But he whom heavenly fire doth warme,
And 'gainst these powerfull follies arme,
Doth soberly disdaine.

All these fond humane misteries,
As the deceitfull and unwise
Distempers of our braine.

He as a burden beares his clay,
Yet vainely throwes it not away
On every idle cause:

But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or dye,

Regardlesse of th' applause.

My God! If 'tis thy great decrco
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this ayre;
My heart obeyes, joy'd to retreate
From the false favours of the great
And treachery of the faire.

When thou shalt please this soule t'enthrone

Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fearo,

To thinke this breathlesse body must
Become a loathsome heape of dust,
And nere againe appeare.

For in the fire when ore is tryed,
And by that torment purified,

Doe we deplore the losse ?

And when thou shalt my soule refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the drosse ?

William Habington.-About 1640.

329.-S ON G.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover!
Pr'ythee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Pr'ythee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner!
Pr'ythee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Pr'ythee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her!

Sir John Suckling.—About 1640.

330.-A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen:
O, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs:

And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger though than thine,)
Walk'd on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo hir,
Shou'd he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past

(Perchance) as did the maid.
The maid-and thereby hangs a tale-
For such a maid no Whitson ale
Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day

Is half so fine a sight.

He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she wou'd not, she was so nice,
She wou'd not do't in sight;
And then she look'd as who shou'd say
I will do what I list to-day;

And you shall do't at night.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear,

The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly. But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

If wishing shou'd be any sin,
The parson himself had guilty been,

She look'd that day so purely :
And did the youth so oft the feat
At night, as some did in conceit,

It would have spoil'd him, surely.

Passion o' me! how I run on!
There's that that wou'd be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride :
The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated:

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The brides came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick?

O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:
Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Whilst every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

When in he came (Dick) there she lay,
Like new-fal'n snow melting away,

"Twas time, I trow, to part.
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who wou'd say,
Good b'ye, with all my heart.

But just as heavens wou'd have to cross it,
In came the bridemaids with the posset;
The bridegroom eat in spite;

For had he left the women to 't
It wou'd have cost two hours to do 't,
Which were too much that night.

At length the candle' s out, and now
All that they had not done, they do!
What that is, who can tell?

But I believe it was no more
Than thou and I have done before
With Bridget and with Nell!
Sir John Suckling.-About 1640.

331-CONSTANCY.

Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling.-About 1640.

332.-SONG.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lic,

To find it were in vain;

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

Oh love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?
But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart 着
As much as she has mine.

Sir John Suckling.-About 1640.

333-DESCRIPTION OF THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA.

Within a little silent grove hard by,
Upon a small ascent, he might espy
A stately chapel, richly gilt without,
Beset with shady sycamores about;

And ever and anon he might well hear
A sound of music steal in at his ear,
As the wind gave it being. So sweet an air
Would strike a siren mute, and ravish her.
He sees no creature that might cause the

same,

But he was sure that from the grove it came,
And to the grove he goes to satisfy
The curiosity of car and eye.

Thorough the thick-leaved boughs he makes a way,

Nor could the scratching brambles make him stay,

But on he rushes, and climbs up a hill, Thorough a glade. He saw and heard his fill

A hundred virgins there he might espy,
Prostrate before a marble deity,

Which, by its portraiture, appear'd to be
The image of Diana. On their knee

They tended their devotions with sweet airs, Offering the incense of their praise and prayers,

Their garments all alike.

334-THE IMAGE OF JEALOUSY IN THE CHAPEL OF DIANA. A curious eye

Might see some relics of a piece of art
That Psyche made, when Love first fired her
heart;

It was the story of her thoughts, that she
Curiously wrought in lively imagery;
Among the rest she thought of Jealousy,
Time left untouch'd to grace antiquity,
She was decypher'd by a tim'rous dame,
Wrapt in a yellow mantle lined with flame;
Her looks were pale, contracted with a frown,
Her eyes suspicious, wandering up and down;
Behind her Fear attended, big with child,
Able to fright Presumption if she smiled;

* Unto his view She represents a banquet, usher'd in

By such a shape as she was sure would win
His appetite to taste-so like she was
To his Clarinda both in shape and face,
So voiced, so habited,-of the same gait
And comely gesture.

*

*

*

Hardly did he refrain From sucking in destruction at her lip; Sin's cup will poison at the smallest sip.

A coat of silver tinsel, short before,
And fring'd about with gold: white buskins
hide

The naked of her leg; they were loose tied
With azure ribands, on whose knots were seen
Most costly gems, fit only for a queen.
Her hair bound up like to a coronet,
With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set;
And on the top a silver crescent plac'd,
And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd,
As her reflection made them seem more fair;
One would have thought Diana's self were
there;

For in her hand a silver bow she held,
And at her back there hung a quiver fill'd
With turtle-feather'd arrows.

John Chalkhill.—About 1649.

337-A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers
Do make or cherish;

Where discontented things in sadness lie,
And nature grieves as I;

When I am parted from those eyes
From which my better day doth rise.
Though some propitious power
Should plant me in a bower,

Where, amongst happy lovers, I might see
How showers and sunbeams bring
One everlasting spring;

Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me.

Nature herself to him is lost,

Who loseth her he honours most. Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day;

Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep, till when

I do return and view again :

So by this art, fancy shall fortune cross,
And lovers live by thinking on their loss.
William Cartwright.-About 1640.

338.-TO CHLOE,

Who wished herself young enough for me.

Chloo, why wish you that your years
Would backwards run, till they met mine?
That perfect likeness, which endears

Things unto things, might us combine.
Our ages so in date agree,

That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light
First strikes the new awakened sense;
The other when two souls unite:

And we must count our life from thence:
When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,
Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new pow'rs: Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours; Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call
Our bodies from the silent grave,
Unto one age doth raise us all ;

None too much, none too little have;
Nay, that the difference may be none,
He makes two not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine;

So, by this, I as well may be
Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright.-About 1640.

339.-LOVE'S DARTS.

Where is that learned wretch that knows, What are those darts the veil'd god throws ? O let him tell me ere I die

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;

Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:

I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly;
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;

And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To die white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face:
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;

So lights of flowing graces
Sparkle in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts; Themselves are only twigs and quills: We give them shape, and force for ills.

Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.

William Cartwright.-About 1640.

340.-THE KISS-A DIALOGUE. Among thy fancies tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss ?I shall resolve ye what it is:

It is a creature born, and bred
Between the lips, all cherry red;
By love and warm desires fed;
And makes more soft the bridal bed:

It is an active flame, that flies
First to the babies of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies;
And stills the bride too when she cries:

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks, and flies: now here, now there;
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near;
And here, and there, and everywhere.

Has it a speaking virtue ?-Yes.
How speaks it, say ?-Do you but this,
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your
kiss;

And this love's sweetest language is.

Has it a body ?-Ay, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings,
Love honey yields, but never stings.
Robert Herrick.-About 1648.

341.-TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do you fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet hero awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you a while, they glide
Into the grave.

Robert Herrick.-About 1648.

342.-TO DAFFODILS.
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon:
Stay, stay,

Until the hast'ning day
Has run

But to the even-song;

And having pray'd together, wo Will go with you along!