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When I had done what man could do,
Take up the time; all strive to be And thought the place mine own,
Masters of truth, as victory: The enemy lay quiet too,
And were you come, I'd boldly swear And smil'd at all was done.
A synod might as eas'ly err.
When I am hungry I do eat,
She's fair, &c.
A gentle round fill'd to the brink, To this and t’other friend I drink; And if 'tis nam'd another's health, I never make it her's by stealth:
She's fair, &c.
Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
She's fair, &c.
TO A FRIEND. Sir, Whether these lines do find you out, Putting or clearing of a doubt; (Whether Predestination, Or reconciling Three in One, Or the unriddling how men die, And live at once eternally, Now take you up) know 'tis decreed You straight bestride the college steed. Leave Socinus and the schoolmen, (Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men) And come to town; 'tis fit you shew Yourself abroad, that men may know (Whate'er some learned men have guest) That oracles are not yet ceasid: There you shall find the wit and wine Flowing alike, and both divine: Dishes, with names not known in books, And less amongst the college cooks, With sauce so poignant that you need Not stay till hunger bids you feed. The sweat of learned Jonson's brain, And gentle Shakespear's easier strain A hackney-coach conveys you to, In spite of all that rain can do: And for your eighteen-pence you sit The lord and judge of all fresh wit. News in one day as much as we've here As serves all Windsor for a year; And which the carrier brings to you, After t'has here been found not true. Then think what company's design'd To meet you here, men so refin'd, Their very common talk at board, Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord: And makes him capable to be Umpire in's father's company. Where no disputes nor forc'd defence Of a man's person for his sense
I visit, talk, do business, play,
She's fair, &c.
Hast thou seen the down in the air,
When wanton blasts have tost it? Or the ship on the sea,
When ruder winds have crost it?
Or the foxes sleeping ?
Or the dove by his bride,
When he courts for his leachery? Ols! so fickle, oh! so vain,oh! so false, so false is she!
We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Our love had been of still eternity; Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate?
Much less could have it from the purer fire, Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense, What canst thou witness then thou base dull aid Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire; Wast useless in our conversation,
Our mutual love itself did recompense: Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n, Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free: That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;
Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster? even Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:
Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content: When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
May it one minute taste such happiness, Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath Deserving lost unpitied it lament!
I must forbear her sight, and so repay
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
GEORGE WITHER-A.D. 1588-1667.
FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia’s Pastorals) not to give
over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him. Willy. For a song I do not pass
With Detraction's breath on thee. 'Mongst my friends, but what, alas!
It shall never rise so high Should I have to do with them,
As to stain thy poesy. That my music do contemn?
As that sun doth oft exhale Roget. What's the wrong?
Vapours from each rotten vale, Willy. A slight offence,
Poesy so sometime drains Wherewithal I can dispense;
Gross conceits from muddy brains, But hereafter, for their sake,
Mists of envy, fogs of spite, To myself I'll music make.
'Twixt men's judgments and her light.
But so much her power may do, Roget. What, because some clown offends,
That she can dissolve them too. Wilt thou punish all thy friends ?
If thy verse do bravely tower, Willy. Honest Roget, understand me,
As she makes wing, she gets power: Those that love me may command me;
Yet the higher she doth soar, But thou know'st I am but young,
She's affronted still the more, And the pastoral I sung
Till she to the high’st hath past, Is by some supposed to be
Then she rests with fame at last. (By a strain) too high for me;
Let nought therefore thee affright, So they kindly let me gain
But make forward in thy flight. Not my labour for my pain.
For, if I could match thy rhyme, Trust me, I do wonder why
To the very stars I'd climb; They should me my own deny.
There begin again, and fly, Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
Till I reach'd eternity. On the wings of borrow'd wit.
But alas! my Muse is slow, I'll make my own feathers rear me
For thy place she flags too low; Whither others' cannot bear me.
Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Yet I'll keep my skill in store,
Her short wings were clipt of late ; Till I've seen some winters more.
And poor I, her fortune ruing, Roget. But in earnest mean'st thou so?
Am myself put up a muing. Then thou art not wise, I trow.
But, if I my cage can rid, That's the ready way to blot
I'll fly where I never did. All the credit thou hast got.
And, though for her sake I'm crost, Rather in thy age's prime
Though my best hopes I have lost, Get another start of time;
And knew she would make my trouble And make those that so fond be,
Ten times more than ten times double ; Spite of their own dullness, see,
I should love and keep her too, That the sacred Muses can
Spite of all the world could do. Make a child in years a man.
For, though banish'd from my flocks, Envy makes their tongues now run,
And confined within these rocks, More than doubt of what is done.
Here I waste away the light, See'st thou not in clearest days,
And consume the sullen night, Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;
She doth for my comfort stay, And the vapours that do breathe
And keeps many cares away. From the earth's gross womb beneath,
Though I miss the flowery fields, Seem they not with their black streams
With those sweets the spring-tide yields ; To pollute the sun's bright beams;
Though I may not see those groves, And yet vanish into air,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, Leaving it unblemish'd, fair ?
And the lasses more excel So, my Willy, shall it be
Than the sweet-voiced philomel ;
Though of all those pleasures past
The dull loneness, the black shade, Nothing now remains at last
That these hanging vaults have made; But remembrance (poor relief)
The strange music of the waves, That more makes than mends my grief;
Beating on these hollow caves; She's my mind's companion still,
This black den which rocks emboss, Maugre envy's evil will;
Overgrown with eldest moss ; Whence she should be driven too,
The rude portals, which give light Were't in mortals' power to do.
More to terror than delight; She doth tell me where to borrow
This my chamber of Neglect, Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Wall'd about with Disrespect : Makes the desolatest place
From all these, and this dull air, To her presence be a grace ;
A fit object for despair, And the blackest discontents
She hath taught me by her might Be her fairest ornaments.
To draw comfort and delight. In my former days of bliss
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Her divine skill taught me this,
I will cherish thee for this; That from every thing I saw
Poesy, thou sweet's content I could some invention draw,
That e'er heaven to mortals lent, And raise pleasure to her height
Though they as a trifle leave thee, Through the meanest object's sight.
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; By the murmur of a spring,
Though thou be to them a scorn, Or the least bough's rustling,
Who to nought but earth are born; By a daisy whose leaves spread
Let my life no longer be Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Than I am in love with thee. Or a shady bush or tree,
Though our wise ones call it madness, She could more infuse in me
Let me never taste of sadness, Than all Nature's beauties can
If I love not thy madd'st fits In some other wiser man.
Above all their greatest wits. By her help I also now
And though some too seeming holy Make this churlish place allow
Do account thy raptures folly, Some things that may sweeten gladness
Thou dost teach me to contemn In the very gall of sadness.
What make knaves and fools of them.
NEW ELEGANT EXTRACTS.
ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
PHEBUS AND DAPHNE.
Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
Unwisely we the wiser East