But if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a stain, a blemish or decay,
It not belongs to thee; the treacherous light Or faithless stone abuse thy credulous sight. Perhaps the magic of thy face hath wrought Upon th' enchanted crystal, and so brought Fantastic shadows to delude thine eyes With airy, repercussive sorceries:
Or else th' enamoured image pines away For love of the fair object, and so may
Wax pale and wan; and though the substance grow Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe. Give thou no faith to the false specular stone, But let thy beauties by th' effects be known: Look, sweetest Doris, on my love-sick heart; In that true mirror see how fair thou art There, by Love's never-erring pencil drawn, Shalt thou behold thy face, like th' early dawn, Shoot through the shady covert of thy hair, Enam'ling and perfuming the calm air With pearls and roses, till thy suns display Their lids, and let out the imprison'd day. Whilst Delphic priests (enlighten'd by their theme) In amorous numbers court thy golden beam, And from Love's altars clouds of sighs arise In smoking incense to adore thine eyes: If then love flow from beauty as th' effect, How canst thou the resistless cause suspect? Who would not brand that fool that should contend, There were no fire where smoke and flames ascend? Distrust is worse than scorn; not to believe My harms, is greater wrong than not to grieve. What cure can for my fest'ring sore be found, Whilst thou believ'st thy beauty cannot wound? Such humble thoughts more cruel tyrants prove, Than all the pride that e'er usurp'd in love; For Beauty's herald here denounceth war, There her false spies betray me to a snare. If fire disguis'd in balls of snow were hurl'd, It unsuspected might consume the world: Where our prevention ends, danger begins; So wolves in sheeps', lions in asses' skins Might far more mischief work, because less fear'd; Those, the whole flock, these might kill all the herd. Appear then as thou art, break through this cloud, Confess thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud: Be fair, though scornful; rather let me find Thee cruel, than thus mild and more unkind. Thy cruelty doth only me defy,
But these dull thoughts thee to thyself deny. Whether thou mean to barter or bestow Thyself, 't is fit thou thine own value know. I will not cheat thee of thyself, nor pay
You are afflicted that you are not fair, And I as much tormented that you are: What I admire you scorn; what I love, hate; Through different faiths both share an equal fate: Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick; I die a martyr, you an heretic.
I BREATHE, Sweet Ghibs, the temperate air of Wrest, Where I, no more with raging storms opprest, Wear the cold nights out by the banks of Tweed, On the bleak mountains where fierce tempests breed, And everlasting winter dwells; where mild Favonius and the vernal winds, exil'd,
Did never spread their wings: but the wild north Brings sterile fern, thistles, and brambles forth. Here, steep'd in balmy dew, the pregnant Earth Sends from her teeming womb a flow'ry birth; And, cherish'd with the warm Sun's quick'ning heat, Her porous bosom doth rich odours sweat; Whose perfumes through the ambient air diffuse Such native aromatics, as we use
No foreign gums, nor essence fetch'd from far, No volatile spirits, nor compounds that are Adulterate; but, at Nature's cheap expense, With far more genuine sweets refresh the sense. Such pure and uncompounded beauties bless This mansion with an useful comeliness Devoid of art; for here the architect Did not with curious skill a pile erect Of carved marble, touch, or prophecy, But built a house for hospitality.
No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon, And coldly entertain his sight; but clear And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here, No Doric nor Corinthian pillars grace With imagery this structure's naked face: The lord and lady of this place delight Rather to be in act, than seem, in sight. Instead of statues to adorn their wall, They throng with living men their merry ball, Where, at large tables fill'd with wholsome meats, The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour eats: Some of that rank, spun of a finer thread, Are with the women, steward, and chaplain, fed With daintier cates; others of better note,
Less for thee than thou'rt worth; thou shalt not say, Whom wealth, parts, office, or the herald's coat
That is but brittle glass which I have found
By strict inquiry a firm diamond.
I'll trade with no such Indian fool as sells
Gold, pearls, and precious stones, for beads and bells'; Nor will I take a present from your hand, Which you or prize not or not understand. It not endears your bounty that I do Esteem your gift, unless you do so too. You undervalue me, when you bestow On me what you nor care for, nor yet know. No, lovely Doris, change thy thoughts, and be In love first with thyself, and then with me.
1 Alluding to the ignorance of the Indian tribes in South America, who used to barter their riches for the toys and trinkets of the Europeans.
Have sever'd from the common, freely sit At the lord's table, whose spread sides admit A large access of friends to fill those seats Of his capacious sickle, fill'd with meats Of choicest relish, till his oaken back Under the load of pil'd-up dishes crack. Nor think, because our pyramids and high Exalted turrets threaten not the sky,
That therefore Wrest of narrowness complains, Or straighten'd walls; for she more numerous trains Of noble guests daily receives, and those Can with far more conveniency dispose, Than prouder piles, where the vain builder spent More cost in outward gay embellishment Than real use; which was the sole design Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
In stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand: Nor on a marble tun, his face besmear'd With grapes, is curl'd, uncizar'd Bacchus rear'd. We offer not, in emblems, to the eyes, But to the taste, those useful deities: We press the juicy god, and quaff his blood, And grind the yellow goddess into food. Yet we decline not all the work of Art; But where more bounteous Nature bears a part, And guides her handmaid, if she but dispense Fit matter, she with care and diligence Employs her skill; for where the neighbour source Pours forth her waters, she directs her course, And entertains the flowing streams in deep And spacious channels, where they slowly creep In snaky windings, as the shelving ground Leads them in circles, till they twice surround This island mansion, which, i' th' centre plac'd, Is with a double crystal Heaven embrac'd; In which our wat'ry constellations float, Our fishes, swans, our waterman and boat, Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake Their star-burnt limbs in our refreshing lake; But they stick fast nail'd to the barren sphere, Whilst our increase, in fertile waters here, Disport, and wander freely where they please Within the circuit of our narrow seas.
With various trees we fringe the water's brink, Whose thirsty roots the soaking moisture drink, And whose extended boughs in equal ranks Yield fruit, and shade, and beauty to the banks. On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts His ruddy-cheek'd Pomona; Zephyr sports On th' other with lov'd Flora, yielding there Sweets for the smell, sweets for the palate here. But did you taste the high and mighty drink Which from that luscious fountain flows, you 'd think
The god of wine did his plump clusters bring, And crush the Falern 3 grape into our spring; Or else, disguis'd in wat'ry robes, did swim To Ceres' bed, and make her beg of him, Begetting so himself on her: for know, Our vintage here in March doth nothing owe To theirs in autumn; but our fire boils here As lusty liquor as the Sun makes there.
Thus I enjoy myself, and taste the fruit Of this blest place; whilst, toil'd in the pursuit Of bucks and stags, th' emblem of war, you
To keep the memory of our arms alive.
2 Amalthea was the daughter of Melissus, king of Crete. She is fabled to have fed Jupiter, while an infant, with the milk of a goat, whose horn the god afterwards made her a present of, endued with this virtue, that whoever possessed it, should have every thing they wished for. Hence it was called the born of plenty.
3 The grape of Falernus is celebrated by all antiquity. It was produced from vines of a peculiar strength and flavour which grew in the Falernian fields in Campania.
Look back, old Janus, and survey, From Time's birth till this new-born day, All the successful seasons bound With laurel wreaths, and trophies crown'd; Turn o'er the anuals past, and, where Happy auspicious days appear, Mark'd with the whiter stone that cast On the dark brow of th' ages past A dazz'ling lustre, let them shine In this succeeding circle's twine, Till it be round with glories spread; Then with it crown our Charles his head, That we th' ensuing year may call One great continu'd festival. Fresh joys in varied forms apply To each distinct captivity. Season his cares by day with nights Crown'd with all conjugal delights. May the choice beauties that inflame His royal breast be still the same, And he still think them such, since more Thou canst not give from Nature's store: Then as a father let him be
With numerous issue blest, and see The fair and god-like off-spring grown From budding stars to suns full blown. Circle with peaceful olive boughs And conquering bays his regal brows: Let his strong virtues overcome, And bring him bloodless trophies home: Strew all the pavements where he treads With loyal hearts or rebels' heads: But, Byfront', open thou no more, In his blest reign, the temple door.
THOU great commandress, that dost move Thy sceptre o'er the crown of Love, And through his empire, with the awe Of thy chaste beams, dost give the law; From his profaner altars we Turn to adore thy deity.
He only can wild lust provoke; Thou those impurer flames canst choke: And where he scatters looser fires, Thou turn'st them into chaste desires: His kingdom knows no rule but this, "Whatever pleaseth lawful is." Thy sacred lord shows us the path Of modesty and constant faith, Which makes the rude male satisfy'd With one fair female by his side; Doth either sex to each unite, And form love's pure hermaphrodite. To this thy faith behold the wild Satyr already reconcil'd,
1 Janus, who was painted with two faces. He was worshipped as a god, and had a temple built to him: in time of peace it was shut; in time of war it was open.
Who from the influence of thine eye Hath suck'd the deep divinity.
O free them then, that they may teach The centaur and the horseman; preach To beasts and birds, sweetly to rest Each in his proper lare and nest: They shall convey it to the flood, Till there thy law be understood.
So shalt thou, with thy pregnant fire, The water, earth, and air inspire.
TO THE NEW YEAR,
FOR THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE'.
GIVE Lucinda pearl nor stone, Lend them light who else have none: Let her beauty shine alone.
Gums nor spice bring from the east, For the phenix in her breast Builds his funeral pile and nest.
No rich 'tire thou canst invent Shall to grace her form be sent; She adorns all ornament.
Give her nothing, but restore Those sweet smiles which heretofore In her cheerful eyes she wore. Drive those envious clouds away, Veils that have o'ercast my day, And eclips'd her brighter ray. Let the royal Goth mow down This year's harvest with his own Sword, and spare Lucinda's frown.
Janus, if, when next I trace Those sweet lines, I in her face Read the charter of my grace;
Then, from bright Apollo's tree, Such a garland wreath'd shall be As shall crown both her and thee.
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND, MASTER THOMAS MAY1,
UPON HIS COMEDY, THE heir. THE Heir being born, was in his tender age Rock'd in a cradle of a private stage, Where, lifted up by many a willing hand, The child did from the first day fairly stand.
This was Anne, daughter of Edward lord Howard of Escrick, and wife of Charles Howard, first earl of Carlisle.
2 These complimentary verses must be considered rather as a tribute to friendship than to genius; for though May was a competitor with sir William D'Avenant for the royal laurel, his abilities were much less splendid. He translated the Georgics of Virgil and Lucan's Pharsalia, and was the historian of the Oliverian parliament.-These verses were written in 1620.
Since, having gather'd strength, he dares prefer His steps into the publick theatre,
The world; where he despairs not but to find A doom from men more able, not less kind. I but his usher am, yet if my word May pass, I dare be bound he will afford Things must deserve a welcome, if well known, Such as best writers would have wish'd their own You shall observe his words in order meet, And, softly stealing on with equal feet, Slide into even numbers with such grace As each word had been moulded for that place. You shall perceive an amorous passion spun Into so smooth a web, as had the Sun, When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid', Courted her in such language, she had stay'd. A love so well exprest must be the same The author felt himself from his fair flame. The whole plot doth alike itself disclose Through the five acts, as doth the lock that goes With letters; for till every one be known, The lock 's as fast as if you had found none; And where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read. Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal My want of art, dear friend, than to conceal My love. It did appear I did not mean So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene, As men might judge my aim rather to be, To gain praise to myself, than give it thee; Though I can give thee none, but, what thou hast Desery'd, and what must my faint breath out-last. Yet was this garment (though I skilless be To take thy measure) only made for thee; And if it prove too scant, 't is 'cause the stuff Nature allow'd me was not large enough.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND,
MASTER GEORGE SANDS',
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE PSALMS.
PRESS not to the choir, nor dare I greet The holy place with my unhallowed feet; My unwasht Muse pollutes not things divine, Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine: Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays. So, devout penitents of old were wont, Some without door, and some beneath the font, To stand and hear the church's liturgies, Yet not assist the solemn exercise: Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain, To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train: Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy lark, Hér lyric feet may dance before the ark.
3 Alludes to the fable of Apollo and Daphne.
This was Mr. George Sands, son of Edwin archbishop of York. Besides the Translation of the Psalms here mentioned, (which was the delight and amusement of Charles I. during his imprisonment in the Isle of Wight,) he translated Ovid's Metamorphoses and part of Virgil's Eneis. Dryden calls him the best versifier of his time.
Who knows, but that her wand'ring eyes that run, Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the Sun: A pure flame may, shot by Almighty pow'r Into her breast, the earthly flame devour: My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. So (though 'gainst Nature's course) fire may be quench'd
With fire, and water be with water drench'd; Perhaps my restless soul, tir'd with pursuit Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd, Quench'd all her thirst, nor satisfy'd, though cloy'd; Weary of her vain search below, above In the first fair may find th' immortal love. Prompted by thy example then, no more In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But tear those idols from my heart, and write What his blest spirit, not fond love, shall indite; Then I no more shall court the verdant bay, But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha; And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.
TO MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,
HENRY LORD CARY OF LEPINGTON, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI. MY LORD,
In every trivial work, 't is known,
Translators must be masters of their own
And of their author's language; but your task
A greater latitude of skill did ask;
'or your Malvezzi first requir'd a man
To teach him speak vulgar Italian:
His matter's so sublime, so new his phrase,
o far above the stile of Bembo's days,
Old Varchie's rules, or what the Trusca ' yet 'or current Truscan mintage will admit, As I believe your marquis by a good 'art of his natives hardly understood. You must expect no happier fate; 't is true, le is of noble birth, of nobler you:
o nor your thoughts nor words fit common ears; He writes, and you translate, both to your peers.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER D'AVENANT2,
JPON HIS EXCELLENT PLAY, THE JUST ITALIAN.
'LL not mispend in praise the narrow room borrow in this leaf; the garlands bloom
Requires a satyr. What star guides the soul Of these our froward times, that dare controul, Yet dare not learn to judge? When didst thou fly From hence, clear, candid Ingenuity?
I have beheld, when perch'd on the smooth brow Of a fair modest troop, thou didst allow Applause to slighter works; but then the weak Spectator gave the knowing leave to speak. Now noise prevails, and he is tax'd for drowth Of wit, that with the cry spends not his mouth. Yet ask him reason why he did not like; Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike Thy soul with scorn and pity: mark the places Provoke their smiles, frowns, or distorted faces, When they admire, nod, shake the head, they'll be A scene of mirth, a double comedy.
But thy strong fancies (raptures of the brain, Drest in poetic flames) they entertain
As a bold, impious reach; for they'll still slight All that exceeds Red Bull' and Cockpit flight. These are the men in crouded heaps that throng To that adulterate stage, where not a tongue Of th' untun'd kennel can a line repeat Of serious sense, but the lips meet like meat; Whilst the true brood of actors, that alone Keep nat❜ral, unstrain'd Action in her throne, Behold their benches bare, though they rehearse The terser Beaumont's or great Jonson's verse. Repine not thou then, since this churlish fate Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the state Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good Have by the rabble been misunderstood. So was thy play; whose clear, yet lofty strain, Wise men, that govern fate, shall entertain.
OF MR. WILLIAM D'AVENANT'S PLAY1.
IT hath been said of old, that plays are feasts, Poets the cooks, and the spectators guests; The actors, waiters: from this simile, Some have deriv'd an unsafe liberty
To use their judgments as their tastes, which chuse, Without controul, this dish, and that refuse : But wit allows not this large privilege, Either you must confess or feel its edge; Nor shall you make a current inference, If you transfer your reason to your sense:
3 After the restoration, there were two companies of players formed, one under the title of the king's servants, the other under that of the duke's company, both by patent from the crown; the first granted to Mr. Killigrew, and the latter to sir William D'Avenant. The king's servants acted
From thine own seeds, that crown each glorious page first at the Red Bull in St. John's Street, and after
Of thy triumphant work; the sullen age
1 Tuscany, famous for speaking the Italian language in its greatest purity.
2 This gentleman, who was supposed, but with the greatest improbability, to be a natural son of Shakspeare, was one of the first poets of his time. It was he who harmonized the stage. He first introduced scenery, and the order and decorum of the French theatre, upon the British one. He succeeded Ben Jonson as poet-laureat to Charles.
wards at the Cockpit in Drury Lane; to which place our poet here alludes. It seems, by the verses before us, that though Killigrew's company was much inferior to D'Avenant's, it was more successful; though the company of the latter, who performed at the duke's theatre in Lincoln-inn-Fields, acted the pieces of Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, and were headed by the celebrated Betterton.
The Just Italian, which did not meet with so much success as it ought to have had from a polite audience.
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