compel me can": and therewithal he rose,
Returned them thanks, obeisance made; and then
Down sate again, and thus to sing began.

[The Prologue.]

You that, at a blush, can tell
Where the best perfections dwell!
And the substance can conjecture,
By a shadow or a picture!
Come and try, if you, by this,
Know my Mistress, who she is?
For, though I am far unable
Here to match Apelles' table;
Or draw Zeuxes' cunning lines
(Who so painted Bacchus' vines
That the hungry birds did muster
Round the counterfeited cluster);
Though I vaunt not to inherit
Petrarch's yet unequalled spirit;
Nor to quaff the sacred well
Half so deep as Astrophel;
Though the much-commended Celia,
Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia,
(Who, in former times, excelled)
Live in lines unparalleled,
Making us believe, 'twere much
Earth should yield another such:
Yet, assisted but by Nature,
I assay to paint a Creature,
Whose rare worth, in future years,
Shall be praised as much as theirs.

Nor let any think amiss
That I have presumèd this;
For a gentle Nymph is She,
And hath often honoured me.
She's a noble spark of light
In each part so exquisite;
Had she, in times passèd been,
They had made her, Beauty's Queen.
Then, shall coward Despair
Let the most unblemished Fair,
(For default of some poor Art,
Which her favour may impart)
And the sweetest Beauty fade
That was ever born or made?
Shall, of all the fair ones, She,
Only so unhappy be,
As to live in such a Time,
In so rude, so dull a clime;
Where no spirit can ascend
High enough, to apprehend
Her unprizèd excellence,
Which lies hid from common sense?
Never shall a stain so vile
Blemish this, our Poets' Isle!
I myself will rather run
And seek out for Helicon!
I will wash, and make me clean
In the waves of Hippocrene!
And, in spite of Fortune's bars,
Climb the Hill that braves the stars!
Where, if I can get no Muse,
That will any skill infuse,
Or my just attempt prefer;
I will make a Muse of Her!
Whose kind heat shall soon distil
Art into my ruder quill.
By her favour, I will gain
Help to reach so rare a Strain;
That the Learned Hills shall wonder
How the Untaught Valleys under,
Met with raptures so divine;
Without the knowledge of the Nine.
I, that am a Shepherd's Swain
Piping on the lowly plain,
And no other music can
Than what learned I have of Pan;
I, who never sang the Lays,
That deserve Apollo's bays;
Hope, not only here to frame
Measures which shall keep Her name
From the spite of wasting Times:
But (enshrined in sacred rhymes)
Place her, where her form divine
Shall, to after ages, shine;
And, without respect of odds,
Vie renown with Demi-Gods.

Then, whilst of her praise I sing;
Harken Valley! Grove! and Spring!
Listen to me, sacred Fountains!
Solitary Rocks! and Mountains!
Satyrs! and you wanton Elves
That do nightly sport yourselves!
Shepherds! you that, on the reed,
Whistle, while your lambs do feed!
Agèd Woods and Floods! that know
What hath been, long times, ago!
Your more serious notes among,
Hear, how I can, in my Song,
Set a Nymph's perfection forth!
And, when you have heard her worth,
Say, if such another Lass
Ever known to mortal was!
Listen Lordlings! you that most
Of your outward honours boast!
And you Gallants! (that think scorn,
We, to lowly fortunes born,
Should attain to any graces,
Where you look for sweet embraces)
See! if all those vanities
Whereon your affection lies;
Or the titles, or the powers,
(By your fathers' virtues, yours)
Can your Mistresses enshrine
In such State, as I will mine!
Who am forced to importune
Favours, in despite of Fortune.
Beauties, listen! chiefly you
That yet know not Virtue's due!
You, that think there are no sports,
Nor no honours, but in Courts!
(Though of thousands, there live not
Two, but die and are forgot).
See, if any Palace yields
Ought more glorious than the Fields!
And consider well, if we
May not, as high-flying be
In our thoughts, as you that sing
In the chambers of a King!
See! if our contented minds,
Whom Ambition never blinds,
(We, that, clad in homespun gray,
On our own sweet meadows play)
Cannot honour, if we please,
Where we list, as well as these!
Or, as well, of worth approve!
Or, with equal Passions, love!
See, if beauties may not touch
Our soon-loving hearts as much!
Or our services effect
Favours, with as true respect,
In your good conceits to rise,
As our painted butterflies!
And you, Fairest! give her room,
When your Sex's Pride doth come!

For that subject of my Song,
I invoke these groves among
To be witness of the Lays
Which I carol in her praise.
And because she soon will see
If my Measures faulty be,
Whilst I chant them, let each rhyme
Keep a well-proportioned time;
And with Strains, that are divine,
Meet her thoughts in every line!
Let each accent there, present
To her soul, a new content!
And, with ravishings, so seize her,
She may feel the height of pleasure!
You enchanting Spells, that lie
Lurking in sweet Poesy!
(And to none else will appear,
But to those, that worthy are)
Make Her know! there is a power
Ruling in these charms of yours;
That transcends, a thousand heights,
Ordinary men's delights;
And can leave within her breast
Pleasures not to be exprest!
Let her linger on each Strain
As if She would hear't again!
And were loath to part from thence
Till She had the quintessence
Out of each conceit, she meets!
And had stored her, with those sweets!
Make Her, by your Art to see!
I, that am her Swain, was he
Unto whom all beauties here,
Were alike and equal dear:
That I could of freedom boast,
And of favours with the most;
Yet, now, nothing more affecting,
Sing of Her! the rest neglecting.
Make her heart, with full compassion,
Judge the merit of True Passion!
And, as much my love prefer,
As I strive to honour Her!
Lastly, you that will, I know,
Hear me, whe'er you should or no!
You, that seek to turn all flowers,
By your breath's infectious powers,
Into such rank loathsome weeds,
As your dunghill nature breeds!
Let your hearts be chaste! or here
Come not, till you purge them clear!
Mark! and mark then, what is worst!
For whate'er it seem at first,
If you bring a modest mind,
You shall nought immodest find!
But if any, too severe,
Hap to lend a partial ear,
Or, out of his blindness, yawn
Such a word as, O profane!
Let him know thus much from me,
If here's ought profane, 'tis he
Who applies these excellences
Only to the touch of Senses;
And, dim sighted, cannot see
Where the Soul of this may be!
Yet, that no offence may grow;
'Tis their choice, to stay or go!
Or if any for despite
Rather comes, than for delight;
For his presence, I'll not pray,
Nor his absence. Come he may!
Critics shall admitted be,
Though I know they'll carp at me:
For I neither fear nor care
What in this, their censures are.
If the Verse here used, be
Their dislike. It liketh me!
If my Method they deride,
Let them know Love is not tied,
In his free discourse, to choose
Such strict Rules as Arts-men use.
These may prate of Love, but they
Know him not! For he will play
From the matter, now and then!
Off and on! and off again!
If this Prologue, tedious seem,
Or the rest too long they deem;
Let them know my love they win,
Though they go, ere they begin:
Just as if they should attend me
Till the last; and, there, commend me.
For I will, for no man's pleasure,
Change a Syllable or Measure;
Neither for their praises add
Ought to mend what they think bad.
Since it never was my fashion
To make Work of Recreation.
Pedants shall not tie my strains
To our antique Poets' veins;
As if we, in latter days,
Knew to love, but not to praise.
Being born as free as these,
I will Sing, as I shall please!
Who, as well new paths may run,
As the best before have done.
I disdain to make my Song,
For their pleasures, short or long;
If I please, I'll end it here!
If I list, I'll sing this year!
And, though none regard of it,
By myself, I pleased can sit;
And, with that contentment, cheer me,
As if half the world did hear me.
But because I am assured
All are either so conjured,
As they will my Song attend,
With the patience of a friend;
Or, at least, take note that I
Care not much. Now willingly,
I, these goodly colours lay,
Wind, nor rain shall wear away;
But retain their purest glass,
When the statues made of brass,
For some Prince's more renown,
Shall be wholly overthrown;
Or consumed with cankered rust,
Lie neglected in the dust.

And my Reason gives direction
When I sing of such Perfection,
First, those beauties to declare,
Which (though hers) without her are.
To advance her fame, I find,
Those are of a triple kind.
Privileges she hath store
At her birth, since, and before.
From before her birth, the fame,
She of high descents may claim,
Whose well-gotten honours may
Her deserving more display,
For, from heavenly race she springs,
And from high and mighty Kings.
At her birth, She was, by Fate,
In those Parents fortunate,
Whose estate and virtues stood
Answerable to their blood.
Then the Nation, Time, and Place
To the rest, may add some grace.
For the People, with the Clime,
And the fashions of the Time;
(In all which, she hath been blest,
By enjoying them at best)
Do not only mend the features,
But, oft times, make better natures:
Whereas, those who hap not so,
Both deformed, and ruder grow.
In these climes, and latter days,
To deserve sweet Beauty's praise,
(Where so many females dwell,
That each seemeth to excel)
In more glory twenty-fold
Than it was in days of old:
When our ordinary fair ones
Might have been esteemèd rare ones;
And have made a subject fit,
For their bravest Poet's wit.
Little rushlights, or a spark
Sheweth fairly in the dark;
And to him occasion gives,
That from sight of greater, lives,
To adore it. Yet the ray
Of one torch will take away
All the light of twenty more
That shined very well before.
So, those petty Beauties which
Made the Times before us, rich;
Though but sparkles, seemed a flame
Which hath been increased by Fame,
And their true affections, who,
Better, never lived to know:
Whereas, Her, if they had seen
She had, sure, adorèd been!
And taught Ages past, to sing
Sweeter in the Sonneting.
Such a Ray, so clear! so bright!
Hath outshinèd all the light
Of a thousand, such as theirs
Who were then esteemèd Stars;
And would have enlightened near
Half the world's wide hemisphere.

She is fairest, that may pass
For a fair one, where the Lass
Trips it on the country green;
That may equal Sparta's Queen.
Where, in every street, you see
Throngs of Nymphs and Ladies be,
That are fair enough to move
Angels, and enamour Jove.
She must matchless features bring
That now moves a Muse to sing:
When as one small Province may
Shew more beauties in one day,
Than the half of Europe could
Breed them, in an age of old.
Such is She! and such a lot
Hath her rare perfection got!

Since her birth (to make the colour
Of so true a Beauty fuller;
And to give a better grace
To that sweetness in the face)
She hath all the furtherance had,
Noble educations add.
And not only knoweth all,
Which our Ladies, Courtship call;
With those knowledges that do
Grace her sex, and suit thereto:
But She hath attained to find
(What is rare with Womankind)
Excellences, whereby She
May in Soul delighted be;
And reap more contentment than
One of twenty thousand can.
By this means, hath bettered been
All without her, and within;
For it hath, by adding Arts,
To adorn her native parts,
Raised to a noble flame,
(Which shall lighten forth her fame)
Those dear sparks of sacred fire,
Which the Muses did inspire
At her birth: that She, complete,
Might, with them befit a seat.
But, perhaps, I do amiss,
To insist so long on this.
These are superficial things;
And but slender shadowings
To the work I have in hand.
Neither can you understand
What Her excellence may be,
Till Herself described you see!
Nor can mine or any pen
Paint her half so lovely, than
As She is indeed. For, here,
Might those deities appear,
Which young Paris viewed at will,
Naked, upon Ida hill!
That I, from those Three might take
All their beauties, One to make;
(Those, no question! well compact,
Would have made up one exact)
Something, yet, we miss, of might
To express her Sweetness right.
Juno's majesty would fit;
Venus' beauty, Pallas' wit
Might have brought to pattern hers
In some shewed particulars;
But they never can express
Her whole frame or worthiness
With those excellences, which
Make both Soul and Body rich.
Pallas, sometimes, was untoward,
Venus wanton, Juno froward:
Yea all three, infected were
With such faults as women are;
And, though falsely deified,
Frailties had, which She'll deride.
By Her Self, must therefore She;
Or by nothing patterned be!
And I hope to paint her so,
By Her Self, that you shall know
I have served no common Dame,
Of mean worth, or vulgar fame!
But a Nymph, that's fairer than
Pen or pencil, portrait can!

And to-morrow, if you stray
Back again this uncouth way,
I, my simple Art will show:
But the time prevents me now.
For, except at yonder glade,
All the laund is under shade;
That, before these ewes be told;
Those my wethers, in the fold;
Ten young weanlings driven down
To the well beneath the town;
And my lambkins changèd from
Brome leaze, to the mead at home;
'Twill be far in night: and so,
I shall make my father woe
For my stay; and be in fear
Somewhat is mischancèd here.

On your way, I'll, therefore, bring you!
And a Song or two I'll sing you!
Such as I, half in despair,
Made when first I wooed my Fair:
Whereunto, my boy shall play;
That my voice assist, it may!

---

I.

Come, my Muse! If thou disdain!
All my comforts are bereft me!
No delight doth now remain;
I, nor friend, nor flock have left me.
They are scattered on the plain.

Men, alas, are too severe,
And make scoffs at lovers' fortunes.
Women, hearted like the bear;
That regards not who importunes,
But doth all in pieces tear.

If I should my sorrows shew
Unto rivers, springs, or fountains;
They are senseless to my woe:
So are groves, and rocks, and mountains.
Then, O, whither shall I go?

Means of harbour, me to shield
From despair; ah, know you any?
For no city, grange, nor field,
Though they lend content to many,
Unto me, can comfort yield.

I have kept, and sighèd too,
For Compassion to make trial;
Yea, done all that words can do,
Yet have nothing but denial.
What way is there, then, to woo?

Shall I swear, protest, and vow?
So have I done, most extremely!
Should I die? I know not how!
For from all attempts unseemly,
Love and Virtue keep me now.

I have heard that Time prevails;
But I fear me, 'tis a fable.
Time, and all Endeavour fails!
To bear more, my heart's unable;
Yet none careth what it ails!

Lines to some, have op'ed the door
And got entrance for Affection.
Words well spoken, much implore,
By the Gestures' good direction:
But a Look doth ten times more!

'Tis the Eye that only reads
To the heart, Love's deepest Lectures!
By a moving Look, it pleads
More than common Sense conjectures,
And a way to Pity leads.

This I knowing, did observe;
Both by Words and Looks complaining:
Yet, for Pity I may starve!
There's no hope of my obtaining,
Till I better can deserve.

Yea, and he that thinks to win
By Desert, may be deceivèd!
For they who have worthiest bin,
Of their right, have been bereavèd;
And a groom admitted in.

Wherefore, Muse! to thee I call!
Thou, since nothing else avails me,
Must redeem me from my thrall!
If thy sweet enchantment fails me;
Then, adieu Love, Life, and all!

---

II.

Tell me, my heart! What thoughts, these pantings move?
My thoughts of Love!
What flames are these, that set thee so on fire?
Flames of Desire!
What means hast thou, contentment's flower to crop?
No means but Hope!
Yet let us feed on Hope, and hope the best!
For they, amid their griefs, are something blest,
Whose thoughts, and flames, and means have such free scope,
They may, at once, both Love, Desire, and Hope.

But say! What fruit will love at last obtain?
Fruitless Disdain!
What will those hopes prove, which yet seem so fair?
Hopeless Despair!
What end shall run those Passions, out of breath?
An endless Death!
O can there be such cruelty in love?
And doth my fortune so ungentle prove,
She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath,
But cruelest Disdain, Despair, and Death?

Then what new study shall I now apply?
Study to Die!
How might I end my care, and die content?
Care to Repent!
And what good thoughts may make my end more holy?
Think on thy Folly!
Yes, so I will! and since my fate can give
No hope, but ever without hope to live,
My studies, cares, and thoughts, I'll all apply
To weigh my Folly well! Repent! and Die!

---

III.

Sad Eyes! What do you ail,
To be thus ill disposed?
Why doth your sleeping fail,
Now all men's else are closed?
Was't I, that ne'er did bow
In any servile duty!
And will you make me, now,
A slave to Love and Beauty?

What though my Mistress smile,
And in her love affects thee!
Let not her eye beguile;
I fear she disrespects thee!
Do not, poor Heart! depend
On those vain thoughts that fill thee!
They'll fail thee, in the end!
So must thy Passions kill thee!

What hopes have I, that She
Will hold her favours ever;
When so few women be
That constant can persèver?
Whate'er She do protest!
When fortunes do deceive me,
Then She, with all the rest,
I fear, alas, will leave me!

Whil'st Youth, and Strength remains,
With Art that may commend her;
Perhaps, She nought disdains
Her Servant should attend her.
But it is one to ten,
If crosses overtake me,
She will not know me, then;
But scorn, and so forsake me!

Shall then, in earnest truth,
My careful eyes observe her?
Shall I consume my youth;
And short' my time to serve her?
Shall I, beyond my strength,
Let Passions' torments prove me?
To hear her say, at length,
Away! I cannot love thee!

O, rather let me die
Whil'st I, thus gentle find her!
'Twere worse than death, if I
Should find She proves unkinder!
One frown, though but in jest,
Or one unkindness feignèd,
Would rob me of more rest
Than e'er could be regainèd.

But in her eyes, I find
Such signs of pity moving;
She cannot be unkind,
Nor err, nor fail in loving:
And on her forehead, this
Seems written to relieve me,
My heart, no joy shall miss
That Love, or She can give me!

Which if I find, I vow
My service shall persèver!
The same that I am now;
I will continue ever!
No others' high degree,
No beauteous look shall change me!
My love shall constant be,
And no estate estrange me!

When other noble Dames,
By greater men attended,
Shall, with their lives and names,
Have all their glories ended:
With fairest Queens, shall She
Sit, sharing equal glory;
And Times to come shall be
Delighted with our Story.

In spite of others' hates,
More honour I will do her!
Than those that with estates
And help of fortune woo her:
Yea, that True Worth I spy;
Though monarchs strove to grace it,
They should not reach more high
Than I dare hope to place it!

And though I never vaunt
What favours are possessed;
Much less content I want
Than if they were expressed:
Let others make their mirth,
To blab each kiss or toying!
I know no bliss on earth
Like secret love enjoying.

And this shall be the worst
Of all that can betide me.
If I (like some accurst)
Should find my hopes deride me;
My cares will not be long;
I know which way to mend them!
I'll think, "Who did the wrong!"
Sigh! break my heart! and end them!

[The Picture of Fair Virtue.]

Hail, fair Beauties! and again,
Hail to all your goodly train!

What I promised yesterday,
If it please you, hear ye may!
For now, once begun have I,
Sing I will, though none were by;
And though freely on I run
Yet confused paths to shun.
First, that part shall be disclosed,
That's of Elements composed.

There the two unequal pair,
Water, Fire; Earth and Air
(Each one suiting a complexion)
Have so cunning a commixtion,
As they, in proportion sweet,
With the rarest temper meet!
Either, in as much as needeth;
So as neither, ought exceedeth.
This pure substance is the same
Which the Body we do name.
Were that of immortal stuff,
'Tis refined and pure enough
To be called a Soul! for, sure,
Many souls are not so pure.
I, that with a serious look
Note of this rare Model took,
Find that Nature in their places
So well couchèd all the Graces,
As the curious'st eyes that be
Cannot blot, nor blemish see.

Like a pine it groweth straight,
Reaching an approvèd height,
And hath all the choice perfections
That inflame her best affections.
In the motions of each part,
Nature seems to strive with Art;
Which her gestures most shall bless,
With the gifts of Pleasingness.

When She sits, methinks I see
How all virtues fixèd be
In a frame, whose constant mould
Will the same unchangèd hold.

If you note her, when She moves:
Cytherea, drawn with doves,
May come learn such winning notions
As will gain to love's devotions,
More than all her painted wiles;
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.

Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet features in their faces:
Others (that do miss them there),
Lovely are, some other where,
And to our desires, do fit
In behaviour, or in wit;
Or some inward worth appearing
To the soul, the soul endearing.
But in Her, your eye may find
All that's good in Womankind.
What in others, we prefer,
Are but sundry parts of Her;
Who, most perfect, doth present
What might One and All content.
Yea, he that, in love still ranges,
And, each day, or hourly changes;
(Had he judgement but to know
What perfections in her grow)
There, would find the spring of store,
Swear a faith, and change no more.
Neither, in the total Frame,
Is She only void of blame;
But each part, surveyed asunder
Might beget both love and wonder.
If you dare to look so high
Or behold such majesty;
Lift your wondering eyes, and see
Whether ought can bettered be!
There's her Hair, with which Love angles,
And beholders' eyes entangles!
For in those fair curlèd snares,
They are hampered unawares;
And compelled to swear a duty
To her sweet enthralling beauty.
In my mind, 'tis the most fair
That was ever callèd hair:
Somewhat brighter than a brown;
And her tresses waving down
At full length, and, so dispread,
Mantles her, from foot to head.
If you saw her archèd Brow;
Tell me, pray! how Art knows how
To have made it in a line
More exact, or more divine!
Beauty, there, may be descried
In the height of all her pride.
'Tis a meanly rising plain,
Whose pure white hath many a vein
Interlacing, like the springs
In the earth's enamellings.
If the tale be not a toy,
Of the little wingèd Boy:
When he means to strike a heart,
Thence! he throws the fatal dart,
Which, of wounds still makes a pair;
One of Love, one of Despair.
Round, her Visage; or so near
To a roundness, doth appear,
That no more of length it takes,
Than what best proportion makes.
Short her Chin is; and yet so
As it is just long enow.
Loveliness doth seem to glory
In that circling promontory,
Pretty moving features skip
'Twixt that hillock and the lip,
If you note her, but the while
She is pleased to speak, or smile.
And her Lips, that shew no dulness,
Full are, in the meanest fulness.
Those, the leaves be, whose unfolding
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding:
For such pearls they do disclose;
Both the Indies match not those!
Yet are so in order placed,
As their whiteness is more graced.
Each part is so well disposed
And her dainty mouth composed,
So as, there, is no distortion
Misbeseems that sweet proportion.
When her ivory Teeth she buries
'Twixt her two enticing cherries,
There appears such pleasures hidden,
As might tempt what were forbidden.
If you look again the whiles,
She doth part those lips in smiles;
'Tis as when a flash of light
Breaks from heaven to glad the night.
Other parts, my pencil crave;
But those lips I cannot leave!
For, methinks, [if] I should go
And forsake those cherries so;
There's a kind of excellence
Holds me from departing hence.
I would tell you, what it were;
But my cunning fails me there.
They are like, in their discloses,
To the morning's dewy roses;
That, besides the name of "fair,"
Cast perfumes that sweet the air.
Melting soft her kisses be!
And had I, now, two or three,
More inspirèd by their touch,
I had praised them twice as much!
But, sweet Muses! mark ye how
Her fair Eyes do check me now!
That I seemed to pass them so,
And their praises overgo:
And yet, blame me not that I
Would so fain have passed them by!
For I fearèd to have seen them,
Least there were some danger in them!
Yet such gentle looks they lend,
As might make her foe, a friend;
And by their allurings move
All beholders unto love.
Such a power is also there,
As will keep those thoughts in fear;
And Command enough I saw,
To hold impudence in awe.
There, may he that knows to love,
Read contents which are above
Their ignoble aims, who know
Nothing that so high doth grow.
Whilst She, me beholding is,
My heart dares not think amiss!
For her sight, most piercing clear,
Seems to see what's written there.
Those bright Eyes (that, with their light,
Oftentimes have blest my sight;
And in turning thence their shining,
Left me, in sad darkness, pining)
Are the rarest, lovliest gray;
And do cast forth such a ray
As the man that black prefers,
More would like, this gray of hers.
When their matchless beams she shrouds;
'Tis like Cynthia hid in clouds!
If again she shew them light,
'Tis like morning after night!
And 'tis worthy well beholding
With how many a pretty folding,
Her sweet Eyelids grace that Fair,
Meanly fringed with beaming hair,
Whereby, neatly overspread,
Those bright lamps are shadowèd.
'Twixt the eyes, no hollow place,
Wrinkle, nor undecent space
Disproportions Her in ought;
Though by Envy, faults were sought!
On those Eyebrows never yet,
Did disdainful scowling sit.
Love and Goodness gotten thither,
Sit, on equal thrones together;
And do throw just scorn on them,
That their Government contemn.
Then, almost obscured, appears
Those her jewel-gracing Ears!
Whose own beauties more adorn,
Than the richest pearl that's worn
By the proudest Persian dames,
Or the best that Nature frames.
There, the voice, in love's meanders,
Through their pretty circlings, wanders!
Whose rare turnings will admit
No rude speech to enter it.
Stretching from Mount Forehead lies
Beauty's Cape, betwixt her eyes:
Which two crystal-passing lakes,
Love's delightful Isthmus makes!
Neither more nor less extending
Than most meriteth commending.
Those in whom that part hath been
Best deserving praises seen;
Or, surveyed without affection,
Came the nearest to perfection;
Would scarce handsome ones appear
If with Her, compared they were:
For it is so much excelling,
That it passeth means of telling!
On the either side of this,
Love's most lovely Prospect is!
Those, her smiling Cheeks, whose colour
Comprehends True Beauty fuller
Than the curious'st mixtures can,
That are made by Art of man.
It is Beauty's Garden-knot,
Where, as in a true-love-knot,
So, the snowy Lily grows,
Mixèd with the crimson Rose.
That as friends they joinèd be.
Yet they seem to disagree,
Whether of the two shall reign?
And the lilies oft obtain
Greatest sway, unless a blush
Help the roses at a push.
Hollow fallings none there are!
There's no wrinkle! there's no scar!
Only there's a little Mole,
Which from Venus' cheek was stole.
If it were a thing in Nature
Possible, that any creature
Might decaying life repair,
Only by the help of air;
There were no such salve for death,
As the balm of her sweet Breath!
Or, if any human power
Might detain the soul an hour
From the flesh, to dust bequeathing,
It would linger on her breathing!
And be half in mind, that there
More than mortal pleasures were.
And whose fortune were so fair
As to draw so sweet an air,
Would, no doubt, let slighted be
The perfumes of Araby.
For the English Eglantine
Doth, through envy of Her, pine.
Violets and Roses too
Fear that She will them undo:
And it seems that in her Breast
Is composed the Phœnix's nest.
But, descend a while, mine eye!
See, if polished ivory,
Or the finest fleecèd flocks,
Or the whitest Albion rocks,
For comparisons may stand,
To express that snowy Hand!
When She draws it from her glove
It hath virtue to remove,
Or disperse, if there be ought
Cloudeth the beholder's thought.
If that palm but toucheth yours,
You shall feel a secret power
Cheer your heart, and glad it more!
Though it drooped with grief before.
Through the Veins disposèd true
Crimson, yields a sapphire hue,
Which adds grace and more delight
By embracing with the white.
Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender
Are her Palms! the Fingers, slender,
Tipt with mollifièd pearl!
And if that transformèd girl,
Whose much cunning made her dare
With Jove's daughter to compare,
Had that hand worn, maugre spite,
She had shamed the goddess quite!
For, there is, in every part,
Nature perfecter than Art.
These were joinèd to those Arms,
That were never made for harms!
But possess the sweetest graces
That may apt them for embraces.
Like the silver streams they be,
Which, from some high hill, we see
Clipping-in a goodly vale,
That grows proud of such a thrall.
Neither alabaster rocks,
Pearl-strewed shores, nor Cotswold flocks,
Nor the mountains tipt with snow,
Nor the milk-white swans of Po,
Can appear so fair to me,
As her spotless Shoulders be!
They are like some work of state,
Covered with the richest plate,
And a presence have that strike
With devotions, goddess-like.
'Twixt those shoulders, meanly spread
To support that globe-like head,
Riseth up her Neck! wherein
Beauty seemeth to begin
To disclose itself in more
Tempting manner than before.
How therein she doth excel,
Though I would, I cannot tell!
For I nought on earth espy
That I may express it by.
There, should lovers (as in duty)
Hang rich Trophies up to Beauty!
'Tis proportioned to a height
That is even with Delight.
Yet is a great deal higher
Than to answer base Desire.
Where the neck hath end, begins
That smooth path, where Love's close gins
Are thick placèd, to enthrall
Such as, that way straggle shall.
There, a pleasing passage lies
Far beyond the sight of eyes;
And much more delight contains
Than the old Elizian fields.
Whatsoever others say
There's alone the Milky Way!
That to Beauty's Walks doth go;
Which, if others came to know,
In possessing their delight,
They should never reach the height
Of the pleasures, which I share:
Whilst that those debarrèd are.
Yet unspoken of, there rests
Her two twin-like lovely Breasts!
Whose round-rising, pretty panting
I would tell, but Art is wanting!
Words can never well declare
Her fair sweet perfections there;
For, would Measures give me leave
To express what I conceive,
I do know I should go near
Half to ravish all that hear.
And but that I learn to season
What I apprehend with Reason,
It had made my Passions' weight
Sink me, through my own conceit.
There, I find so large a measure
Of an unexpressèd pleasure,
That my heart, through strong surmise,
In a pleasing fainting lies.
He that there may rest to prove
Softer finds those beds of love,
That the cotton ripest grown;
Or fine pillows of such down
As, in time of moulting, fans
From the breasts of silver swans.
Those two sisters are a pair,
Smooth alike, like soft, like fair,
If together they be viewed:
Yet if they apart be shewed;
That you touch or see, seems smoother,
Softer, fairer than the other.
That the colour may delight;
So much red as makes the white
Purer seem, is shed among:
And then, here and there, along
Runs a sapphire-mine, whose blue
Shadowed, makes so brave a show
On those lily mounts, as though
Beauty's simples there did grow.
In the vale, 'twixt either hill,
Lies Desire in ambush still,
And surpriseth every eye
Which doth that way dare to pry.
There is, sure, the twi-top hill,
Where the Poets learn their skill!
That's Parnassus, where the Muses
Chaste, and wise Minerva uses!
Her two Cherrilets are those
Whence the pleasant'st nectar flows;
And no fruits e'er equalled these,
Fetched from the Hesperides.
Once, as Cynthia's games she chased,
And, for air, left half unlaced
Her light summer robe of green
(Beauty's safe, but slender screen!)
Unawares, I partly spied,
That fair lily-field unhid
Which you may her Belly name!
Yet, nor She, nor I to blame.
For it was, but what mine eye
Might behold with modesty.
'Tis a fair and matchless plain
Where unknown delights remain!
'Tis the store-house wherein Pleasure
Hides the richest of her treasure!
Which, True Modesty, in ward,
Keeps, with a continual guard
Of such Virtues, as she's sure,
No corruption can allure.
There, they say, (for, mind it well!
I do this, by hearsay tell)
Grows her Navel, which doth seem
Like some jewel of esteem:
With so wondrous cunning wrought
That an injury, 'tis thought,
Such a beauty, with the rest,
Should (unknown) be unexprest.
Somewhat else there is, that's hidden
Which to name I am forbidden;
Neither have I ever pried
After that should be unspied.
Never shall my maiden Muse
So herself, and me abuse
As to sing what I may fear
Will offend the choicest ear!
Though I know, if none be by,
But true friends to modesty;
I might name each part at will,
And yet no man's thought be ill.
Yet, for fear loose hearers may
Judge amiss, if more I say;
I descend, to shun all blame,
To the Pillars of the Frame.
Where though I ne'er aimed so high
As her dainty youthful Thigh;
Whose rare softness, smoothness, fulness
Being known, would teach my dulness
Such a Strain as might befit
Some brave Tuscan Poet's wit.
Once a saucy bush, I spied
Pluck her silken skirts aside,
So discovered unto me
All those beauties to the Knee:
And before the thorns' entanglings
Had let go the silver spanglings,
I perceive the curious knitting
Of those joints was well befiting
Such a noble piece of work:
'Mongst whose turnings seem to lurk
Much to entertain the sight
With new objects of delight.
Then the Leg, for shape as rare,
Will admit of no compare!
Straight it is; the Ankle lean!
Full the Calf, but in the mean!
And the slender Foot doth fit
So, each way, to suit with it;
As She nothing less excels
Therein, than in all things else.
Yea, from head to foot, her feature
Shews her an Unblemished Creature,
In whom, Love with Reason might
Find so matchless a Delight,
That more cannot be acquired;
Nor a greater bliss desired.

Yet, if you will rest an hour
Under yonder shady bower!
I, anon, my Muse will raise
To a higher pitch of praise!
But a while with raspice-berries,
Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries,
(Such as these our groves do bear)
We will cool our palates there.
And, those homely cates among
Now and then, a Pastoral Song,
Shall my lad, here, sing and play!
Such as you had yesterday.

---

I.

A lad, whose faith will constant prove,
And never know an end;
Late, by an oversight in love,
Displeased his dearest Friend:
For which incensed, she did retake
The favours which he wore;
And said, "He never, for her sake,
Should wear, or see them more!"

The grief whereof, how near it went,
And how unkindly took,
Was figured by the discontent
Appearing in his look.
At first, he could not silence break,
So heavy sorrow lay;
But when his sighs gave way to speak,
Thus, sadly, did he say.

"My only Dear!" and with that speech,
Not able to sustain
The floods of grief at sorrow's breach,
He paused awhile again.
At length, nigh fainting, did express
These words, with much ado,
"O Dear! Let not my love's excess,
Me, and my love undo!"

She, little movèd with his pain,
His much distraction eyed;
And changing love into disdain,
Thus, still unkind, replied.
"Forbear to urge one kindness more!
Unless you long to see
The good respect you had before,
At once, all lost in me!"

With that dismayed, his suit he ceased,
And down his head he hung;
And as his Reason's strength decreased,
His Passion grew more strong.
But seeing she did slight his moan;
With willow garlands wreathed,
He sate him down, and all alone,
This sad complaint he breathed.

"O Heavens!" quoth he, "Why do we spend
Endeavours thus in vain?
Since what the Fates do fore-intend
They never change again.
Nor Faith, nor Love, nor true Desert,
Nor all that man can do,
Can win him place within her heart,
That is not born thereto!"

"Why do I fondly waste my youth
In secret sighs and tears?
Why to preserve a spotless truth,
Taste I, so many cares?
For women that no worth respect,
Do so ungentle prove;
That some shall win by their neglect,
What others lose with love."

"Those that have set the best at naught,
And no man could enjoy;
At last, by some base gull are caught,
And gotten with a toy.
Yea, they that spend an Age's light,
Their favours to obtain;
For one unwilling oversight,
May lose them all again!"

"How glad, and fain, alas, would I,
For her, have underwent
The greatest care, ere she should try
The smallest discontent?
Yet She, that may my life command,
And doth those Passions know!
Denieth me a poor demand,
In height of all my woe."

"O, if the Noblest of her time,
And best beloved of me:
Could for so poor, so slight a crime
So void of pity be!
Sure, had it been some common one,
Whose patience I had tried;
No wonder I had been undone,
Or unforgiven, died!"

"A thousand lives I would have laid!
(So well I once believed)
She would have deigned to lend me aid
If she had seen me grieved.
But now, I live to see the day,
When I presumèd so,
I neither dare for pity pray,
Nor tell her of my woe!"

"Yet, let not, poor despised heart!
Her worth ought questioned be!
Hadst thou not failèd in desert
She had not failèd thee!
But lest, perhaps, they flout thy moan,
That should esteem thee dear;
Go, make it by thyself alone,
Where none may come to hear!

"Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles!
What Passion e'er thou try;
That none may laugh at thee, the whiles
Thou discontented lie!
And let no wrong, by change distain
A love so truly fair;
But rather, never hope again!
And thou shall ne'er despair!"

---

II.

O'ertired by cruel Passions that oppress me,
With heart nigh broken, Time, no hope would give me;
Upon my bed: I laid me down to rest me:
And gentle Sleep, I wooèd to relieve me.
But O, alas! I found that, on the morrow,
My sleeping Joys brought forth my waking Sorrow.

For, lo, a dream I had, so full of pleasure,
That to possess, what to embrace I seemed,
Could not effect my joy in higher measure,
Than now it grieves me, that I have but dreamed.
O let my dreams be Sighs and Tears hereafter!
So I (that sleeping, weep) may wake in laughter.

Fain would I tell how much that Shadow pleased me,
But tongue and pen want words, and art in telling;
Yet this I'll say, to shew what horror seized me
(When I was robbed of bliss, so much excelling),
Might all my dreams be such; O, let me never
Awake again! but sleep, and dream for ever!

For when I waking, saw myself deceivèd,
And what an inward hell it had procurèd:
To find myself of all my hopes bereavèd
It brought on Passions not to be endurèd.
And, knew I, next night had such dreams in keeping;
I'd make my eyes foreswear, for ever, sleeping!

---

III.

You woody Hills! you Dales! you Groves!
You Floods! and every Spring!
You creatures come, whom nothing moves,
And hear a Shepherd sing!
For to Heroès, Nymphs, and Swains,
I, long, have made my moan;
Yet what my mournful Verse contains
Is understood of none.

In song, Apollo gave me skill;
Their love, his Sisters deign:
With those that haunt Parnassus' hill,
I friendship entertain.
Yet this is all in vain to me,
So haplessly I fare!
As those things which my glory be,
My cause of ruin are.

For Love hath kindled in my breast,
His never quenchèd fire:
And I! who often have exprest
What other men desire,
(Because I could so dive into
The depth of others' moan);
Now, I, my own afflictions shew,
I heeded am of none!

Oft have the Nymphs of greatest worth,
Made suit, my Songs to hear;
As oft (when I have sighèd forth,
Such notes as saddest were):
"Alas," said they, "poor gentle heart!
Whoe'er that Shepherd be!"
But none of them suspects my smart,
Nor thinks, it meaneth Me!

When I have reached so high a Strain
Of Passion in my Song,
That they have seen the tears to rain
And trill, my cheek along;
Instead of sigh, or weeping eye
To sympathise with Me!
"O were he once in love!" they cry,
"How moving would he be?"

O pity me, you Powers above!
And take my skill away!
Or let my hearers think I love
And feign not what I say!
For if I could disclose the snare
Which I, unknown, do bear;
Each line would make them sighs impart,
And every word, a tear.

Had I a Mistress, some do think
She should revealèd be;
And I would favours wear, or drink
Her health, upon my knee.
Alas, poor fools! they aim awry!
Their fancy flags too low!
Could they, my love's rare course espy,
They would amazèd grow.

But let nor Nymph, nor Swain conceive
My tongue shall ever tell
Who, of this rest doth me bereave;
Or where I am not well.
But if you, sighing me espy
Where rarest features be;
Mark where I fix a weeping eye,
And swear you! "There is She!"

Yet, ere, my eyes betray me shall,
I'll swell, and burst with pain!
And for each drop they would let fall,
My heart shall bleed me twain!
For since my soul more sorrow bears
Than common lovers know;
I scorn my Passions should, like theirs,
A common humour shew.

Ear never heard of, heretofore,
Of any love like mine;
Nor shall there be, for evermore,
Affection so divine!
And that to fain it, none may try,
When I dissolved must be;
The first I am, it livèd by!
And die it shall, with me!

[Fair Virtue's sweet Graces.]

Boy! ha' done! For now my brain
Is inspirèd fresh again;
And new raptures pressing are,
To be sung in praise of Her,
Whose fair Picture lieth nigh,
Quite unveiled to every eye.
No small favour hath it been,
That such Beauty might be seen;
Therefore, ever may they rue it,
Who, with evil eyes shall view it!
Yea, what ancient stories tell
Once to rude Acteon fell
(When, with evil thoughts, he stood
Eying Cynthia in the flood);
May that fatal hornèd curse
Light upon them, or a worse!
But, whatever others be,
Lest some fault be found in me,
If imperfect this remain;
I will over-trim't again!
Therefore, turn where we begun!

And, now all is overrun.
Mark, if everything exprest
Suit not so unto the rest,
As if Nature would prefer
All perfections unto her!
Wherefore seems it strange to any
That they daily see so many,
Who were, else, most perfect creatures,
In some one part, want true features;
Since from all the fair'st that live,
Nature took the best, to give
Her, perfection in each part?
I, alone except her heart;
For, among all Womankind,
Such as hers is hard to find!
If you truly note her Face,
You shall find it hath a grace,
Neither wanton, nor o'er serious,
Nor too yielding, nor imperious;
But, with such a feature blest,
It is that which pleaseth best,
And delights each several eye
That affects with modesty.
Lowliness hath, in her look,
Equal place with Greatness took:
And if Beauty, anywhere,
Claims prerogatives, 'tis there!
For, at once, thus much 'twill do;
Threat! command! persuade! and woo!
In her Speech, there is not found
Any harsh, unpleasing sound;
But a well beseeming power,
Neither higher, neither lower,
Than will suit with her perfection.
'Tis the Loadstone of Affection!
And that man, whose judging eyes,
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love, make her his choice,
Though he did but hear her voice!
For such accents breathe not, whence
Beauty keeps non-residence.
Never word of hers I hear,
But 'tis music to mine ear,
And much more contentment brings
Than the sweetly-touchèd strings
Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains
Ravish hearers, when it 'plains.
Raised by her Discourse, I fly
In contented thoughts so high
That I pass the common measures
Of the dullèd senses' pleasures;
And leave far below my sight
Vulgar pitches of delight.
If She smile, and merry be;
All about her are as She!
For each looker on takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.
If She grieve, or you but spy
Sadness peeping through her eye;
Such a grace it seems to borrow
That you'll fall in love with Sorrow;
And abhor the name of Mirth,
As the hateful'st thing on earth.
Should I see her shed a tear,
My poor eyes would melt, I fear:
For much more in Hers appears,
Than in other women's tears;
And her look did never feign
Sorrow, where there was no pain.
Seldom hath She been espied,
So impatient as to chide!
For if any see her so,
They'll in love with Anger grow.
Sigh, or speak, or smile, or talk,
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk;
Every thing that She doth do,
Decent is, and lovely too.
Each part that you shall behold
Hath within itself enrolled
What you could desire to see,
Or your heart conceive to be:
Yet, if from that part, your eye
Moving, shall another spy,
There, you see as much or more
Than you thought to praise before.
While the eye surveys it! you
Will imagine that her Brow
Hath all beauty: when her Cheek
You behold! it is as like
To be deemèd fairest too;
So much there, can Beauty do.
Look but thence, upon her Eye!
And you wonder, by-and-by,
How there may be anywhere,
So much worthy praise as there.
Yet, if you survey her Breast,
Then, as freely, you'll protest
That in them, perfection is!
Though, I know, that one poor kiss
From her tempting Lips, would then
Make all that, foresworn again!
For the selfsame moving grace
Is, at once, in every place.
She, her beauty never foils
With your ointments, waters, oils!
Nor no loathsome fucus settles,
Mixed with Jewish fasting spetles!
Fair by Nature being born,
She doth, borrowed beauty scorn!
Whoso kisses her, needs fear
No unwholesome varnish there.
For from thence, he only sips
The pure nectar of her lips,
And, at once, with these he closes,
Melting rubies, cherries, roses.
Then, in her Behaviour, She
Striveth but Herself to be:
Keeping such a decent state,
As, indeed, she seems to hate
Precious leisure should be spent
In abusèd compliment.
Though she knows what others do,
(And can all their Courtship too)
She is not in so ill case,
As to need their borrowed grace.
Her Discourses sweetened are,
With a kind of artless care
That expresseth greater Art,
Than affected words impart.
So, her Gestures (being none
But that freeness, which alone
Suits the braveness of her mind)
Make her, of herself, to find
Postures more becoming far
Than the mere acquired are.
If you mark, when, for her pleasure,
She vouchsafes to foot a measure.
Though, with others' skill, She pace;
There's a sweet delightful grace
In herself, which doth prefer
Art beyond that Art, in her.
Neither needs She beat her wit
To devise what dressings fit!
Her complexion, and her feature
So beholding are to Nature,
If She, in the fashions go,
All the reason She doth so,
Is, because She would not err
In appearing singular;
Doubtless, not for any thought,
That 'twill perfect her in ought.
Many a dainty-seeming Dame
Is, in native beauties lame.
Some are gracèd by their tires,
As their quoifs, their hats, their wires.
One, a ruff doth best become;
Falling-bands much altereth some.
And their favours, oft, we see
Changèd as their dressings be.
Which her beauty never fears,
For it graceth all She wears.
If ye note her tire to-day;
"That doth suit her best!" you'll say.
Mark, what She, next morn, doth wear!
"That becomes her best!" you'll swear.
Yea, as oft as Her you see,
Such new graces still there be.
As She ever seemeth graced
Most by that she weareth last;
Though it be the same She wore
But the very day before.
When she takes her tires about her,
(Never half so rich without her!)
At the putting on of them,
You may liken every gem
To those lamps, which, at a Play,
Are set up to light the day:
For their lustre adds no more
To what Titan gave before;
Neither doth their pretty gleamings
Hinder ought, his greater beamings.
And yet (which is strange to me)
When those costly deckings be
Laid away; there seems descried
Beauties, which those veils did hide;
And She looks, as doth the Moon,
Past some cloud, through which she shone:
Or some jewel Watch, whose case,
Set with diamonds, seems to grace
What it doth contain within,
Till the curious work be seen;
Then, 'tis found, that costly Shrining
Did but hinder t'others' shining.
If you chance to be in place
Where her Mantle, She doth grace;
You would presently protest
"Irish dressings were the best!"
If again, She lay it down,
While you view her in a Gown,
And how those her dainty limbs
That close-bodied garment trims:
You would swear, and swear again,
"She appeared loveliest then!"
But if She, so truly fair,
Should untie her shining hair
And, at length, that treasure shed;
Jove's endurèd Ganymede,
Neither Cytherea's joy,
Nor the sweet self-loving Boy
Who in beauty did surpass,
Nor the fair'st that ever was,
Could, to take your prisoner, bring
Looks so sweetly conquering.
She excels her, whom Apollo
Once, with weeping eyes, did follow;
Or that Nymph, who, shut in towers,
Was beguiled with golden showers;
Yea, and she, whose Love was wont
To swim o'er the Hellespont
For her sake (though in attire
Fittest to enflame desire)
Seemed not half so fair to be
Nor so lovely as is She.
For the man, whose happy eye
Views her in full majesty,
Knows She hath a power that moves
More than doth the Queen of Loves,
When she useth all her power
To inflame her paramour.

And, sometimes, I do admire
All men burn not with Desire!
Nay, I muse her Servants are not
Pleading love: but O, they dare not!
And I, therefore, wonder why
They do not grow sick, and die.
Sure, they would do so, but that,
By the Ordinance of Fate,
There is some concealèd thing
So each gazer limiting,
He can see no more of merit
Than beseems his worth and spirit.
For, in her, a Grace there shines
That o'erdaring thoughts confines,
Making worthless men despair
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the Destinies agree
Some good judgements blind should be;
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare beauties, in her growing.
Reason doth as much imply,
For, if every judging eye
Which beholdeth her, should there
Find what excellences are;
All, o'ercome by those perfections,
Would be captive to affections.
So (in happiness, unblest)
She, for lovers, should not rest.
This, well heeding, think upon!
And, if there be any one
Who alloweth not the worth
Which my Muse hath painted forth;
Hold it no defect in Her!
But that he's ordained to err.
Or if any female wight
Should detract from this I write;
She, I yield, may shew her wit,
But disparage Her no whit:
For, on earth few women be,
That from envy's touch are free;
And whoever, Envy, knew,
Yield those honours that were due?

Though, sometimes, my Song I raise
To unusèd heights of praise,
And break forth, as I shall please,
Into strange hyperboles,
'Tis to shew, Conceit hath found
Worth beyond Expression's bound.
Though her Breath I do compare
To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
Or her Eyes, that are so bright,
To the morning's cheerful light:
Yet I do it not so much
To infer that she is such,
As to shew that, being blest
With what merits name of Best,
She appears more fair to me,
Than all creatures else that be.
Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind,
Of more sweetness than all Art
Or Inventions can impart:
Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed.
Which, oft, raiseth my conceits
To so unbelievèd heights
That, I fear, some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure, he wrongs them, if he do!
For, could I have reachèd to
So like Strains, as these you see;
Had there been no such as She?
Is it possible that I
Who scarce heard of Poesy
Should a mere Idea raise
To as true a pitch of praise,
As the learned Poets could,
(Now, or in the times of old)
All those real Beauties bring,
Honoured by the Sonneting?
Having Arts, and favours too,
More t' encourage what they do?
No! If I had never seen
Such a Beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairy maids,
For a country fidler's fees,
"Clouted cream, and bread and cheese."
I, no skill in Numbers had,
More than every Shepherd's Lad,
Till She taught me Strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth;
From obscureness, drew me forth;
And because I had no Muse,
She herself deigned to infuse
All the skill by which I climb
To these praises in my rhyme.
Which if she had pleased to add
To that, Art, sweet Drayton had;
Or that happy Swain, that shall
Sing Britannia's Pastoral;
Or to theirs, whose verse set forth
Rosalynd's and Stella's worth;
They had doubled all their skill
Gainèd on Apollo's hill:
And as much more set Her forth,
As I'm short of them in worth:
They had, unto heights aspired,
Might have justly been admired,
And, in such brave Strains had moved,
As, of all, had been approved.
I must praise Her, as I may!
Which I do, mine own rude way,
Sometimes setting forth her glories
By unheard-of allegories.

Think not, though, my Muse now sings
Mere absurd or feignèd things!
If to gold, I like her hair;
Or to stars, her eyes so fair:
Though I praise her skin by snow;
Or, by pearls, her double-row;
'Tis that you might gather thence
Her unmatchèd excellence.
Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath She
As stars fair, for Stars may be.
And each part as fair doth show
In its kind, as white in Snow.
'Tis no grace to her, at all;
If her hair, I, Sunbeams call.
For, were there power in Art,
So to portrait every part,
All men might those beauties see
As they do appear to me:
I would scorn to make compare
With the glorious'st things that are,
Nought I e'er saw, fair enow
But the Hair, the hair to show:
Yet some think him over bold
That compares it but to gold.
He, from Reason seems to err,
Who, commending of his Dear,
Gives her lips, the rubies' hue;
Or by pearls, her teeth doth shew:
But what pearls, what rubies can
Seem so lovely fair to man,
As her lips, whom he doth love,
When in sweet discourse they move?
Or her lovelier teeth, the while
She doth bless him with a smile?
Stars, indeed, fair creatures be!
Yet, amongst us, where is he
Joys not more, the while he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?
Him, to flatter, most suppose,
That prefers before the rose,
Or the lilies while they grow,
Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Her complexion, whom he loveth:
And yet this, my Muse approveth.
For in such a beauty, meets
Unexpressèd moving sweets,
That, the like unto them, no man
Ever saw but in a Woman.
Look on moon! on stars! or sun!
All GOD's creatures overrun!
See, if all of them presents
To your mind, such sweet contents;
Or if you, from them can take,
Ought that may a beauty make,
Shall, one half, so pleasing prove
As is hers, whom you do love!
For, indeed, if there had been
Other mortal beauties seen,
Objects for the love of man;
Vain was their Creation then!
Yea, if this could well be granted,
Adam might, his Eve have wanted!
But a Woman is the creature,
Whose proportion with our nature
Best agrees; and whose perfections
Sympathise with our affections:
And, not only find our Senses
Pleasure in their excellences;
But our Reason also knows
Sweetness in them, that outgoes
Human wit to comprehend!
Much more, truly to commend!
Note the beauty of any Eye!
And, if ought you praise it by,
Leave such Passion in your mind:
Let my Reason's Eye be blind!
Mark if ever red or white,
Anywhere, gave such delight,
As when they have taken place
In a worthy woman's face!
He that so much hath not noted,
Will not! or is grown besotted.
Such as lovers are, conceive
What impressions beauty leaves!
And those hearts that fire have took
By a love-inflaming look:
Those believe, what here I say!
And suppose not that I stray
In a word, by setting forth
Any praise beyond true worth!
And yet, wherefore should I care
What another's censures are?
Since I know Her to be such
As no praise can be too much.
All that see Her, will agree
In the self-same mind with me;
If their Wit be worth the having
Or their Judgement merit craving.
And the man that kens Her not,
Speaks, at best, he knows not what;
So his envy, or goodwill,
Neither doth her good, nor ill.
Then, fools' cavils I disdain!
And call back my Muse again,
To decipher out the rest,
For I have too long digressed.

This is She, in whom there meets
All variety of sweets!
An Epitome of all
That on earth, we, Fair may call.
Nay, yet more, I dare aver.
He that is possessed of Her,
Shall, at once, all pleasure find,
That is reaped from Womankind.
O, what man would further range,
That in one, might find such change?
What dull eye, such worth can see,
And not sworn a lover be?
Or, from whence was he, could prove
Such a monster in his love,
As, in thought, to use amiss
Such unequalled worth as this?
Pity 'twere, that such a creature
Phœnix-like, for matchless feature,
Should so suffer, or be blamed
With what, now, the Times are shamed.
Beauty (unto me, Divine!)
Makes my honest thoughts incline
Unto better things than that
Which the vulgar aimeth at.
And, I vow! I grieve to see
Any fair, and false to be;
Or when I, sweet pleasures find
Matched with a defilèd mind.
But, above all others, Her
So much doth my soul prefer,
That to him, whose ill desire
Should so nurse a lawless fire,
As to 'tempt to that which might
Dim her sacred virtue's light;
I could wish that he might die
Ere he did it! though 'twere I!
For, if She should hap to stray,
All this beauty would away!
And not her alone undo,
But kill him that praised her too!
But I know her Maker will
Keep her undistainèd still;
That ensuing Ages may
Pattern out, by Her, the way
To all goodness. And if Fate,
That appoints all things a date,
Hear me would; I'd wish that She
Might, for aye, preservèd be!
And that neither wasting cares,
Neither all-consuming years,
Might, from what She is, estrange her!
Or in mind or body change her!
For, O, why should envious Time
Perpetrate so vile a crime
As to waste, or wrong, or stain
What shall ne'er be matched again?
Much I hope it shall not be
For, if love deceive me not,
To that height of Fair she grows,
Age, or Sickness (Beauty's foes!)
Cannot so much wrong it there,
But enough there will appear
Ever worthy to be loved:
And that heart shall more be moved
(Where there is a judging eye)
With those prints it doth espy
Of her Beauty wronged by Time,
Than by others, in their prime.
One advantage she hath more
That adds grace to all before.
It is this. Her Beauty's fame
Hath not done her Honour shame,
For where Beauty we do find,
Envy still is so unkind,
That although their virtues are
Such as pass their beauties far,
Yet, on Slander's rocks they be
Shipwrecked, oftentimes, we see;
And are subject to the wrongs
Of a thousand spiteful tongues:
When the greatest fault they had
Was, that some would make them bad!
And not finding them for action,
Sought for vengeance by detraction.
But her Beauty, sure, no tongue
Is so villainous to wrong!
Never did the jealous'st ear
Any muttering rumour hear
That might cause the least suspects
Of indifferent defects.
And, which somewhat stranger is,
They, whose slanders few can miss
(Though set on by Evil Will
And Habituated Ill)
Nothing can of Her invent
Whence to frame disparagement.
Which, if we respect the crimes
Of these loose injurious Times,
Doth not only truly prove
Great discretion in her love;
And that she hath lived upright,
In each jealous tongue's despite:
But it must be understood
That her private thoughts are good.
Yea! 'tis an apparent sign
That her Beauty is Divine!
And that angels have a care
Men's polluting tongues should spare
To defile, what GOD hath given
To be dear to Earth and Heaven!

Tell me, you that hear me now!
Is there any one of you
Wanteth feeling of affection?
Or that loves not such perfection?
Can there be so dull an ear
As of so much worth to hear,
And not seriously incline
To this saint-like friend of mine?
If there be, the fault doth lie
In my artless Poesy.
For if I could reach the Strain
Which, methinks, I might obtain;
Or but make my Measures fly
Equal with my Fantasy:
I would not permit an ear
To attend unravished here;
If but so much sense it knew,
As the blocks that Orpheus drew.
Think on this description well!
And your noblest Ladies tell
"Which of you (that worth can see),
This my Mistress would not be?"
You brave English! who have run
From the rising of the sun,
Till, in travelling, you found
Where he doth conclude his round!
You! that have the beauties seen
Which, in farthest lands have been;
And surveyed the fair resorts
Of the French and Spanish Courts,
With the rest that Fame renowns
In the rich Trans-Alpine towns;
Do not (with our brainless fry,
That admire each novelty)
Wrong your country's fame in ought!
But, here, freely speak your thought!
And I durst presume you'll swear
She's not matched anywhere.
Gallants! you that would so fain
Nymphs' and Ladies' loves obtain!
You that strive to serve and please
Fairest Queens and Empresses!
Tell me this, and tell me right!
If you would not, so you might,
Leave them all, despised, to prove
What contents are in her love?
Could your fathers ever tell
Of a Nymph, did more excel?
Or hath any Story told
Of the like, in times of old?
Dido was not such a one!
Nor the Trojans' paragon!
Though they, so much favour found,
As to have their honours crowned
By the best of Poets' pens,
Ever known before or since.
For had Dido been so fair;
Old Anchises's noble heir,
Jove's command had disobeyed!
And with her, in Carthage stayed:
Where he would have quite foreswore
Seeing the Lavinian shore.
Or had Leda's daughter been,
When she was the Spartan Queen,
Equal with this Lovely One!
Menelaus had never gone
From her sight so far away,
As to leave her for a prey;
And his room to be possesst
By her wanton Phrygian guest.

But lest yet, among you some,
Think She may behind these come;
Stay a little more, and hear me!
In another Strain I'll rear me!
I'll unmask a Beauty, now,
Which to kiss, the gods may bow!
And so feelingly will move,
That your souls shall fall in love!
I have, yet, the best behind;
Her most fair, unequalled Mind!
This that I have, here, exprest
Is but that which veils the rest!
An incomparable Shrine
Of a Beauty more Divine!

Whereof, ere I farther speak;
Off again, my Song I'll break.
And if you, among the roses,
Which yon quickset hedge incloses,
Will, with plucking flowers, beguile
Tedious-seeming Time awhile;
Till I step to yonder green,
Whence the sheep so plain are seen,
I will be returnèd ere
You, an hour have stayèd there!
And, excuse me now, I pray!
Though I rudely go away!
For affairs I have to do,
Which unless I look into;
I may sing out Summer here!
Like the idle grasshopper:
And at Winter, hide my head!
Or else fast, till I am dead!
Yet if rustic Pastoral Measures
Can ought add unto your pleasures;
I will leave you some of those,
Which it pleased me to compose
When despairing fits were over,
And I, made a happy lover,
Exercised my Loving Passion
In another kind of fashion;
Than to utter, I devised,
When I feared to be despised.
Those shall lie in gage for me,
Till I back returnèd be.
And in writing, here, you have them!
Either sing! or read! or leave them!

SONNET I.

Admire not, Shepherd's Boy!
Why I my pipe forbear?
My Sorrows and my Joy
Beyond expression are!
Though others may
In Songs display
Their Passions, when they woo;
Yet, mine do fly
A pitch too high
For Words to reach unto.

If such weak thoughts as those
Which others' Fancies moves;
Or if my heart did 'close
But common Strains of Love:
Or Passions' store
Learned me no more
To feel, than others do:
I'd paint my cares
As black as theirs,
And teach my lines to woo!

But, O, thrice happy! ye
Whose mean conceit is dull!
You, from those thoughts are free!
That stuff my breast so full.
My love's excess
Lets to express
What Songs are usèd to:
And my delights
Take such high flights,
My joys will me undo.

I have a Love that's fair,
Rich, wise, and nobly born;
She's True Perfection's Heir,
Holds nought but vice in scorn.
A heart to find,
More chaste, more kind,
Our plains afford no mo.
Of her degree,
No blab I'll be;
For doubt some Prince should woo.

And yet, I do not fear,
(Though She, my meanness knows)
The willow branch to wear;
No, nor the yellow hose!
For if great Jove
Should sue for love,
She would not me forego.
Resort I may,
By night or day,
Which braver dare not do!

You Gallants, born to pelf!
To lands', to titles' store!
(I'm born but to Myself,
Nor do I care for more)
Add to your earth!
Wealth! honours! birth!
And all you can, thereto!
You cannot prove
That height of love
Which I, in meanness, do!

Great men have helps, to gain
Those favours they implore:
Which, though I win with pain,
I find my joys the more.
Each clown may rise
And climb the skies
When he hath found a stair;
But joy to him
That dares to climb,
And hath no help, but air!

Some say that "Love repents
Where fortunes disagree."
I know the high'st contents
From low beginnings be.
My love's unfeigned
To Her that deigned
From greatness, stoop thereto.
She loves, 'cause I
So mean, dared try
Her better worth to woo.

And yet although much joy,
My fortune seems to bless;
'Tis mixt with more annoy
That I shall e'er express.
For, with much pain
Did I obtain
The Gem I'll ne'er forego!
Which yet I dare
Nor shew, nor wear!
And that breeds all my woe.

But fie! my foolish tongue!
How losely now it goes!
First, let my knell be rung
Ere I do more disclose!
Mount thoughts on high!
Cease words! For why?
My meaning to divine;
To those I leave,
That can conceive
So brave a Love as mine.

And, now, no more I'll sing
Among my fellow swains;
Nor groves, nor hills shall ring
With echoes of my plains.
My Measures be
Confused, you see!
And will not suit thereto:
'Cause I have more
Brave thoughts in store
Than words can reach unto.

SONNET II.

Hence, away! you Syrens! Leave me!
And unclasp your wanton arms!
Sugared words shall ne'er deceive me,
Though thou prove a thousand charms.
Fie! fie! forbear!
No common snare
Could ever my affection chain.
Your painted baits
And poor deceits
Are all bestowed on me in vain!

I'm no slave to such as you be!
Neither shall a snowy breast,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest!
Go! go! Display
Your beauty's ray
To some o'ersoon enamoured Swain!
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vain!

I have elsewhere, vowed a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eyes!
Show me not a naked beauty!
Those impostures I despise!
My spirit loaths
Where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain!
I love Her so,
Whose look swears "No!"
That all your labours will be vain!

Can he prize the tainted posies
Which on every breast are worn;
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touchèd thorn?
I can go rest
On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train.
Then hold your tongues!
Your Mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vain!

He's a fool, that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him!
Shall I haunt the throngèd valleys,
Whilst there's noble hills to climb?
No, no! Though clowns
Are scared with frowns;
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I'll prove!
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vain!

Yet I would not deign embraces
With the greatest fairest She;
If another shared those graces
Which had been bestowed on me!
I gave that One
My love, where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain.
Your fickle hearts
Make tears and Arts!
And all bestowed on me in vain.

I do scorn, to vow a duty,
Where each lustful lad may woo:
Give me Her, whose sun-like beauty,
Buzzards dare not soar unto!
She! She it is
Affords that bliss!
For which, I would refuse no pain.
But such as you!
Fond fools! adieu!
You seek to capture me in vain!

Proud she seemed, in the beginning,
And disdained my looking on;
But that "Coy One in the winning,
Proves a True One, being won!"
Whate'er betide
She'll ne'er divide
The favour She to me shall deign;
But your fond love
Will fickle prove!
And all that trust in you, are vain!

Therefore know! When I enjoy One,
And for love employ my breath;
She I court, shall be a Coy One,
Though I win her with my death!
A favour there,
Few aim at, dare.
And if, perhaps, some lover plain;
She is not won
Nor I undone
By placing of my love in vain.

Leave me! then, you Syrens! leave me!
Seek no more to work my harms!
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me;
Who am proof against your charms!
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remain:
And I, the while,
Will sit and smile,
To see you spend your time in vain.

SONNET III.

When Philomela, with her strains,
The Spring had welcomed in;
And Flora to bestrew the plains,
With daisies did begin:
My Love and I (on whom suspicious eyes
Had set a thousand spies)
To cozen Argos strove;
And seen of none,
We got alone
Into a shady grove.

On every bush, the eglantine,
With leaves perfumèd hung:
The primrose made the hedgerows fine;
The woods, of music rung:
The earth, the air, and all things did conspire
To raise contentment higher;
That, had I come to woo,
Nor means of grace,
Nor time, nor place
Were wanting thereunto.

With hand in hand, alone we walked,
And oft each other eyed;
Of Love and Passions past we talked,
Which our poor hearts had tried:
Our souls infused into each other were.
And what may be her care
Did my more sorrow breed.
One mind we bore,
One faith we swore,
And both in one agreed.

Her dainty palm, I gently prest,
And with her lips I played;
My cheek, upon her panting breast,
And on her neck, I laid;
And yet we had no sense of wanton lust;
Nor did we then mistrust
The Poison in the Sweet.
Our bodies wrought
So close, we thought,
Because our souls should meet.

With pleasant toil, we breathless grew,
And kist in warmer blood:
Upon her lips, the honey dew,
Like drops on roses stood.
And on those flowers, played I the busy bee,
Whose sweets, were such to me,
Them could I not forego.
No, not to feast
On Venus' breast,
Whence streams of sweetness flow.

But kissing and embracing, we
So long together lay;
Her touches all inflamèd me,
And I began to stray.
My hands presumed so far, they were too bold!
My tongue unwisely told
How much my heart was changed.
And Virtue quite
Was put to flight;
Or, for the time, estranged.

O, what are we, if in our strength
We over boldly trust?
The strongest forts will yield at length,
And so our virtues must.
In Me, no force of Reason had prevailed,
If She had also failed.
But ere I further strayed,
She, sighing, kist
My naked wrist:
And thus, in tears, she said.

"Sweet Heart!" quoth she, "if in thy breast
Those virtues real be,
Which, hitherto, thou hast profest,
And I believed in thee;
Thyself and Me, O seek not to abuse!
Whilst thee I thus refuse,
In hotter flames I fry!
Yet let us not,
Our true love, spot!
O, rather, let me die!"

"For if thy heart should fall from good,
What would become of mine?
As strong a Passion stirs my blood,
As can distemper thine!
Yet in my breast, this rage I smother would,
Though it consume me, should;
And my desires contain.
For where we see
Such breaches be,
They seldom stop again."

"Are we the two that have so long
Each other's loves embraced;
And never did Affection wrong
Nor think a thought unchaste?
And shall, O shall we, now, our matchless Joy
For one poor touch destroy?
And all Content forego?
O no, my Dear!
Sweet Heart, forbear!
I will not lose thee so!"

"For should we do a deed so base
As it can never be,
I could no more have seen thy face!
Nor wouldst thou look on me!
I should, of all our Passions grow ashamed;
And blush, when thou art named.
Yea, though thou constant wert,
I being nought,
A jealous thought
Would still torment my heart.

"What goodly thing, do we obtain
If I consent to thee?
Rare joys we lose, and what we gain
But common pleasures be.
Yea, 'those,' some say, 'who are to lust inclined,
Drive Love out of the mind!
And so much Reason miss
That they admire
What kind of fire
A chaste affection is.'"

"No vulgar bliss I aimèd at,
When first I heard thee woo;
I'll never prize a Man for that
Which every groom can do.
If that be love, the basest men that be
Do love as well as we!
Who, if we bear us well,
Do pass them then,
As Angels, men
In glory do excel."

Whilst thus she spake, a cruel Band
Of Passions seized my soul;
And what one seemèd to command,
Another did control.
'Twixt Good and Ill, I did, divided lie.
But as I raised mine eye,
In her, methought, I saw
Those Virtues shine,
Whose rays divine
First gave Desire, a Law.

With that, I felt the blush of shame
Into my cheek return.
And Love did, with a chaster flame,
Within my bosom burn.
My Soul, her light of Reason had renewed;
And by those beams, I viewed
How slily Lust ensnares!
And all the fires
Of ill Desires,
I quenchèd with my tears.

Go, wantons, now, and flout at this!
My coldness, if you list!
Vain fools! You never knew the bliss
That doth in Love consist!
You sigh, and weep, and labour to enjoy
A Shade, a Dream, a Toy!
Poor Folly, you pursue!
And are unblest;
Since every beast,
In pleasure, equals you!

You never took so rich content
In all your wanton play;
As this to me, hath pleasure lent,
That chaste, She went away.
For as some sins, which we committed have,
Sharp stings behind them leave;
Whereby we vexèd are:
So, Ill supprest,
Begetteth rest,
And peace without compare.

But lest this conquest slight you make,
Which on Myself I won;
Twelve labours I will undertake
With Jove's victorious son,
Ere I will such another brunt endure!
For had Diana pure,
Thus tempted been to sin;
That Queen of Night
(With her chaste light)
Had scarce a maiden been!

[Fair Virtue's Mind.]

O, how honoured are my Songs,
Graced by your melodious tongues!
And how pleasing do they seem,
Now your voices carol them!
Were not, yet, that task to do,
Which my word enjoins me to;
I would beg of you, to hear
What your own inventions are?
But, before I aught will crave,
What I promised, you shall have!

And as I, on mortal creatures
Called, to view her body's features!
Shewing how to make the Senses
Apprehend her excellences:
Now, I speak of no worse subject
Than a Soul's, and Reason's object;
And relate a Beauty's glories
Fitting heavenly auditories.
Therefore, whilst I sit and sing,
Hem me, Angels! in a ring!
Come, ye Spirits! which have eyes
That can gaze on Deity's!
And unclogged with brutish senses
Comprehend such excellences!
Or if any mortal ear
Would be granted leave to hear,
And find profit with delight,
In what now I shall indite;
Let him, first, be sure to season
A preparèd heart with Reason!
And, with judgement, drawing nigh,
Lay all fond affections by!
So, through all her veilings, he
Shall the Soul of Beauty see!

But, avoid! you earth-bred wights
Cloyed with sensual appetites!
On base objects, glut your eyes!
Till your starveling pleasure dies.
Feed your ears with such delights
As may match your gross conceits
For, within your muddy brain,
These, you never can contain!
Think not, you, who by the Sense,
Only judge of excellence!
Or do all contentment place
In the beauty of a face!
That these higher thoughts of ours
Soar so base a pitch as yours!
I can give, as well as you,
Outward beauties all their due!
I can, most contentments see,
That, in love, or women be!
Though I dote not on the features
Of our dantiest female creatures,
(Nor was e'er so void of shames,
As to play their lawless games!)
I more prize a snowy hand,
Than the gold on Tagus strand!
And a dainty lip before
All the greatest Monarch's store!
Yea, from these, I reap as true,
And as large contents as you!
Yet, to them I am not tied!
I have rarer sweets espied;
Wider prospects of true Pleasure,
Than your curbèd thoughts can measure!
In her Soul, my soul descries
Objects that may feed her eyes;
And the beauty of her Mind
Shews my Reason where to find
All my former pleasure doubled;
Neither with such Passion troubled
As wherewith it oft was crost,
Nor so easy to be lost.
I that ravished lay, well nigh,
By the lustre of her eye;
(And had almost sworn affection
To the fore-expressed perfection;
As if nothing had been higher,
Whereunto I might aspire);
Now, have found, by seeking nearer,
Inward Worth, that shining clearer,
(By a sweet and secret moving)
Draws me to a dearer loving.
And whilst I, that love conceive;
Such impressions it doth leave
In the intellective part,
As defaceth from my heart
Every thought of those delights
Which allure base appetites:
And my mind so much employs
In contemplating those joys,
Which a purer sight doth find
In the beauty of her Mind;
That I, so thereon am set
As, methinks, I could forget
All her sweetest outward graces,
Though I lay in her embraces.
But some thinking, with a smile,
What they would have done the while;
Now suppose my words are such
As exceed my power too much.
For all those—our wantons hold
Void of vigour, dull and cold;
Or, at best, but fools—whose flame
Makes not way unto their shame.
Though, at length, with grief they see,
They, the fools do prove to be!
These, the body so much minded,
That their Reason, over blinded
By the pleasures of the Sense,
Hides from them, that Excellence,
And that Sweetness, whose true worth
I am here, to blazon forth!
'Tis not, 'tis not those rare graces
That do lurk in women's faces;
'Tis not a displayed perfection,
Youthful eyes, nor clear complexion;
Nor a skin, smooth, satin-like;
Nor a dainty rosy cheek;
That to wantonness can move
Such as virtuously do love.
Beauty, rather, gently draws
Wild Desires to Reason's Laws!
And oft frights men from that sin,
They had else, transgressèd in;
Through a sweet amazement, stroke
From an overruling look.
Beauty never tempteth men
To lasciviousness; but when
Careless Idleness hath brought
Wicked longings into thought.
Nor doth Youth, or heat of blood
Make men prove what is not good.
Nor the strength, of which they vaunt,
'Tis the strength and power they want!
And the baseness of the mind
Makes their brute desires inclined
To pursue those vain delights
Which affect their appetites;
And so blinded! do they grow,
(Who are overtaken so)
As their dulness cannot see,
Nor believe that better be!
Some have blood as hot as theirs
Whose affections loosest are;
Bodies that require no Art
To supply weak Nature's part;
Youth, they have; and, sure, might, too,
Boast of what some, shameless, do:
Yet their minds, that aim more high
Than those baser pleasures lie,
Taught by Virtue, can suppress
All attempts of wantonness;
And such powerful motives frame
To extinguish Passions' flame,
That, by Reason's good direction,
Qualifying loose affection
They'll, in midst of beauty's fires,
Walk unscorched with ill Desires.
Yet no such, as stupid Shame
Keeps from actions worthy blame.
But, in all, so truly Man!
That their apprehensions can
Prize the body's utmost worth;
And find many pleasures forth
In those beauties, more than you,
That abuse them, ever knew!

But, perhaps, her outward grace,
Here described, hath ta'en such place
In some o'er-enamoured breast;
And so much his heart possest,
As he thinks, it passeth telling,
How she may be more excelling!
Or what worth I can prefer
To be more admired in her.
Therefore, now, I will be brief
To prevent that misbelief;
And if there be present here,
Any one whose nicer ear
Tasks my Measures, as offending
In too seriously commending
What affects the Sense, or may
Injure Virtue any way:
Let them know, 'tis understood,
That if they were truly good,
It could never breed offence,
That I shewed the excellence;
With the power of GOD and Nature,
In the beauty of His creature.
They, from thence, would rather raise
Cause to meditate His praise:
And thus think, "How fair must He,
That hath made this Fair One, be!"
That was my proposèd end:
And to make them more attend
Unto this! so much excelling
As it passeth means of telling.
But, at worst, if any Strain
Makes your memories retain
Sparks of such a baneful fire
As may kindle ill Desire:
This, that follows after, shall,
Not alone extinguish all;
But e'en make you blush with shame,
That your thoughts were so to blame.
Yet I know, when I have done,
In respect of that bright Sun,
Whose inestimable light
I would blazon to your sight!
These ensuing flashes are
As to Cynthia's beams, a star;
Or a petty comet's ray,
To the glorious Eye of Day.
For what power of Words, or Art,
Can her Worth at full, impart?
Or what is there, may be found,
Placed within the Sense's bound,
That can paint those sweets to me,
Which the Eyes of Love do see?
Or the beauties of her Mind
Which her body hath enshrined?
Can I think, the Guide of Heaven
Hath so bountifully given
Outward features, 'cause He meant
To have made less excellent
Her divine part? or suppose
Beauty, Goodness doth oppose!
Like those fools who do despair
To find any Good and Fair?
Rather, there, I seek a Mind
Most excelling; where I find
GOD hath to the Body lent
Most beseeming ornament.
But though He that did inspire
First, the true Promethean fire,
In each several soul did place
Equal excellence and grace;
As some think: yet, have not they
Equal beauties, every way!
For they, more or less appear
As the outward organs are;
Following much the temp'rature
Of the body, gross or pure.
And I do believe it true
That as we the Body view,
Nearer to perfection grow:
So the Soul herself doth shew
Others, more and more excelling,
In her Power, as in her Dwelling.
For that pureness giveth way
Better to disclose each ray
To the dull conceit of man;
Than a grosser substance can.
Thus, through spotless crystal, we
May the day's full glory see,
When, if clearest sunbeams pass
Through a foul polluted glass;
So discoloured they'll appear,
As those stains they shone through, were.
Let no critics cavil then,
If I dare affirm again,
That her Mind's perfections are
Fairer than her Body's, far!
And I need not prove it by
Axioms of Philosophy;
Since no proof can better be
Than their rare effect in me!
For, while other men complaining,
Tell their Mistress's disdaining:
Free from care, I write a Story
Only of her Worth, and Glory!
While most lovers pining, sit,
Robbed of liberty and wit,
Vassaling themselves with shame
To some proud imperious Dame;
Or, in Songs, their fate bewailing,
Shew the world, their faithless failing;
I, enwreathed with boughs of myrtle,
Fare like the beloved Turtle.
Yea, while most are most untoward!
Peevish! vain! inconstant! froward!
While their best contentments bring
Nought but after sorrowing:
She (those childish humours slighting)
Hath conditions so delighting,
And doth so my bliss endeavour,
As my joy increaseth ever.

By her actions, I can see
That her Passions so agree
Unto Reason, as they err,
Seldom, to distemper her.
Love She can, and doth; but so
As She will not overthrow
Love's content, by any folly,
Or by deeds that are unholy.
Dotingly, She ne'er affects;
Neither willingly neglects
Honest love: but means doth find,
With discretion to be kind.
'Tis not thundering phrase, nor oaths,
Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes,
That can her goodliking gain;
If no other Worth remain.
Never took her heart delight
In your Court Hermaphrodite,
Or such frothy gallants as
For the Times, heroès pass:
Such who, still in love, do all,
"Fair!" and "Sweet!" and "Lady!" call;
And where'er they hap to stray,
Either prate the rest away,
Or, of all discourse to seek,
Shuffle in at Cent or Gleek.
Goodness more delights her, than
All their Mask of Folly can.
Fond, She hateth to appear;
Though She hold her Friend as dear
As her part of life unspent,
Or the best of her content.
If the heat of youthful fires
Warm her blood with those desires,
Which are, by the course of Nature,
Stirred in every perfect creature;
As those Passions kindle, so
Doth Heaven's grace, and Reason grow
Abler to suppress in her
Those rebellions; and they stir
Never more affection, than
One good thought allays again.
I could say, so chaste is She
As the new blown roses be;
Or the drifts of snow that none
Ever touched, or looked upon:
But that were not worth a fly,
Seeing so much chastity
Old Pigmalion's picture had!
Yea, those eunuchs born, or made
Ne'er to know Desire, might say
"She deserved no more than they!"
Whereas, while their worth proceeds
From such wants, as they must needs
Be unmoved ('cause Nature framed
No affections to be tamed)
Through her dainty limbs are spread
Vigour, heat; and freely shed
Life blood into every vein
Till they fill, and swell again:
And no doubt they strive to force
Way in some forbidden course;
Which by Grace, She still resists,
And so curbs within their lists
Those Desires, that She is chaster
Than if she had none to master.
Malice, never lets She in;
Neither hates She ought, but sin.
Envy, if She could admit,
There's no means to nourish it:
For her gentle heart is pleased
When She knows another's eased;
And there's none whoever got
That perfection, she hath not.
So that no cause is there, why
She should any one envy.
Mildly Angry She'll appear;
That the baser rout may fear,
Through presumption, to misdo.
Yet, She often feigns that too:
But let wrong be whatsoever,
She gives way to Choler, never!
If She e'er, of Vengeance thought,
'Twas nor life, nor blood was sought;
But, at most, some prayer to move
Justice for abusèd love;
Or that Fate would pay again
Love's neglectors with disdain.
If she ever craved of Fate
To obtain a higher state;
Or, ambitiously were given:
Sure, 'twas but to climb to heaven!
Pride is from her heart, as far
As the poles in distance are.
For her Worth, nor all this Praise
Can her humble spirit raise;
Less to prize me than before,
Or herself to value more.
Were She Vain, She might allege
'Twere her sex's privilege;
But She's such, as, doubtless, no man
Knows less folly in a woman.
To prevent a being Idle,
Sometimes with her curious needle,
Though it be her meanest glory,
She so limns an antique Story,
As Minerva (would she take it!)
Might her richest Sample[r] make it.
Otherwhile, again, she rather
Labours with delight, to gather
Knowledge from such learned writs
As are left by famous wits:
Where, She chiefly seeks to know
GOD! Herself! and what we owe
To our neighbour! since, with these,
Come all needful knowledges.
She, with Adam, never will
Long to learn both Good and Ill;
But her state well understood,
Rests herself content with Good.
Avarice, abhorreth She,
As the loathsom'st things that be;
Since she knows it is an Ill
That doth ripest virtue kill.
And where'er it comes to rest,
Though in some strict matron's breast;
But she ne'er so seeming just,
I'll no shews of goodness trust!
For if you, but gold can bring;
Such are hired to anything!
If you think She Jealous be,
You are wide! For, credit me!
Her strong'st jealousies nought are
Other than an honest care
Of her friends. And most can tell,
Whoso wants that, loves not well!
Though some little Fear she shows;
'Tis no more than Love allows,
So the Passion do not move her
Till she grieve or wrong her lover!
She may think he may do ill,
Though She'll not believe he will!
Nor can such a harmless thought
Blemish true affection ought;
Rather, when as else it would,
Through security, grow cold;
This, her Passion, keeping measure,
Strengthens Love, and sweetens Pleasure!
Cruelty, her soul detests!
For, within her bosom rests
Noblest Pity; ushered by
An unequalled Courtesy:
And is grieved at good men's moan,
As the grief were all her own.
Just, She is. So just, that I
Know she would not wrong a fly;
Or oppress the meanest thing,
To be Mistress to a King.
If our painters would include
Temperance and Fortitude
In one picture; She would fit,
For the nonce, to pattern it!
Patient as the lamb is She!
Harmless, as the turtles be!
Yea, so largely stored with all
Which we mortals, Goodness call;
That if ever Virtue were,
Or may be incarnate here
This is She! whose praises I
Offer to Eternity.

She's no Image trimmed about,
Fair within, and foul without!
But a Gem that doth appear,
Like a diamond, everywhere
Sparkling rays of beauty forth!
All of such unblemished worth,
That wer 't possible, your eye
Might her inmost thoughts espy,
And behold the dimmest part
Of the lustre in her heart:
It would find that Centre 'pass
What the Superficies was;
And that every angle there,
Like a diamond's inside were.
For although that excellence
Pass the piercing'st eye of Sense;
By their operations, we
Guess at things, that hidden be.
So, beyond our common reach,
Wise men can, by reason teach,
What the influences been
Of a Planet, when unseen;
Or the beauty of a star
That doth shine above us far.
So by that wide beaming light,
Wherewith Titan courts our sight;
By his clothing of the earth;
By the wondrous, various birth
Of new creatures, yearly bred
Through his heat, and nourished:
And by many virtues mo[r]e
Which our Senses reach unto,
We conclude, they are not all,
Which make fair that goodly Ball.

Though she prize her Honour more
Than the far-fetched precious store
Of the rich Moluccas, or
All the wealth was trafficed for,
Since our vessels passage knew
Unto Mexico, Peru,
Or those spacious kingdoms which
Made the proud Iberians rich.
'Tis not that uncertain blast
Keeps my Mistress Good, or Chaste!

She, that but for Honour's sake,
Doth of Ill a conscience make
(More in fear what rumour says,
Than in love to virtuous ways);
Though she seemed more civil than
You have seen a courtezan,
For an honour; and cries "O, fie!"
At each shew of vanity;
Though she censure all that be
Not so foolish coy as she;
Though she, with the Roman Dame
Kill herself, to purchase fame:
She would prostitute become,
To the meanest, basest groom;
If so closely they may do it,
As the world should never know it.
So, at best, those women prove
That for Honour, Virtue love.

Give me her that goodness chooseth
For its own sake! and refuseth
To have greatest honours gained
With her secret conscience stained.
Give me her! that would be poor;
Die disgraced; nay, thought a whore;
And each Time's reproach become
Till the general Day of Doom:
Rather than consent to act
Pleasing sin: though by the fact,
With esteem of "virtuous," she
Might the German Empress be!
Such my Mistress is! and nought
Shall have power to change her thought.
Pleasures cannot tempt her eye,
On their baits to glance awry.
For their good, she still esteems
As it is; not, as it seems:
And she takes no comfort in
Sweetest Pleasure soured with Sin.
By herself, she hath such care
That her actions decent are.
For were she in secret hid,
None might see what she did;
She would do as if for spies
Every wall was stuck with eyes:
And be chary of her honour
'Cause the heavens do look upon her!
And O, what had power to move,
Flames of lust or wanton love
So far, to disparage us;
If we all, were minded thus?
These are beauties that shall last
When the crimson blood shall waste!
And the shining hair wax gray
Or, with age, be worn away!
These yield pleasures such as might
Be remembered with delight,
When we gasp our latest breath
On the loathèd bed of death.
Though discreetly speak She can;
She'll be silent, rather than
Talk while others may be heard:
As if She did hate, or feared
The condition, who will force
All to wait on their discourse.
Reason hath on her bestowed,
More of knowledge, than she owed
To that sex; and Grace, with it,
Doth aright, her practice fit.
Yet hath Fate so framèd her
As She may, at some time, err;
But if e'er her judgement stray,
'Tis that other women may,
Those much pleasing beauties see,
Which in yielding natures be.
For since no perfection can
Here on earth be found in man;
There's more good in free submissions,
Than there's ill in our transgressions.
Should you hear her, once, contend
In discoursing, to defend,
As She can, a doubtful cause;
She, such strong positions draws
From known truths, and doth apply
Reasons with such majesty,
As if She did undertake,
From some Oracle to speak;
And you could not think what might
Breed more love, or more delight.
Yet, if you should mark again
Her discreet behaviour, when
She finds reason to repent
Some wrong-pleaded argument;
She so temperately lets all
Her mis-held opinions fall,
And can, with such mildness bow,
As 'twill more enamour you,
Than her knowledge. For there are
Pleasing sweets without compare
In such yieldings! which do prove
Wit, Humility, and Love.
Yea, by those mistakings, you
Her condition so shall know,
And the nature of her mind
So undoubtedly shall find,
As will make her more endeared
Than if she had never erred.
Farther (that she nought may miss
Which worth praise in woman is),
This, unto the rest I add.
If I, wound or sickness had;
None should for my curing run!
No, not to Apollo's son!
She, so well the virtue knows
Of each needful herb that grows;
And so fitly, can apply
Salves to every malady:
That if She, no succour gave me,
'Twere no means of Art could save me!
Should my Soul oppressèd lie,
Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh;
She hath balm for minds distressed,
And could ease my pained breast.
She, so well knows, how to season
Passionate discourse with Reason;
And knows how to sweeten it,
Both with so much Love and Wit,
That it shall prepare the Sense
To give way with less offence.
For grievèd minds can ill abide
Counsel churlishly applied;
Which instead of comfortings,
Desperation often brings.

But, hark, Nymphs! Methinks, I hear
Music sounding in mine ear!
'Tis a Lute! and he's the best
For a voice, in all the West,
That doth touch it! And the Swain
I would have you hear, so fain;
That to my Song, forbear will I,
To attend his melody.
Hither comes he, day by day,
In these groves to sing and play:
And in yon close arbour, he
Sitteth now, expecting me.
He so bashful is, that mute
Will his tongue be, and his lute;
Should he happen to espy
This unlooked for company.
If you, therefore, list to hear him;
Let's with silence walk more near him!
'Twill be worth your pains, believe me!
(If a voice, content may give ye!)
And, await you shall not long!
For he now begins a Song.

SONNET I.

What is the cause, when elsewhere I resort,
I have my gestures, and discourse more free:
And if I please, can any Beauty court!
Yet stand so dull, and so demure by Thee?
Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk?
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?
Why dare I not embrace thee, as we walk?
Since, with the greatest Nymphs, I've dared as much!
Ah, know that none of those I e'er affected!
And therefore used a careless courtship there;
Because I, neither their disdain respected;
Nor reckoned them nor their embraces dear!
But loving Thee! my love hath found content;
And rich delights, in things indifferent.

SONNET II.

Why covet I, thy blessed eyes to see!
Whose sweet aspect may cheer the saddest mind?
Why, when our bodies must divided be,
Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find?
Why do I sleeping, start; and waking, moan,
To find that of my dreamèd hopes I miss?
Why do I often contemplate alone,
Of such a thing as thy Perfection is?
And wherefore, when we meet, doth Passion stop
My speechless tongue, and leave me in a panting?
Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and hope,
In spite of reason, almost droop to fainting?
Because, in me, thy excellences moving,
Have drawn to me, an excellence in loving!

SONNET III.

Fair! Since thy virtues, my affections move;
And I have vowed my purpose is to join
In an eternal band of chastest love,
Our Souls, to make a marriage most divine.
"Why," thou may'st think, "then, seemeth he to prize
An outward beauty's fading hue so much?
Why doth he Read such Lectures in mine eyes?
And often strive my tender palm to touch?"
O, pardon my presuming! For I swear
My love is soiled with no lustful spot!
Thy Soul's perfections, through those veils appear!
And I half faint, that I embrace them not!
No foul Desires doth make thy touches sweet;
By my Soul striveth, with thy Soul to meet!

SONNET IV.

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman's Fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be She fairer than the Day,
Or the flowery meads in May!
If She be not so to me,
What care I, how Fair She be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined,
'Cause I see a woman Kind?
Or a well disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be She meeker, kinder than
Turtle dove, or pelican!
If She be not so to me,
What care I, how Kind She be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be She with that Goodness blest
Which may gain her, name of Best!
If She be not such to me,
What care I, how Good She be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool, and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think "What with them they would do!"
That, without them, dare to woo!
And unless that mind I see,
What care I, though Great She be?

Great, or Good, or Kind, or Fair,
I will ne'er the more despair!
If She love me (this believe!)
I will die, ere She shall grieve!
If She slight me, when I woo;
I can scorn, and let her go!
For if She be not for me!
What care I, for whom She be?

SONNET V.

I wandered out, awhile agone,
And went, I know not whither;
But there, do Beauties, many a one,
Resort, and meet together:
And Cupid's power will there be shewn,
If ever you come thither!

For like two suns, two Beauties bright,
I, shining saw together:
And, tempted by their double light,
My eyes I fixt on Either;
Till Both, at once, so thralled my sight,
I loved, and knew not, Whether?

Such equal sweet, Venus gave,
That I preferred not Either;
And when for love, I thought to crave,
I knew not well of Whether?
For one while, This I wished to have;
And then, I, That had liefer!

A lover of the curious'st eye,
Might have been pleased in Either;
And so, I must confess, might I,
Had they not been together.
Now Both must love, or Both deny:
In one, enjoy I Neither.

But yet, at last, I scaped the smart
I feared, at coming hither.
For seeing my divided heart,
I, choosing, knew not Whether;
Love, angry grew, and did depart.
And, now, I care for Neither!

[Fair Virtue's moral qualities.]

See! these trees so ill did hide us,
That the Shepherd hath espied us!
And, as jealous of his cunning,
All in haste, away is running!
To entreat him back again,
Would be labour spent in vain:
You may, therefore, now betake ye,
To the Music, I can make thee!
Who do purpose my Invention
Shall pursue my first Intention.
For in Her, whose worth I tell,
Many excellences dwell
Yet unmentioned; whose perfections
Worthy are of best affections.

That, which is so rare to find
Both in Man, and Womankind;
That, whose absence, love defaceth,
And both sexes more disgraceth,
That the spite of furrowed Age,
Sicknesses, or Sorrow's rage;
That's the jewel so divine
Which doth on her forehead shine;
And therewith endowed is She
In an excellent degree:
Constancy, I mean! the purest
Of all beauties, and the surest.
For whoe'er doth that possess,
Hath an endless loveliness!
All afflictions, labours, crosses;
All our dangers, wounds, and losses;
Games of Pleasure, we can make,
For that matchless woman's sake!
In whose breast that virtue bideth:
And we joy, whate'er betideth!
Most dejected hearts it gladeth.
Twenty thousand glories addeth
Unto Beauty's brightest Ray,
And preserves it from decay!
'Tis the salt, that's made to season
Beauty, for the use of Reason!
'Tis the varnish, and the oiling,
Keeps her colours fresh from spoiling!
'Tis an excellence, whereby
Age, though joined with poverty,
Hath more dear affection won,
That fresh Youth and Wealth have done!
'Tis a loveliness endearing
Beauties, scarce worth note appearing!
Whilst a fairer, fickle Dame
Nothing gains, but scorn and shame.
Further, 'tis a beauty such
As I cannot praise too much,
Nor frame Measures to express!
No, nor any man! unless
He who (more than all men crost)
Finds it, in that woman lost;
On whose faith, he would have pawned
Life, and all he could command!
Such a man, may, by that miss,
Make us know, how dear it is!
When, o'ercharged with grief, he shall
Sigh, and break his heart withal.

This is that Perfection which
In her favour, makes me rich!
All whose beauties named before,
Else, would but torment me more:
And in having this, I find,
Whate'er haps, a quiet mind!
Yea, 'tis that, which I do prize
Far above her lips, her eyes;
Or that general beauty, whence
Shines each several excellence.

For, alas! what gained hath he,
Who may clip the fairest She,
That the name of Woman bears;
If, unhappily, he fears
Any other's worth may win
What he thought his own had been?
Him, base minded deem I should,
Who (although he were in hold,
Wrapt in chains) would not disdain
Love with her, to entertain!
That, both daughter to a Peer,
And most rich and lovely were;
When a brainless Gull should dare
In her favours with him share;
Or the action of a Player
Rob him of a hope so fair.

This, I dread not! For I know
Strainèd gestures, painted show,
Shameless boastings, borrowed jests,
Female looks, gay-plumed crests,
Vows, nor protestations vain
(Wherewith fools are made so vain)
Move Her can! save to contemn,
Or, perhaps, to laugh at them.
Neither can I doubt or fear,
Time shall either change or wear
This her virtue, or impair
That which makes her soul so fair!
In which trust great comforts are,
Which the fear of loss would mar.
Nor hath this my rare hope stood
So much in her being good,
With her love to Blessèd Things;
As in her acknowledgings
From a Higher Power, to have them!
And her love to Him that gave them!
For, although to have a mind
Naturally to Good inclined,
And to love it, would assure
Reason that it might endure:
Yet, since man was first unjust,
There's no warrant for such trust!
Virtues that, most wonder win,
Would converted be to Sin;
If their flourishings began
From no better root than Man!
Our best virtues (when they are
Of themselves) we may compare
To the beauty of a Flower,
That is blasted in an hour;
And which growing to be fuller,
Turns into some loathèd colour:
But those (being freely given,
And confirmed in us from Heaven)
Have a promise on them past
And for evermore shall last!
Diamond like, their lustre clearing,
More and more, by use and wearing!

But if this rare Worth I praise,
Should, by Fate's permission, raise
Passions in some gentle breast
That distemper may his rest:
And be author of such treason
As might nigh endanger Reason;
Or enforce his tongue to crave
What another man must have.
Mark, in such a strait as this,
How discreet her dealing is!
She is nothing of their humours
Who, their honour build on rumours;
And had rather private sporting,
Than allow of open courting:
Nor of theirs, that would seem holy
By divulging other's folly.
Farther is She from their guise
That delight to tyrannise;
Or make boastings, in espying
Others, for their favours dying.
She, a spirit doth possess
So replete with Nobleness,
That if She be there beloved;
Where she ought not to be moved
Equally to love again:
She doth so well entertain
That affection, as there's none
Can suppose it ill bestown.
From Deluding, She is free!
From Disdain, as far is She!
And so feelingly bears part
Of what pains another's heart;
That no curse of scornèd duty,
Shall draw vengeance on her beauty:
Rather, with so tender fear
Of her honour, and their care,
She is touched; that neither shall
Wrong unto herself befall
By the favour She doth show;
Nor will She neglect them so
As may just occasion give
Any way to make them grieve.
Hope, She will not let them see!
Lest they should presuming be;
And aspire to that, which none
Ever must enjoy but One.
From Despair, She keeps them too!
Fearing they might hap to do,
Either through Love's indiscretions,
Or much over stirrèd passions,
What might, with their hurt and shame,
Into question, call her name;
And a scandal on her bring
Who is just in everything.
She hath marked how others run,
And by them hath learnt to shun
Both their fault, who, over wise,
Err by being too precise;
And their folly, that o'er kind,
Are to all complaints inclined.
For her Wit hath found the way
How, a while, to hold them play;
And that inconvenience shun
Whereinto both seem to run,
By allowing them a scope
Just betwixt Despair and Hope:
Where confined, and reaching neither,
They do take a part in either;
Till, long living in suspense,
Tired by her Indifference,
Time, at last, their Passion wears.
Passions wearing, Reason clears!
Reason gives their Judgement light!
Judgement bringeth all to right!
So, their Hope appearing vain;
They become themselves again!
And with high applauses (fit
For such Virtue with such Wit)
They, that service only proffer,
She may take, and they may offer!
Yet, this course she never proves
Save with those, whose virtuous loves
Use the noblest means of gaining
Favours, worthy the obtaining.
And if such should chance to err
Either 'gainst themselves, or Her,
In some oversights, when they
Are, through Passion, led astray;
She, so well man's frailty knows!
With the darts, that Beauty throws!
As she will not, adding terror,
Break the heart, for one poor error!
Rather, if still good they be,
Twenty remedies hath She
Gently to apply, where Sense
Hath invaded Reason's fence:
And, without a wound, or scar,
Turns to peace, a lawless war.
But to those, whose baser fires
Breathe out smoke of such desires
As may dim, with impure steams,
Any part of Beauty's beams:
She will deign no milder way,
Those foul burnings to allay;
Save with such extreme neglect
As shall work her wished effect.
And to use so sharp a cure,
She's not oft constrainèd, sure,
'Cause, on her forehead, still,
Goodness sits; so feared of Ill!
That the scorn and high disdains
Wherewithal she entertains
Those loathed glances, giveth ending
To such flamings the tynding
That their coolèd hopes needs must
Freeze Desires in heat of Lust.

'Tis a power that never lies
In the fair'st immodest eyes!
Wantons! 'tis not your sweet eyings,
Forcèd passions, feignèd dyings,
Gestures' temptings, tears' beguilings,
Dancings, singings, kissings, smilings!
Nor those painted sweets, with which,
You, unwary men bewitch!
All united, nor asunder
That can compass such a Wonder!
Or, to win you love prevails,
Where her moving virtues fails.
Beauties! 'tis not all those features,
Placèd in the fairest creatures;
Though their best they should discover,
That can tempt from Her, a lover!
'Tis not those soft snowy breasts
Where Love, rocked in Pleasure, rests;
And by their continual motions
Draweth hearts to vain devotions!
Nor the nectar that we sip
From the honey-dropping lip!
Nor those eyes, whence Beauty's lances
Wound the heart with wanton glances!
Nor those sought delights that lie
In Love's hidden treasury!
That can liking gain, where She
Will the best belovèd be!
For should those who think they may
Draw my love from her away,
Bring forth all their female graces!
Wrap me in their close embraces!
Practise all the Art they may!
Weep! or sing! or kiss! or pray!
And, with sighs and looks, come woo me!
When they soonest may undo me,
One poor thought of Her would arm me
So, as Circe could not harm me!
Since besides those excellences
Wherewith others please the Senses,
She, whom I have prizèd so,
Yields delights for Reason too!

Who could dote on thing so common
As mere outward-handsome woman?
Those Half-Beauties only win
Fools, to let affection in!
Vulgar wits, from Reason shaken,
Are with such impostures taken!
And, with all their art in love,
Wantons can but wantons move!
But when, unto those are joined,
Those things which adorn the Mind;
None their excellences see,
But they straight enthrallèd be!
Fools and wise men, worst and best,
Subjects are to Love's Arrest;
For when Virtue wooes a lover
She's an unresisted mover,
That will have no kind of "Nay!"
And in love, brooks no delay.
She can make the sensual wights
To restrain their appetites;
And her beauty, when they see,
Spite of Vice, in love to be:
Yea, (although themselves be bad)
Praise the good they never had!
She hath to her service brought
Those that Her have set at nought,
And can fair enough appear
To inflame the most severe.
She hath, oft, allurèd out
The religiously devout
From their cloisters, and their vows,
To embrace what She allows!
And to such contentments come
As blind Zeal had barred them from;
While (her laws misunderstood)
They did Ill, for love of Good.
Where I find True Worth to be
Sweetest are their lips to me!
And embraces tempt me so,
More than outward beauties do,
That my firm belief is this;
If I ever do amiss,
Seeming-Good, the bait will lay,
That to Ill, shall me betray.
Since where Shews of Goodness are,
I am oft emboldened there,
Freedoms so permit and use,
Which I elsewhere do refuse;
For because I think they mean,
To allow no deed unclean.
Yet where two, love Virtue shall,
Both, at once, they seldom fall!
For when one hath thoughts of Ill,
T'other helps exile them still.

My Fair Virtue's power is this,
And that power the beauty is
Which doth make Her, here exprest,
Equally both Fair and Blest:
This! was that contenting grace
Which affection made me place
With so dear respect, that never
Can it fail, but last for ever.
This! a Servant made me sworn,
Who, before time, held in scorn
To yield vassalage or duty;
Though unto the Queen of Beauty!
Yet that I, her Servant am,
It shall more be to my fame,
Than to own these woods and downs,
Or be Lord of fifty towns:
And, my Mistress, to be deemed,
Should more honour be esteemed
Than those titles to acquire
Which most women most desire.
Yea, when you a woman shall,
Countess, or a Duchess call:
That respect it shall not move,
Neither gain her half such love
As to say, "Lo! this is She
That supposèd is to be
Mistress to Phil'arete!
And that lovely Nymph, which he
In a Pastoral Poem famed,
And Fair Virtue, there hath named!"
Yea, some ladies (ten to one!)
If not many, now unknown,
Will be very well apaid
When, by chance, she hears it said
She that "Fair One" is, whom I
Have, here, praised concealedly.
And though, now, this Age's Pride
May so brave a Hope deride;
Yet, when all their glories pass,
As the thing that never was,
And on monuments appear
That they e'er had breathing here,
Who envy it; She shall thrive
In her fame, and honoured live;
While Great Britain's Shepherds sing
English in their Sonneting!
And whoe'er, in future days,
Shall bestow the utmost praise
On his love, that any man
Attribute to creature can;
'Twill be this! that he hath dared,
His and Mine to have compared.
O, what stars did shine on me,
When her eyes I first did see!
And how good was their aspect,
When we first did both affect!
For I never since to changing
Was inclined, or thought of ranging!

Me, so oft my Fancy drew
Here and there, that I ne'er knew
Where to place Desire, before,
So that range it might no more.
But as he that passeth by
Where, in all her jollity,
Flora's riches, in a row,
Doth in seemly order grow;
And a thousand flowers stand,
Bending as to kiss his hand:
Out of which delightful store,
One, he may take, and no more!
Long he pausing, doubteth whether
Of those fair ones he should gather.
First, the Primrose courts his eyes!
Then, the Cowslip he espies!
Next, the Pansy seems to woo him!
Then, Carnations bow unto him!
Which, whilst that enamoured Swain
From the stalk, intends to strain;
(As half fearing to be seen)
Prettily, her leaves between,
Peeps the Violet! pale to see
That her virtues slightèd be:
Which so much his liking wins
That, to seize her, he begins;
Yet before he stooped so low
He, his wanton eye did throw
On a stem that grew more high,
And the Rose did there espy.
Who, besides her precious scent,
To procure his eyes' content,
Did display her goodly breast;
Where he found, at full exprest,
All the Good that Nature showers
On a thousand other flowers.
Wherewith he, affected, takes it!
His Beloved Flower, he makes it!
And, without desire of more,
Walks through all he saw before.
So I, wandering but erewhile,
Through the Garden of this Isle,
Saw rich Beauties, I confess,
And in number, numberless;
And so differing lovely too,
That I had a world to do,
Ere I could set up my rest
Where to choose, and choose the best.
One I saw, whose Hair excellèd!
On another's Brow there dwellèd
Such a Majesty, it seemed
She was best to be esteemed!
This had, with her Speeches won me!
That, with Silence had undone me!
On her Lips, the Graces hung!
T'other charmed me with her tongue!
In her Eyes, a third did bear
That which did anew ensnare!
Then a fourth did fairer show,
Yet wherein I did not know!
Only this perceivèd I,
Somewhat pleased my Fantasy.
Now the Wealth, I most esteemed!
Honour then, I better deemed!
Next, the love of Beauty seized me!
And then Virtue better pleased me!
Juno's love I nought esteemed!
Whilst a Venus fairer seemed!
Nay, both could not me suffice,
Whilst a Pallas was more wise!
Though I found enough in One
To content, if still alone.
Amarillis, I did woo!
And I courted Phillis too!
Daphne, for her love I chose!
Cloris, for that damask rose
In her cheek, I held as dear!
Yea, a thousand liked, well near!
And in love with All together,
Feared the enjoying Either!
'Cause to be, of one possest,
Barred the hope of all the rest.

Thus I fondly fared, till Fate,
(Which I must confess, in that,
Did a greater favour to me,
Than the world can malice do me)
Shewed to me that matchless flower
Subject for this Song of our.
Whose perfection having eyed
Reason instantly espied,
That Desire, which ranged abroad,
There, would find a period.
And, no marvel! if it might:
For it, there, hath all Delight;
And in Her, hath Nature placed
What each several Fair once graced.
Nor am I, alone delighted,
With those graces, all united,
Which the Sense's eye doth find
Scattered throughout Womankind.
But my Reason finds perfections
To inflame my Soul's affections:
Yea, such virtues She possesseth,
As, with firmest pleasures blesseth;
And keeps sound that Beauty's state,
Which would else grow ruinate.
In this Flower are sweets, such store:
I shall never wish for more!
Nor be tempted out to stray
For the fairest buds in May!

Let, who list! for me, advance
The admired flowers of France!
Let, who will! praise and behold
The reservèd Marigold!
Let the sweet-breathed Violet, now,
Unto whom she pleaseth, bow!
And the fairest Lily spread,
Where she will, her golden head!
I have such a flower to wear;
That for those, I do not care!
Never shall my Fancy range!
Nor once think again of change!
Never will I, never more!
Grieve or sigh, as heretofore!
Nor within the lodgings lie
Of Despair, or Jealousy!
Let the young and happy Swains,
Playing on the Britain plains,
Court, unblamed, their shepherdesses!
And with their gold-curlèd tresses
Toy uncensured! until I
Grudge at their prosperity!
Let all Times, both Present, Past;
And the Age that shall be last;
Vaunt the beauties they bring forth!
I have found in One, such worth!
That, content, I neither care
What the best before me were;
Nor desire to live and see
Who shall fair hereafter be.
For I know the hand of Nature
Will not make a fairer creature!
Which, because succeeding days
Shall confess, and add their praise
In approving what my tongue
(Ere they had their being) sung:
Once again, come, lend an ear!
And a Rapture you shall hear
(Though I taste no Thespian spring)
Will amaze you; whilst I sing!
I do feel new Strains inspiring,
And to such brave heights aspiring;
That my Muse will touch a key,
Higher than you've heard to-day!
I have Beauties to unfold
That deserve a Pen of Gold!
Sweets that never dreamed of were!
Things unknown; and such as Ear
Never heard a Measure sound
Since the sun first ran his round!

When Apelles limbed to life,
Loathèd Vulcan's lovely wife;
With such beauties he did turn
Each sweet feature, and each limb,
And so curiously did place
Every well becoming grace;
That 'twas said, ere he could draw
Such a Piece, he naked saw
Many women in their prime
And the fairest of that Time;
From all which, he, parts did take,
Which, aright disposed, make
Perfect Beauty. So when you
Know what I have yet to show,
It will seem to pass so far
Those things which expressèd are;
That you will suppose I've been
Privileged, where I have seen
All the Good that's spread in parts
Through a thousand women's hearts!
With their fair'st conditions lie
Bare, without hypocrisy!
And that I have took from thence,
Each dispersèd excellence
To express Her, who hath gained
More than ever One obtained.
And yet, soft! I fear, in vain
I have boasted such a Strain!
Apprehensions ever are
Greater than Expression, far!
And my striving to disclose
What I know, hath made me lose
My Invention's better part:
And my Hopes exceed my Art!
Speak, I can; yet Think I more!
Words, compared with Thoughts, are poor!
And I find, had I begun
Such a Strain, it would be done
When we number all the sands
Washed o'er perjured Godwin's lands.
For of things I should indite,
Which, I know are infinite.

I do yield! My Thoughts did climb
Far above the power of Rhyme!
And no wonder it is so,
Since there is no Art can show
Red in roses, white in snow;
Nor express how they do grow.
Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree,
That inferior creatures be,
Beauties have, which we confess
Lines unable to express;
They more hardly can enrol
Those that do adorn a Soul.
But suppose my Measures could
Reach the height, I thought they would:
Now, relate, I would not though,
What did swell within me so.
For if I should all descry,
You would know as much as I!
And those clowns the Muses hate,
Would of things above them, prate!
Or, with their profaning eyes,
Come to view those mysteries
Whereof, since they disesteemed them,
Heaven hath unworthy deemed them!
And besides, it seems to me,
That your ears nigh tirèd be!
I perceive the fire that charmeth
And inspireth me, scarce warmeth
Your chill hearts! Nay, sure, were I
Melted into Poesy,
I should not a Measure hit,
(Though Apollo prompted it)
Which should able be to leave
That in you, which I conceive!
You are cold! and here I may
Waste my vital heat away
Ere you will be moved so much
As to feel one perfect touch
Of those Sweets; which, yet concealed,
Swell my breast, to be revealed.

Now, my Words, I therefore cease!
That my mounting Thoughts, in peace,
May, alone, those pleasures share,
Whereof Lines unworthy are!
And so you, an end do see,
Of my Song; though long it be!

No sooner had the Shepherd Phil'aret,
To this Description, his last period set;
But instantly, descending from a wood,
Which on a rising ground, adjoining stood,
A troop of Satyrs, to the view of all,
Came dancing, of a new devisèd brall.
The measures they did pace, by Him were taught them,
Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them,
That he had learned their rudeness an observing
Of such respect unto the well deserving;
As they became to no man else, a terror,
But such as did persist in wilful error:
And they, the Ladies, made no white affeared
Though since that time, they some Great Men have scared.
Their dance, the Whipping of Abuse they named;
And though the Shepherd, since that, hath been blamed:
Yet, now, 'tis daily seen in every town!
And there's no Country Dance that's better known!
Nor that hath gained a greater commendation
'Mongst those that love an honest recreation!
This Scene presented; from a grove was heard
A Set of Viols; and there, was prepared
A Country Banquet, which this Shepherd made
To entertain the Ladies, in the shade.
And 'tis supposed, his Song prolongèd was
Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass.
So well it was performed that each one deemed,
The banquet might the City have beseemed;
Yet, better was their Welcome, than their Fare,
Which they perceived, and the merrier were.

One Beauty though, there sat among the rest,
That looked as sad as if her heart oppressed
With love had been. Whom Phil'aret beholding
Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding:
"Lady!" quoth he, "am I, or this poor cheer,
The cause that you so melancholy are?
For if the object of your thoughts be higher,
It fits nor me to know them, nor inquire:
But if from me it cometh, that offends;
I seek the cause, that I may make amends!"

"Kind Swain!" said she, "it is nor so! nor so!
No fault in you! nor in your cheer I know!
Nor do I think there is a thought in me,
That can too worthy of your knowledge be!
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had
Than here I find, though I have seemèd sad.
My heart is sometimes heavy when I smile;
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.
Nor is it sadness that doth me possess,
But rather, musing, with much seriousness,
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears,
With those innumerable doubts and fears
Through which you passed, ere you could acquire
A settled Hope of gaining your Desire.
For you dared love a Nymph, so great and fair,
As might have brought a Prince unto despair;
And, sure, the excellency of your Passions
Did then produce as excellent impressions.
If, therefore, me the suit may well become!
And if to you, it be not wearisome!
In name of all the Ladies, I entreat
That one of those sad Strains you would repeat,
Which you composed, when greatest Discontent
Unsought-for help, to your Invention lent!"

"Fair Nymphs!" said Phil'aret, "I will so do!
For though your Shepherd doth no Courtship know,
He hath Humanity! and what's in me,
To do you service, may commanded be!"

So, taking down a lute, that near him hung;
He gave't his boy, who played: whilst this, he sung.

[SONNET I.]

"Ah, me!"
Am I the Swain
That late, from sorrow free,
Did all the cares on earth disdain?
And still untouched, as at some safer games,
Played with the burning coals of Love, and Beauty's flames?
Was't I, could dive, and sound each Passion's secret depth at will;
And from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason, still?
And am I, now, O heavens! (for trying this in vain)
So sunk, that I shall never rise again?
Then let Despair set Sorrow's string
For Strains, that doleful'st be!
And I will sing
"Ah, me."

But why,
O fatal Time!
Dost Thou constrain, that I
Should perish in my Youth's sweet prime?
I, but a while ago, You cruel Powers!
In spite of Fortune, cropped Contentment's sweetest flowers.
And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She,
That ever was beloved of Man, or eyes did ever see.
Yea, one, whose tender heart would rue for my distress;
Yet I, poor I! must perish nay-the-less:
And, which much more augments my care,
Unmoaned, I must die!
And no man e'er
Know why!

Thy leave,
My dying Song!
Yet take! ere Grief bereave
The breath which I enjoy too long.
Tell thou that Fair One this! "My Soul prefers
Her love above my life, and that I died hers!
And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,
Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here!"
And now, farewell, thou place of my unhappy birth!
Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth:
Since me, my wonted joys forsake,
And all my trust deceive;
Of all, I take
My leave!

Farewell,
Sweet Groves, to you!
You Hills, that highest dwell;
And all you humble Vales, adieu!
You wanton Brooks! and solitary Rocks!
My dear Companions all! and you, my tender Flocks!
Farewell, my Pipe! and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving Strains
Delighted once the fairest Nymphs that dance upon the plains!
You Discontentments (whose deep and over-deadly smart
Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)!
Sighs! Tears! and every sad Annoy
That erst did with me dwell!
And all others' Joy!
Farewell!

Adieu
Fair Shepherdesses!
Let garlands of sad yew
Adorn your dainty golden tresses!
I that loved you, and often, with my quill
Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill!
I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace;
Yea, with a thousand rarer favours, would vouchsafe to grace!
I, now, must leave you all alone! of Love to 'plain,
And never Pipe, nor never Sing again
I must, for evermore, be gone!
And, therefore, bid I you,
And every one,
Adieu!

I die!
For O, I feel
Death's horrors drawing nigh!
And all this frame of Nature reels!
My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,
Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief!
Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,
All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again.
My swimming head begins to dance Death's giddy round!
A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound!
Benumbed is my cold-sweating brow!
A dimness shuts my eye!
And now, O now,
I die!

---

So movingly these lines he did express,
And to a tune so full of heaviness;
As if, indeed, his purpose had been past
To live no longer than the Song did last.
Which in the Nymphs, such tender passion bred,
That some of them, did tears of pity shed.

This she perceiving, who first craved the Song,
"Shepherd!" she said, "although it be no wrong
Nor grief to you, those Passions to recall
Which, heretofore, you have been pained withal!
But comforts rather, since they, now, are over;
And you, it seemeth, an enjoying lover:
Yet some Nymphs among us, I do see;
Who, so much movèd with your Passions be,
That, if my aim I have taken aright,
Their thoughts will hardly let them sleep to-night.
I dare not, therefore, beg of you again
To sing another of the selfsame Strain;
For fear it breed within them, more unrest
Than women's weaknesses can well digest.
Yet, in your Measures, such content you have!
That one Song more, I will presume to crave.
And if your memory preserves of those
Which you, of your affections did compose
Before you saw this Mistress; let us hear
What kind of Passions, then, within you were!"
To which request, he instantly obeyed;
And this ensuing Song, both sung and played.

SONNET II.

You gentle Nymphs! that on these meadows play,
And oft relate the loves of Shepherds young;
Come, sit you down! For if you please to stay,
Now may you hear an uncouth Passion sung!
A Lad there is, and I am that poor Groom;
That's fall'n in love, and cannot tell with whom!

O do not smile at sorrow, as a jest!
With others' cares, good natures movèd be;
And I should weep, if you had my unrest!
Then, at my grief, how can you merry be?
Ah, where is tender pity now become?
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

I, that have oft, the rarest features viewed,
And Beauty in her best perfection seen;
I, that have laughed at them that love pursued,
And ever free from such affections been:
Lo, now at last, so cruel is my doom!
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

My heart is full nigh bursting with Desire;
Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:
My breast doth burn, but She that lights the fire,
I never saw, nor can I come to know.
So great a bliss, my fortune keeps me from;
That though I dearly love, I know not whom!

Ere I had twice four Springs renewed seen,
The force of Beauty I began to prove;
And ere I nine years old had fully been,
It taught me how to frame a Song of Love,
And little thought I, this day should have come,
Before that I, to love had found out whom!

For on my chin, the mossy down you see!
And in my veins, well heated blood doth glow!
Of Summers I have seen twice three times three;
And fast, my youthful time away doth go!
That much I fear, I agèd shall become,
And still complain, I love, I know not whom!

O, why had I a heart bestowed on me,
To cherish dear affections, so inclined?
Since I am so unhappy born to be
No Object, for so true a Love to find.
When I am dead, it will be missed of some;
Yet, now I live, I love, I know not whom!

I to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known!
A hundred Ladies' favours do I wear!
I, with as many, half in love am grown;
Yet none of them, I find, can be my Dear!
Methinks, I have a Mistress yet to come!
Which makes me sing, I love, I know not whom!

There lives no Swain doth stronger Passion prove
For her, whom most he covets to possess;
Than doth my heart, that being full of love
Knows not to whom it may the same profess!
For he that is despised, hath sorrow some;
But he hath more, that loves, and knows not whom!

Knew I my Love, as many others do,
To some one object might my thoughts be bent!
So they divided, should not wandering go
Until the Soul's united force be spent.
As his, that seeks and never finds a home,
Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom!

Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,
May live to meet, and descant on their woe;
And he hath gained a Lady for his bride,
That durst not woo her Maid, a while ago.
But O, what end unto my hopes can come?
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

Poor Collin grieves that he was late disdained;
And Cloris doth, for Willy's absence pine;
Sad Thirsis weeps, for his sick Phœbe pained:
But all their sorrows cannot equal mine!
A greater care, alas, on me is come.
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

Narcissus like, did I affect my shade;
Some shadow yet I had to dote upon!
Or did I love some Image of the dead,
Whose Substance had not breathed long agone?
I might despair! and so an end would come;
But O, I love! and cannot tell you whom!

Once, in a dream, methought, my Love I viewed,
But never, waking, could her face behold;
And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed
That more my tirèd heart, torment it should.
For, since that time, more grieved I am become;
And more in love, I cannot tell with whom!

When on my bed, at night, to rest I lie,
My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek;
And then, "O would it once were day!" I cry,
Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek.
For who can tell, though all the earth he roam;
Or when, or where to find, he knows not whom?

O, if she may be among the beauteous trains
Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver rills!
Or if you know her, Ladies of the plains!
Or you, that have your bowers on the hills!
Tell, if you can, who will my Love become?
Or I shall die, and never know for whom!

---

The Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard,
Because the Passion strange to them appeared,
And stranger was it, since by his expression,
As well as by his own unfeigned confession,
It seemèd true! But having sung it out;
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought,
To urge him further: thus to them, he spake.
"Fair Ladies! forasmuch as doubt you make
To re-command me; of mine own accord,
Another Strain I freely will afford.
It shall not be of Love, nor any Song
Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong;
But that, hereafter, when you hence are gone,
Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon!
To shew you also, what Content the Field
And lonely Grove to honest minds may yield!
That you, my humble fate may not despise,
When you are returned unto your braveries;
And not suppose that, in these homely bowers,
I hug my fortune, 'cause I know not yours.
Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed by me,
When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be,
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate,
As in contempt of my more happy state.
And these they be—"

SONNET [III.]

Lordly Gallants! tell me this!
(Though my safe Content you weigh not!)
In your greatness, what one bliss
Have you gained, that I enjoy not?
You have Honours, you have Wealth!
I have Peace, and I have Health!
All the day I merry make;
And, at night, no care I take!

Bound to none, my fortunes be;
This, or that man's fall, I fear not!
Him I love, that loveth me;
For the rest, a pin I care not!
You are sad, when others chafe;
And grow merry as they laugh!
I, that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me!

You may boast of favours shown,
Where your service is applied!
But my pleasures are mine own,
And to no man's humours tied.
You oft flatter, sooth, and feign!
I, such baseness do disdain!
And to none, be slave I would,
Though my fetters might be gold!

By greatest titles, some believe,
Highest honours are attained;
And yet Kings have power to give
To their Fools, what these have gained.
Where they favour, there they may
All their Names of Honour lay!
But I look not, raised to be,
Till mine own wing carry me!

Seek to raise your titles higher!
They are toys not worth my sorrow.
Those that we, to-day, admire,
Prove the Age's scorn to-morrow!
Take your Honours! Let me find
Virtue in a free born mind!
This, the greatest Kings that be,
Cannot give, nor take from me!

Though I vainly do not vaunt
Large demesnes to feed my pleasure:
I have favours, where you want,
That would buy Respect with treasure!
You have lands lie here, and there;
But my wealth is everywhere!
And this addeth to my store,
Fortune cannot make me poor!

Say, you purchase, with your pelf,
Some respect, where you importune!
Those may love me, for myself;
That regard you for your fortune!
Rich, or born of high degree,
Fools, as well as you, may be!
But that Peace in which I live,
No Descent, nor Wealth can give!

If you boast that you may gain
The respect of high-born Beauties;
Know I never wooed in vain,
Nor preferrèd scornèd duties!
She I love, hath all delight,
Rosy red with lily white;
And, whoe'er your Mistress be,
Flesh and blood as good as She!

Note of me, was never took
For my womanlike perfections;
But so like a Man I look,
It hath gained me best affections!
For my love, as many showers
Have been wept, as have for yours!
And yet none doth me condemn
For abuse, or scorning them!

Though of dainties, you have store
To delight a choicer palate!
Yet your taste is pleased no more
Than is mine, in one poor sallat!
You to please your senses feed!
But I eat, good blood to breed!
And am most delighted then
When I spend it like a man!

Though you Lord it over me;
You, in vain, thereof have bravèd!
For those Lusts, my servants be;
Whereunto your minds are slavèd!
To yourselves you wise appear,
But, alas, deceived you are!
You do, foolish me esteem;
And are that, which I do seem!

When your faults I open lay;
You are moved, and mad with vexing!
But you ne'er could do, or say
Ought to drive me to perplexing!
Therefore, my despisèd power
Greater is, by far, than your!
And whate'er you think of me,
In your minds, you poorer be!

You are pleasèd, more or less,
As men, well or ill report you!
And shew discontentedness
When the Times forbear to court you!
That in which my pleasures be,
No man can divide from me!
And my care it adds not to,
Whatso others say or do.

Be not proud, because you view
You, by thousands are attended!
For, alas, it is not You,
But Your Fortune! that's befriended.
Where I shew of love have got,
Such a danger, fear I not!
Since they nought can seek of me;
But for love, beloved to be.

When your hearts have everything;
You are pleasantly disposed!
But I can both laugh and sing,
Though my foes have me enclosed.
Yea, when dangers me do hem,
I delight in scorning them!
More than you, in your renown;
Or a King can, in his crown.

You do bravely domineer
Whilst the sun upon you shineth!
Yet if any storm appear,
Basely, then, your mind declineth!
But, or shine, or rain, or blow,
I, my resolutions know!
Living, dying, thrall, or free;
At one height, my Mind shall be!

When in thraldom, I have lain;
Me, not worth your thought you prizèd!
But your malice was in vain,
For your favours I despisèd.
And howe'er you value me,
I, with praise, shall thought on be!
When the world esteems you not,
And your Names shall be forgot.

In these thoughts my riches are,
Now, though poor and mean you deem me!
I am pleased, and do not care
How the Times, or you esteem me!
For those toys that make you gay.
Are but Play Games for a Day!
And when Nature craves her due,
I, as brave shall be, as you!

---

Here Phil'aret did give his Song an ending.
To which the Nymphs so seriously attending
About him sate, as if they had supposed
He still had somewhat more to be disclosed.
And, well they know not, whether did belong
Most praise unto the Shepherd, or his Song.
For though, they must confess, they often hear
Those Lays, which much more deeply learned are;
Yet, when they well considered of the place,
With how unlikely (in their thought) it was
To give them hope of hearing of such a Strain;
Or that so young, and so obscure a Swain
Should such a matchless Beauty's favour get;
And know her worth so well, to sing of it:
They wondered at it. And some thus surmised
That He a greater man was, so disguised;
Or else that She, whom he so much had praised,
Some goddess was, that those his Measures raised,
Of purpose, to that rare attainèd height
In Envy's, and presuming Art's despite.
But whilst they, musing with themselves, bethought
Which way, out of this Shepherd to have wrought
What Nymph this Fair One was? and where she lived?
Lo, at that very instant, there arrived
Three men that, by their habits, Courtiers seemed:
For, though obscure, by some, he is esteemed,
Among the Greatest: who do not contemn,
In his retirèd walks, to visit him;
And there, they taste those pleasures of the mind,
Which they can, nor in Court, nor City find.
Some news or message, these new guests had brought him;
And to make haste away, it seems, besought him:
For instantly he rose! And that his nurture
Might not be taxed by a rude departure,
Himself excusing; he, those Nymphs did pray
His noble friends might bring him on their way.
"Who, as it seems," said he, "were therefore come,
That they might wait upon him to their home."
So, with their favour, he departed thence;
And, as they thought, to meet her Excellence,
Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this
But an Idea of a Mistress is:
Because to none, he yet had deigned the telling
Her proper name; nor shown her place of dwelling!

When he was gone, a Lady, from among
Those Nymphs, took up his lute, and sang this Song.

THE NYMPH'S SONG.

Gentle Swain! Good speed befall thee!
And in love still prosper thou!
Future Times shall happy, call thee!
Though thou lie neglected now.
Virtue's lovers shall command thee!
And perpetual fame attend thee!

Happy are these woody mountains,
In whose shadows, thou dost hide!
And as happy, are those fountains
By whose murmurs, thou dost 'bide!
For Contents are here excelling,
More than in a Prince's dwelling.

These, thy flocks do clothing bring thee!
And thy food, out of the fields:
Pretty songs, the birds do sing thee!
Sweet perfumes the meadow yields:
And what more is worth the seeing?
Heaven and Earth, thy prospect being!

None comes hither, who denies thee
Thy contentments, for despite;
Neither any that envies thee,
That wherein thou dost delight.
But all happy things are meant thee!
And whatever may content thee!

Thy Affection, Reason measures,
And distempers none it feeds:
Still so harmless are thy pleasures,
That no other's grief it breeds.
And if night beget thee sorrow;
Seldom stays it till the morrow.

Why do foolish men so vainly
Seek contentment in their store?
Since they may perceive so plainly
Thou art rich, in being poor!
And that they are vexed about it;
Whilst thou merry are without it!

Why are idle brains devising
How high titles may be gained!
Since, by those poor toys despising,
Thou hast higher things obtained!
For the man who scorns to crave them,
Greater is than they that have them.

If all men could taste that sweetness
Thou dost, in thy meanness, know!
Kings would be to seek, where greatness
And their honours to bestow.
For it such content would breed them,
As they would not think they need them.

And if those, who so aspiring
To the Court preferments be,
Knew how worthy the desiring
Those things are, enjoyed by thee!
Wealth and titles would, hereafter,
Subjects be for scorn and laughter.

He that Courtly styles affected,
Should a May-Lord's honour have;
He that heaps of Wealth collected,
Should be counted as a slave:
And the man, with few'st things cumbered,
With the noblest should be numbered.

Thou, their folly hast discerned;
That neglect thy mind and thee!
And to slight them, thou hast learned,
Of what title e'er they be!
That, no more with thee obtaineth;
Than with them, thy meanness gaineth.

All their riches, honours, pleasures,
Poor unworthy trifles seem;
If comparèd with thy treasures!
And do merit no esteem:
For they, true contents provide thee,
And from them, can none divide thee.

Whether thrallèd, or exilèd;
Whether poor, or rich thou be!
Whether praisèd, or revilèd;
Not a rush it is to thee!
This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee;
But the Mind, which is within thee!

Then, O, why so madly dote we
On those things that us o'erload?
Why no more their vainness note we,
But still make of them a god?
For, alas, they still deceive us;
And, in greatest need, they leave us!

Therefore have the Fates provided
Well, thou happy Swain! for thee!
That may'st here, so far divided
From the world's distractions be!
Thee, distemper let them never;
But in peace continue ever!

In these lonely groves, enjoy thou
That contentment here begun!
And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou
Till the latest glass be run!
From a fortune so assured,
By no temptings, be allured!

Much good do 't them, with their glories,
Who, in Courts of Princes dwell!
We have read in antique stories
How some rose, and how they fell.
And 'tis worthy well the heeding,
"There's like end, where's like proceeding."

Be thou still, in thy affection,
To thy noble Mistress, true!
Let her never-matched perfection
Be the same unto thy view!
And let never other Beauty
Make thee fail in love or duty!

For if thou shalt not estrangèd,
From thy course professed, be;
But remain, for aye, unchangèd,
Nothing shall have power on thee!
Those that slight thee now, shall love thee;
And, in spite of spite, approve thee!

So those virtues now neglected;
To be more esteemed, will come:
Yea, those toys so much affected,
Many shall be wooèd from.
And the Golden Age, deplored,
Shall, by some, be thought restored.

---

Thus sang the Nymph! so rarely-well inspired,
That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired;
And (as I heard by some that there attended)
When this her Song was finished, all was ended.

A Postscript.

If any carp, for that my younger Times
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill employed, never were.
Whilst their Desires, perhaps, they looselier spent;
I gave my heats of youth this better vent:
And, oft, by writing thus, the blood have tamed,
Which some, with reading wanton Lays enflamed.
Nor care I, though their censure some have past,
Because my Songs exceed the Fidler's Last:
For do they think that I will make my Measures
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?
Or maim, or curtalise my free Invention,
Because Fools weary are, of their attention!
No! Let them know, who do their length condemn;
I Make to please myself, and not for them!