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.
