Chapter V: Introduction (3)

VI. No showrs but 'twixt your lids, nor gelid snow, But what your whiter, chaster brest doth ow,<32.2> Whilst winds in chains colder for<32.3> sorrow blow.

VII. Shrill trumpets doe only sound to eate, Artillery hath loaden ev'ry dish with meate, And drums at ev'ry health alarmes beate.

VIII. All things Lucasta, but Lucasta, call, Trees borrow tongues, waters in accents fall, The aire doth sing, and fire is<32.4> musicall.

IX. Awake from the dead vault in which you dwell, All's loyall here, except your thoughts rebell Which, so let loose, often their gen'rall quell.

X. See! she obeys! By all obeyed thus, No storms, heats, colds, no soules contentious, Nor civill war is found; I meane, to us.

XI. Lovers and angels, though in heav'n they show, And see the woes and discords here below, What they not feele, must not be said to know.

<32.1> Original has COLME.

<32.2> i.e. own.

<32.3> Original reads YOUR.

<32.4> Original has FIRE'S, but FIRE IS is required by the metre, and it is probably what the poet wrote.

AMARANTHA.
A PASTORALL.<33.1>

Up with the jolly bird of light Who sounds his third retreat to night; Faire Amarantha from her bed Ashamed starts, and rises red As the carnation-mantled morne, Who now the blushing robe doth spurne, And puts on angry gray, whilst she, The envy of a deity, Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed To be inshrin'd in such a weed; Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit; Not made for her, but she to it: By nature it sate close and free, As the just bark unto the tree: Unlike Love's martyrs of the towne, All day imprison'd in a gown, Who, rackt in silke 'stead of a dresse, Are cloathed in a frame or presse, And with that liberty and room, The dead expatiate in a tombe. No cabinets with curious washes, Bladders and perfumed plashes; No venome-temper'd water's here, Mercury is banished this sphere: Her payle's all this, in which wet glasse She both doth cleanse and view her face. Far hence, all Iberian smells, Hot amulets, Pomander spells, Fragrant gales, cool ay'r, the fresh And naturall odour of her flesh, Proclaim her sweet from th' wombe as morne. Those colour'd things were made, not borne. Which, fixt within their narrow straits, Do looke like their own counterfeyts. So like the Provance rose she walkt, Flowerd with blush, with verdure stalkt; Th' officious wind her loose hayre curles, The dewe her happy linnen purles, But wets a tresse, which instantly Sol with a crisping beame doth dry. Into the garden is she come, Love and delight's Elisium; If ever earth show'd all her store, View her discolourd budding floore; Here her glad eye she largely feedes, And stands 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds; The flowers in their best aray As to their queen their tribute pay, And freely to her lap proscribe A daughter out of ev'ry tribe. Thus as she moves, they all bequeath At once the incense of their breath. The noble Heliotropian Now turnes to her, and knowes no sun. And as her glorious face doth vary, So opens loyall golden Mary<33.2> Who, if but glanced from her sight, Straight shuts again, as it were night. The violet (else lost ith' heap) Doth spread fresh purple for each step, With whose humility possest, Sh' inthrones the Poore Girle<33.3> in her breast: The July-flow'r<33.4> that hereto thriv'd, Knowing her self no longer-liv'd, But for one look of her upheaves, Then 'stead of teares straight sheds her leaves. Now the rich robed Tulip who, Clad all in tissue close, doth woe Her (sweet to th' eye but smelling sower), She gathers to adorn her bower. But the proud Hony-suckle spreads Like a pavilion her heads, Contemnes the wanting commonalty, That but to two ends usefull be, And to her lips thus aptly plac't, With smell and hue presents her tast. So all their due obedience pay, Each thronging to be in her way: Faire Amarantha with her eye Thanks those that live, which else would dye: The rest, in silken fetters bound, By crowning her are crown and crown'd.<33.5> And now the sun doth higher rise, Our Flora to the meadow hies: The poore distressed heifers low, And as sh' approacheth gently bow, Begging her charitable leasure To strip them of their milkie treasure. Out of the yeomanry oth' heard, With grave aspect, and feet prepar'd, A rev'rend lady-cow drawes neare, Bids Amarantha welcome here; And from her privy purse lets fall A pearle or two, which seeme[s] to call This adorn'd adored fayry To the banquet of her dayry. Soft Amarantha weeps to see 'Mongst men such inhumanitie, That those, who do receive in hay, And pay in silver<33.6> twice a day, Should by their cruell barb'rous theft Be both of that and life bereft. But 'tis decreed, when ere this dies, That she shall fall a sacrifice Unto the gods, since those, that trace Her stemme, show 'tis a god-like race, Descending in an even line From heifers and from steeres divine, Making the honour'd extract full In Io and Europa's bull. She was the largest goodliest beast, That ever mead or altar blest; Round [w]as her udder, and more white Then is the Milkie Way in night; Her full broad eye did sparkle fire; Her breath was sweet as kind desire, And in her beauteous crescent shone, Bright as the argent-horned moone. But see! this whiteness is obscure, Cynthia spotted, she impure; Her body writheld,<33.7> and her eyes Departing lights at obsequies: Her lowing hot to the fresh gale, Her breath perfumes the field withall; To those two suns that ever shine, To those plump parts she doth inshrine, To th' hovering snow of either hand, That love and cruelty command. After the breakfast on her teat, She takes her leave oth' mournfull neat Who, by her toucht, now prizeth her<33.8> life, Worthy alone the hollowed knife. Into the neighbring wood she's gone, Whose roofe defies the tell-tale Sunne, And locks out ev'ry prying beame; Close by the lips of a cleare streame, She sits and entertaines her eye With the moist chrystall and the frye<33.9> With burnisht-silver mal'd, whose oares<33.10> Amazed still make to the shoares; What need she other bait or charm, What hook<33.11> or angle, but her arm? The happy captive, gladly ta'n, Sues ever to be slave in vaine, Who instantly (confirm'd in's feares) Hasts to his element of teares. From hence her various windings roave To a well-orderd stately grove; This is the pallace of the wood And court oth' Royall Oake, where stood The whole nobility: the Pine, Strait Ash, tall Firre, and wanton Vine; The proper Cedar, and the rest. Here she her deeper senses blest; Admires great Nature in this pile, Floor'd with greene-velvet Camomile, Garnisht with gems of unset fruit, Supply'd still with a self recruit; Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes Of never-planted Strawberries; Where th' winged musick of the ayre Do richly feast, and for their fare, Each evening in a silent shade, Bestow a gratefull serenade. Thus ev'n tyerd with delight, Sated in soul and appetite; Full of the purple Plumme and Peare, The golden Apple, with the faire Grape that mirth fain would have taught her, And nuts, which squirrells cracking brought her; She softly layes her weary limbs, Whilst gentle slumber now beginnes To draw the curtaines of her eye; When straight awakend with a crie And bitter groan, again reposes, Again a deep sigh interposes. And now she heares a trembling voyce: Ah! can there ought on earth rejoyce! Why weares she this gay livery, Not black as her dark entrails be? Can trees be green, and to the ay'r Thus prostitute their flowing hayr? Why do they sprout, not witherd dy? Must each thing live, save wretched I? Can dayes triumph in blew and red, When both their light and life is fled? Fly Joy on wings of Popinjayes To courts of fools, where<33.12> as your playes Dye laught at and forgot; whilst all That's good mourns at this funerall. Weep, all ye Graces, and you sweet Quire, that at the hill inspir'd meet: Love, put thy tapers out, that we And th' world may seem as blind as thee; And be, since she is lost (ah wound!) Not Heav'n it self by any found. Now as a prisoner new cast,<33.13> Who sleepes in chaines that night, his last, Next morn is wak't with a repreeve, And from his trance, not dream bid live, Wonders (his sence not having scope) Who speaks, his friend or his false hope. So Amarantha heard, but feare Dares not yet trust her tempting care; And as againe her arms oth' ground Spread pillows for her head, a sound More dismall makes a swift divorce, And starts her thus:----Rage, rapine, force! Ye blew-flam'd daughters oth' abysse, Bring all your snakes, here let them hisse; Let not a leaf its freshnesse keep; Blast all their roots, and as you creepe, And leave behind your deadly slime, Poyson the budding branch in's prime: Wast the proud bowers of this grove, That fiends may dwell in it, and move As in their proper hell, whilst she Above laments this tragedy: Yet pities not our fate; oh faire Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th' ay'r! Why by those lawes did we not die, As live but one, Lucasta! why---- As he Lucasta nam'd, a groan Strangles the fainting passing tone; But as she heard, Lucasta smiles, Posses<33.14> her round; she's slipt mean whiles Behind the blind of a thick bush, When, each word temp'ring with a blush, She gently thus bespake; Sad swaine, If mates in woe do ease our pain, Here's one full of that antick grief, Which stifled would for ever live, But told, expires; pray then, reveale (To show our wound is half to heale), What mortall nymph or deity Bewail you thus? Who ere you be, The shepheard sigh't,<33.15> my woes I crave Smotherd in me, me<33.16> in my grave; Yet be in show or truth a saint, Or fiend, breath anthemes, heare my plaint, For her and thy breath's symphony, Which now makes full the harmony Above, and to whose voice the spheres Listen, and call her musick theirs; This was I blest on earth with, so As Druids amorous did grow, Jealous of both: for as one day This star, as yet but set in clay, By an imbracing river lay, They steept her in the hollowed brooke, Which from her humane nature tooke, And straight to heaven with winged feare,<33.17> Thus, ravisht with her, ravish her. The nymph reply'd: This holy rape Became the gods, whose obscure shape They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve Your better life should ever live, And weep that she, to whom you wish What heav'n could give, has all its blisse. Calling her angell here, yet be Sad at this true divinity: She's for the altar, not the skies, Whom first you crowne, then sacrifice. Fond man thus to a precipice Aspires, till at the top his eyes Have lost the safety of the plain, Then begs of Fate the vales againe. The now confounded shepheard cries: Ye all-confounding destines! How did you make that voice so sweet Without that glorious form to it? Thou sacred spirit of my deare, Where e're thou hoverst o're us, hear! Imbark thee in the lawrell tree, And a new Phebus follows thee, Who, 'stead of all his burning rayes, Will strive to catch thee with his layes; Or, if within the Orient Vine, Thou art both deity and wine; But if thou takest the mirtle grove, That Paphos is, thou, Queene of Love, And I, thy swain who (else) must die, By no beasts, but thy cruelty: But you are rougher than the winde. Are souls on earth then heav'n<33.18> more kind? Imprisoned in mortality Lucasta would have answered me. Lucasta, Amarantha said, Is she that virgin-star? a maid, Except her prouder livery, In beauty poore, and cheap as I; Whose glory like a meteor shone, Or aery apparition, Admir'd a while, but slighted known. Fierce, as the chafed lyon hies, He rowses him, and to her flies, Thinking to answer with his speare---- Now, as in warre intestine where, Ith' mist of a black battell, each Layes at his next, then makes a breach Through th' entrayles of another, whom He sees nor knows whence he did come, Guided alone by rage and th' drumme, But stripping and impatient wild, He finds too soon his onely child. So our expiring desp'rate lover Far'd when, amaz'd, he did discover Lucasta in this nymph; his sinne Darts the accursed javelin 'Gainst his own breast, which she puts by With a soft lip and gentle eye, Then closes with him on the ground And now her smiles have heal'd his wound. Alexis too again is found; But not untill those heavy crimes She hath kis'd off a thousand times, Who not contented with this pain, Doth threaten to offend again. And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep, Whilst each cheek doth the other's steep, Whilst tongues, as exorcis'd, are calm; Onely the rhet'rick of the palm Prevailing pleads, untill at last They[re] chain'd in one another fast. Lucasta to him doth relate Her various chance and diffring fate: How chac'd by Hydraphil, and tract The num'rous foe to Philanact, Who whilst they for the same things fight, As Bards decrees and Druids rite, For safeguard of their proper joyes And shepheards freedome, each destroyes The glory of this Sicilie; Since seeking thus the remedie, They fancy (building on false ground) The means must them and it confound, Yet are resolved to stand or fall, And win a little, or lose all. From this sad storm of fire and blood She fled to this yet living wood; Where she 'mongst savage beasts doth find Her self more safe then humane<33.19> kind. Then she relates, how Caelia--<33.20> The lady--here strippes her array, And girdles her in home-spunne bayes Then makes her conversant in layes Of birds, and swaines more innocent, That kenne not guile [n]or courtship ment. Now walks she to her bow'r to dine Under a shade of Eglantine, Upon a dish of Natures cheere Which both grew, drest and serv'd up there: That done, she feasts her smell with po'ses Pluckt from the damask cloath of Roses. Which there continually doth stay, And onely frost can take away; Then wagers which hath most content Her eye, eare, hand, her gust or sent. Intranc't Alexis sees and heares, As walking above all the spheres: Knows and adores this, and is wilde,<33.21> Untill with her he live thus milde.<33.22> So that, which to his thoughts he meant For losse of her a punishment, His armes hung up and his sword broke, His ensignes folded, he betook Himself unto the humble crook. And for a full reward of all, She now doth him her shepheard call, And in a see of flow'rs install: Then gives her faith immediately, Which he returns religiously; Both vowing in her peacefull cave To make their bridall-bed and grave. But the true joy this pair conceiv'd, Each from the other first bereav'd, And then found, after such alarmes, Fast-pinion'd in each other's armes, Ye panting virgins, that do meet Your loves within their winding sheet, Breathing and constant still ev'n there; Or souls their bodies in yon' sphere, Or angels, men return'd from hell And separated mindes--can tell.

<33.1> The punctuation of this piece is in the original edition singularly corrupt. I have found it necessary to amend it throughout.

<33.2> The marigold.

<33.3> A flower so called.

<33.4> More commonly known as THE GILLIFLOWER.

<33.5> i.e. the lady gathers the flowers, and binds them in her hair with a silken fillet, making of them a kind of chaplet or crown.

<33.6> i.e. silvery or white milk.

<33.7> An uncommon word, signifying WRINKLED. Bishop Hall seems to be, with the exception of Lovelace, almost the only writer who used it. Compare, however, the following passage:--

"Like to a WRITHEL'D Carion I have seen
(Instead of fifty, write her down fifteen)
Wearing her bought complexion in a box,
And ev'ry morn her closet-face unlocks."
PLANTAGENET'S TRAGICALL STORY, by T. W. 1649, p. 105.

<33.8> Original has PRIZE THEIR.

<33.9> The fish with their silvery scales.

<33.10> Fins.

<33.11> Original reads BUT LOOK.

<33.12> Original has THERE.

<33.13> i.e. condemned.

<33.14> This word does not appear to have any very exact meaning. See Halliwell's DICTIONARY OF ARCHAIC WORDS, art. POSSE, and Worcester's Dict. IBID, &c. The context here requires TO TURN SHARPLY OR QUICKLY.

<33.15> Original has SIGHT.

<33.16> Original reads I. The meaning seems to be, "I crave that my woes may be smothered in me, and I may be smothered in my grave."

<33.17> Reverence.

<33.18> i.e. in heaven.

<33.19> i.e. than among human kind.

<33.20> It may be presumed that LUCASTA had adopted the name of CAELIA during her sylvan retreat.

<33.21> Impatient.

<33.22> Tranquil or secluded.

TO ELLINDA, THAT LATELY I HAVE NOT WRITTEN.

I. If in me anger, or disdaine In you, or both, made me refraine From th' noble intercourse of verse, That only vertuous thoughts rehearse; Then, chaste Ellinda, might you feare The sacred vowes that I did sweare.

II. But if alone some pious thought Me to an inward sadnesse brought, Thinking to breath your soule too welle, My tongue was charmed with that spell; And left it (since there was no roome To voyce your worth enough) strooke dumbe.

III. So then this silence doth reveal No thought of negligence, but zeal: For, as in adoration, This is love's true devotion; Children and fools the words repeat, But anch'rites pray in tears and sweat.

ELLINDA'S GLOVE.
SONNET.

I.
Thou snowy farme with thy five tenements!<34.1>
Tell thy white mistris here was one,
That call'd to pay his dayly rents;
But she a-gathering flowr's and hearts is gone,
And thou left voyd to rude possession.

II.
But grieve not, pretty Ermin cabinet,
Thy alabaster lady will come home;
If not, what tenant can there fit
The slender turnings of thy narrow roome,
But must ejected be by his owne dombe?<34.2>

III.
Then give me leave to leave my rent with thee:
Five kisses, one unto a place:
For though the lute's too high for me,
Yet servants, knowing minikin<34.3> nor base,
Are still allow'd to fiddle with the case.

<34.1> i.e. the white glove of the lady with its five fingers.

<34.2> Doom.

<34.3> A description of musical pin attached to a lute. It was only brought into play by accomplished musicians. In the address of "The Country Suiter to his Love," printed in Cotgrave's WITS INTERPRETER, 1662, p. 119, the man says:--

"Fair Wench! I cannot court thy sprightly eyes
With a base-viol plac'd betwixt my thighs,
I cannot lisp, nor to a fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high-strecht minikin."

In Middleton's FAMILIE OF LOVE, 1608 (Works by Dyce, ii. 127) there is the following passage:--

"GUDGEON. Ay, and to all that forswear marriage, and can be
content with other men's wives.
GERARDINE. Of which consort you two are grounds; one touches
the bass, and the other tickles the minikin."

BEING TREATED.
TO ELLINDA.

For cherries plenty, and for corans Enough for fifty, were there more on's; For elles of beere,<35.1> flutes<35.2> of canary, That well did wash downe pasties-Mary;<35.3> For peason, chickens, sawces high, Pig, and the widdow-venson-pye;<35.4> With certaine promise (to your brother) Of the virginity of another, Where it is thought I too may peepe in With knuckles far as any deepe in;<35.5> For glasses, heads, hands, bellies full Of wine, and loyne right-worshipfull;<35.6> Whether all of, or more behind--a Thankes freest, freshest, faire Ellinda. Thankes for my visit not disdaining, Or at the least thankes for your feigning; For if your mercy doore were lockt-well, I should be justly soundly knockt-well; Cause that in dogrell I did mutter Not one rhime to you from dam-Rotter.<35.7>

Next beg I to present my duty To pregnant sister in prime beauty, Whom well I deeme (e're few months elder) Will take out Hans from pretty Kelder, And to the sweetly fayre Mabella, A match that vies with Arabella; In each respect but the misfortune, Fortune, Fate, I thee importune.

Nor must I passe the lovely Alice, Whose health I'd quaffe in golden chalice; But since that Fate hath made me neuter, I only can in beaker pewter: But who'd forget, or yet left un-sung The doughty acts of George the yong-son? Who yesterday to save his sister Had slaine the snake, had he not mist her: But I shall leave him, 'till a nag on He gets to prosecute the dragon; And then with helpe of sun and taper, Fill with his deeds twelve reames of paper, That Amadis,<35.8> Sir Guy, and Topaz With his fleet neigher shall keep no-pace. But now to close all I must switch-hard, [Your] servant ever; LOVELACE RICHARD.

<35.1> This expression has reference to the old practice of drinking beer and wine out of very high glasses, with divisions marked on them. A yard of ale is even now a well understood term: nor is the custom itself out of date, since in some parts of the country one is asked to take, not a glass, but A YARD. The ell was of course, strictly speaking, a larger measure than a yard; but it was often employed as a mere synonyme or equivalent. Thus, in MAROCCUS EXTATICUS, 1595, Bankes says:-- "Measure, Marocco, nay, nay, they that take up commodities make no difference for measure between a Flemish elle and an English yard."

<35.2> In the new edition of Nares (1859), this very passage is quoted to illustrate the meaning of the word, which is defined rather vaguely to be A CASK. Obviously the word signifies something of the kind, but the explanation does not at all satisfy me. I suspect that a flute OF CANARY was so called from the cask having several vent-holes, in the same way that the French call a lamprey FLEUTE D'ALEMAN from the fish having little holes in the upper part of its body.

<35.3> Forsyth, in his ANTIQUARY'S PORTFOLIO, 1825, mentions certain "glutton-feasts," which used formerly to be celebrated periodically in honour of the Virgin; perhaps the pasties used on these occasions were thence christened PASTIES-MARY.

<35.4> Venison pies or pasties were the most favourite dish in this country in former times; innumerable illustrations might be furnished of the high esteem in which this description of viand was held by our ancestors, who regarded it as a thoroughly English luxury. The anonymous author of HORAE SUBSECIVAE, 1620, p. 38 (this volume is supposed to have been written by Giles Brydges, Lord Chandos), describes an affected Englishman who has been travelling on the Continent, as "sweating at the sight of a pasty of venison," and as "swearing that the only delicacies be mushrooms, or CAVIARE, or snayles."

"The full-cram'd dishes made the table crack,
Gammons of bacon, brawn, and what was chief,
King in all feasts, a tall Sir Loyne of BEEF,
Fat venison pasties smoaking, 'tis no fable,
Swans in their broath came swimming to the table."--
Poems of Ben Johnson Junior, by W. S. 1672, p. 3.

<35.5> An allusion to the scantiness of forks. "And when your justice of peace is knuckle-deep in goose, you may without disparagement to your blood, though you have a lady to your mother, fall very manfully to your woodcocks."-- Decker's GULS HORN BOOK, 1609, ed. Nott, p. 121.

"Hodge. Forks! what be they?
Mar. The laudable use of forks,
Brought into custom here, as they are in Italy,
To the sparing of napkins--"
Jonson's THE DEVIL IS AN ASS, act. v. scene 4.

"Lovell. Your hand, good sir.
Greedy. This is a lord, and some think this a favour;
But I had rather have my hand in my dumpling."
Massinger's NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS, 1633.

<35.6> The sirloin of beef.

<35.7> Rotterdam.

<35.8> AMADIS DE GAULE. The translation of this romance by Anthony Munday and two or three others, whose assistance he obtained, made it popular in England, although, perhaps with the exception of the portion executed by Munday himself, the performance is beneath criticism.

TO ELLINDA.
VPON HIS LATE RECOVERY.
A PARADOX.

I.
How I grieve that I am well!
All my health was in my sicknes,
Go then, Destiny, and tell,
Very death is in this quicknes.

II.
Such a fate rules over me,
That I glory when I languish,
And do blesse the remedy,
That doth feed, not quench my anguish.

III.
'Twas a gentle warmth that ceas'd
In the vizard of a feavor;
But I feare now I am eas'd
All the flames, since I must leave her.

IV.
Joyes, though witherd, circled me,
When unto her voice inured
Like those who, by harmony,
Only can be throughly cured.

V.
Sweet, sure, was that malady,
Whilst the pleasant angel hover'd,
Which ceasing they are all, as I,
Angry that they are recover'd.

VI.
And as men in hospitals,
That are maim'd, are lodg'd and dined;
But when once their danger fals,
Ah th' are healed to be pined!

VII.
Fainting so, I might before
Sometime have the leave to hand her,
But lusty, am beat out of dore,
And for Love compell'd to wander.

TO CHLOE, COURTING HER FOR HIS FRIEND.

I.
Chloe, behold! againe I bowe:
Againe possest, againe I woe;
From my heat hath taken fire
Damas, noble youth, and fries,<36.1>
Gazing with one of mine eyes,
Damas, halfe of me expires:
Chloe, behold! Our fate's the same.
Or make me cinders too, or quench his flame

II.
I'd not be King, unlesse there sate
Lesse lords that shar'd with me in state
Who, by their cheaper coronets, know,
What glories from my diadem flow:
Its use and rate<36.2> values the gem:
Pearles in their shells have no esteem;
And, I being sun within thy sphere,
'Tis my chiefe beauty thinner lights shine there.

III.
The Us'rer heaps unto his store
By seeing others praise it more;
Who not for gaine or want doth covet,
But, 'cause another loves, doth love it:
Thus gluttons cloy'd afresh invite
Their gusts from some new appetite;
And after cloth remov'd, and meate,
Fall too againe by seeing others eate.

<36.1> This is not unfrequently used in old writers in the sense of BURN:--

"But Lucilla, who now began to frie in the flames of love, all the company being departed," &c.--Lyly's EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c v. verso.

"My lady-mistresse cast an amourous eye
Upon my forme, which her affections drew,
Shee was Love's martyr, and in flames did frye."
EGYPT'S FAVORITE. THE HISTORIE OF JOSEPH.
By Sir F. Hubert, 1631, sig. C.

<36.2> The estimation in which it is held, its marketable worth.

GRATIANA DAUNCING AND SINGING.

I. See! with what constant motion Even and glorious, as the sunne, Gratiana steeres that noble frame, Soft as her breast, sweet as her voyce, That gave each winding law and poyze, And swifter then the wings of Fame.

II. She beat the happy pavement By such a starre-made firmament, Which now no more the roofe envies; But swells up high with Atlas ev'n, Bearing the brighter, nobler Heav'n, And in her, all the Dieties.

III. Each step trod out a lovers thought And the ambitious hopes he brought, Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe, As when she ceas'd, we sighing saw The floore lay pav'd with broken hearts.

IV. So did she move: so did she sing: Like the harmonious spheres that bring Unto their rounds their musick's ayd; Which she performed such a way, As all th' inamour'd world will say: The Graces daunced, and Apollo play'd.

AMYNTOR'S GROVE,<37.1>
HIS CHLORIS, ARIGO,<37.2> AND GRATIANA.
AN ELOGIE.

It was<37.3> Amyntor's Grove, that Chloris For ever ecchoes, and her glories; Chloris, the gentlest sheapherdesse, That ever lawnes and lambes did blesse; Her breath, like to the whispering winde, Was calme as thought, sweet as her minde; Her lips like coral gates kept in The perfume and<37.4> the pearle within; Her eyes a double-flaming torch That alwayes shine, and never scorch; Her<37.5> selfe the Heav'n in which did meet The all of bright, of faire and sweet. Here was I brought with that delight That seperated soules take flight; And when my reason call'd my sence Back somewhat from this excellence, That I could see, I did begin T' observe the curious ordering Of every roome, where 'ts hard to know, Which most excels in sent or show. Arabian gummes do breathe here forth, And th' East's come over to the North; The windes have brought their hyre<37.6> of sweet To see Amyntor Chloris greet; Balme and nard, and each perfume, To blesse this payre,<37.7> chafe and consume; And th' Phoenix, see! already fries! Her neast a fire in Chloris<37.8> eyes! Next<37.9> the great and powerful hand Beckens my thoughts unto a stand Of Titian, Raphael, Georgone Whose art even Nature hath out-done; For if weake Nature only can Intend, not perfect, what is man, These certainely we must prefer, Who mended what she wrought, and her; And sure the shadowes of those rare And kind incomparable fayre Are livelier, nobler company, Then if they could or speake, or see: For these<37.10> I aske without a tush, Can kisse or touch without a blush, And we are taught that substance is, If uninjoy'd, but th'<37.11> shade of blisse. Now every saint cleerly divine, Is clos'd so in her severall shrine; The gems so rarely, richly set, For them wee love the cabinet; So intricately plac't withall, As if th' imbrordered the wall, So that the pictures seem'd to be But one continued tapistrie.<37.12> After this travell of mine eyes We sate, and pitied Dieties; Wee bound our loose hayre with the vine, The poppy, and the eglantine; One swell'd an oriental bowle Full, as a grateful, loyal soule To Chloris! Chloris! Heare, oh, heare! 'Tis pledg'd above in ev'ry sphere. Now streight the Indians richest prize Is kindled in<37.13> glad sacrifice; Cloudes are sent up on wings of thyme, Amber, pomgranates, jessemine, And through our earthen conduicts sore Higher then altars fum'd before. So drencht we our oppressing cares, And choakt the wide jawes of our feares. Whilst ravisht thus we did devise, If this were not a Paradice In all, except these harmlesse sins: Behold! flew in two cherubins, Cleare as the skye from whence they came, And brighter than the sacred flame; The boy adorn'd with modesty, Yet armed so with majesty, That if the Thunderer againe His eagle sends, she stoops in vaine.<37.14> Besides his innocence he tooke A sword and casket, and did looke Like Love in armes; he wrote but five, Yet spake eighteene; each grace did strive, And twenty Cupids thronged forth, Who first should shew his prettier worth. But oh, the Nymph! Did you ere know Carnation mingled with snow?<37.15> Or have you seene the lightning shrowd, And straight breake through th' opposing cloud? So ran her blood; such was its hue; So through her vayle her bright haire flew, And yet its glory did appeare But thinne, because her eyes were neere. Blooming boy, and blossoming mayd, May your faire sprigges be neere betray'd To<37.16> eating worme or fouler storme; No serpent lurke to do them harme; No sharpe frost cut, no North-winde teare, The verdure of that fragrant hayre; But<37.17> may the sun and gentle weather, When you are both growne ripe together, Load you with fruit, such as your Father From you with all the joyes doth gather: And may you, when one branch is dead, Graft such another in its stead, Lasting thus ever in your prime, 'Till th' sithe is snatcht away from Time.<37.18>

<37.1> In the MS. copy this poem exhibits considerable variations, and is entitled "Gratiana's Eulogy."

<37.2> ARIGO or ARRIGO is the Venetian form of HENRICO. I have no means of identifying CHLORIS or GRATIANA; but AMYNTOR was probably, as I have already suggested, Endymion Porter, and ARIGO was unquestionably no other than Henry Jermyn, or Jarmin, who, though no poet, was, like his friend Porter, a liberal and discerning patron of men of letters.

"Yet when thy noble choice appear'd, that by
Their combat first prepar'd thy victory:
ENDYMION and ARIGO, who delight
In numbers--"
Davenant's MADAGASCAR, 1638 (Works, 1673, p. 212).

See also p. 247 of Davenant's Works.

Jermyn's name is associated with that of Porter in the noblest dedication in our language, that to DAVENANT'S POEMS, 1638, 12mo. "If these poems live," &c.

<37.3> This and the five next lines are not in MS. which opens with "Her lips," &c.

<37.4> So original; MS. reads OF.

<37.5> This and the next thirteen lines are not in MS.

<<37.6>> i.e. tribute.

<37.7> FAIRE--MS.

<37.8> HER FAIRE--MS. The story of the phoenix was very popular, and the allusions to it in the early writers are almost innumerable.

"My labour did to greater things aspire,
To find a PHOENIX melted in the fire,
Out of whose ashes should spring up to birth
A friend"--
POEMS OF Ben Johnson jun., by W. S., 1672, p. 18.

<37.9> This and the next eleven lines are not in MS.

<37.10> The MS. reads SHE.

<37.11> The MS. reads for BUT TH' "the."

<37.12> In the houses of such as could afford the expense, the walls of rooms were formerly lined with tapestry instead of paper.

<37.13> So MS.; original has A.

<37.14> An allusion to the fable of Jupiter and Ganymede.

<37.15> MIX'D WITH DROPPINGE SNOW--MS.

<37.16> This and the succeeding line are not in MS.

<37.17> This and the six following lines are not in MS.

<37.18> Here we have a figure, which reminds us of Jonson's famous lines on the Countess of Pembroke; but certainly in this instance the palm of superiority is due to Lovelace, whose conception of Time having his scythe snatched from him is bolder and finer than that of the earlier and greater poet.

THE SCRUTINIE.
SONG.
SET BY MR. THOMAS CHARLES.<38.1>

I.
Why shouldst thou<38.2> sweare I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?
Lady, it is already Morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

II.
Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve moneths<38.3> space?
I should<38.4> all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new imbrace;
Should<38.5> I still dote upon thy face.

III.
Not but all joy in thy browne haire
In<38.6> others may be found;
But I must search the black and faire,
Like skilfulle minerallists that sound
For treasure in un-plow'd-up<38.7> ground.

IV.
Then if, when I have lov'd my<38.8> round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoyles<38.9> of meaner beauties crown'd,
I laden will returne to thee,
Ev'n sated with varietie.

<38.1> This poem appears in WITS INTERPRETER, by John Cotgrave, ed. 1662, p. 214, under the title of "On his Mistresse, who unjustly taxed him of leaving her off."

<38.2> So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads SHOULD YOU.

<38.3> So Cotgrave. This is preferable to HOURS, the reading in LUCASTA.

<38.4> So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads MUST.

<38.5> So Cotgrave. LUCASTA has COULD.

<38.6> So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads BY.

<38.7> UNBIDDEN--Cotgrave.

<38.8> THEE--Cotgrave.

<38.9> IN SPOIL--Cotgrave.

PRINCESSE LOYSA<39.1> DRAWING.

I saw a little Diety, MINERVA in epitomy, Whom VENUS, at first blush, surpris'd, Tooke for her winged wagge disguis'd. But viewing then, whereas she made Not a distrest, but lively shade Of ECCHO whom he had betrayd, Now wanton, and ith' coole oth' Sunne With her delight a hunting gone, And thousands more, whom he had slaine; To live and love, belov'd againe: Ah! this is true divinity! I will un-God that toye! cri'd she; Then markt she SYRINX running fast To Pan's imbraces, with the haste Shee fled him once, whose reede-pipe rent He finds now a new Instrument. THESEUS return'd invokes the Ayre And windes, then wafts his faire; Whilst ARIADNE ravish't stood Half in his armes, halfe in the flood. Proud ANAXERETE doth fall At IPHIS feete, who smiles at<39.2> all: And he (whilst she his curles doth deck) Hangs no where now, but on her neck. Here PHOEBUS with a beame untombes Long-hid LEUCOTHOE, and doomes Her father there; DAPHNE the faire Knowes now no bayes but round her haire; And to APOLLO and his Sons, Who pay him their due Orisons, Bequeaths her lawrell-robe, that flame Contemnes, Thunder and evill Fame. There kneel'd ADONIS fresh as spring, Gay as his youth, now offering Herself those joyes with voice and hand, Which first he could not understand. Transfixed VENUS stood amas'd, Full of the Boy and Love, she gaz'd, And in imbraces seemed more Senceless and colde then he before. Uselesse Childe! In vaine (said she) You beare that fond artillerie; See heere a pow'r above the slow Weake execution of thy bow. So said, she riv'd the wood in two, Unedged all his arrowes too, And with the string their feathers bound To that part, whence we have our wound. See, see! the darts by which we burn'd Are bright Loysa's pencills turn'd, With which she now enliveth more Beauties, than they destroy'd before.

<39.1> Probably the second daughter of Frederic and Elizabeth of Bohemia, b. 1622. See Townend's DESCENDANTS OF THE STUARTS, 1858, p. 7.

<39.2> Original has OF.

A FORSAKEN LADY TO HER FALSE SERVANT
THAT IS DISDAINED BY HIS NEW MISTRISS.<40.1>

Were it that you so shun me, 'cause you wish (Cruels't) a fellow in your wretchednesse, Or that you take some small ease in your owne Torments, to heare another sadly groane, I were most happy in my paines, to be So truely blest, to be so curst by thee: But oh! my cries to that doe rather adde, Of which too much already thou hast had, And thou art gladly sad to heare my moane; Yet sadly hearst me with derision.

Thou most unjust, that really dust know, And feelst thyselfe the flames I burne in. Oh! How can you beg to be set loose from that Consuming stake you binde another at?

Uncharitablest both wayes, to denie That pity me, for which yourself must dye, To love not her loves you, yet know the pain What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.

Flye on, flye on, swift Racer, untill she Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan, What terrour 'tis t'outgo and be outgon.

Nor yet looke back, nor yet must we Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally, And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still By the weake cordage of your untwin'd will Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne, And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne; My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate MADE YOU HATE LOVE, AND FALL IN LOVE WITH HATE.

But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give My soule a noble quicknes, made me live One breath yet longer, and to will, and see Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee: That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave, Thyselfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave: That thou mightst, sinking in thy triumphs, moan, And I triumph in my destruction.

Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire Rav'd<40.2> o're my purer thoughts I feel t' expire, And I am candied ice. Yee pow'rs! if e're I shall be forc't unto my sepulcher, Or violently hurl'd into my urne, Oh make me choose rather to freeze than burne.

<40.1> Carew (POEMS, ed. 1651, p. 53) has some lines, entitled, "In the person of a Lady to her Inconstant Servant," which are of nearly similar purport to Lovelace's poem, but are both shorter and better.

<40.2> RAV'D seems here to be equivalent to REAV'D, or BEREAV'D. Perhaps the correct reading may be "reav'd." See Worcester's DICTIONARY, art. RAVE, where Menage's supposition of affinity between RAVE and BEREAVE is perhaps a little too slightingly treated.

THE GRASSEHOPPER.
TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON.<41.1>
ODE.

I.
Oh thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare<41.2>
Of some well-filled oaten beard,<41.3>
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare<41.4>
Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

II.
The joyes of earth and ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy poppy workes, thou dost retire
To thy carv'd acorn-bed to lye.

III.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt plats<41.5> of his beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,<41.6>
Thy selfe, and melancholy streames.

IV.
But ah, the sickle! golden eares are cropt;
CERES and BACCHUS bid good-night;
Sharpe frosty fingers all your flowrs have topt,
And what sithes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

V.
Poore verdant foole! and now green ice, thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy peirch<41.7> of grasse,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter raine, and poize
Their flouds with an o'erflowing glasse.

VI.
Thou best of men and friends? we will create
A genuine summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate,
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

VII.
Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
As vestal flames; the North-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd winges, dissolve and flye
This Aetna in epitome.

VIII.
Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewayle th' usurping of his raigne;
But when in show'rs of old Greeke<41.8> we beginne,
Shall crie, he hath his crowne againe!

IX.
Night as cleare Hesper shall our tapers whip
From the light casements, where we play,
And the darke hagge from her black mantle strip,
And sticke there everlasting day.

X.
Thus richer then untempted kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need:
Though lord of all what seas imbrace, yet he
That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.

<41.1> Charles Cotton the elder, father of the poet. He died in 1658. This poem is extracted in CENSURA LITERARIA, ix. 352, as a favourable specimen of Lovelace's poetical genius. The text is manifestly corrupt, but I have endeavoured to amend it. In Elton's SPECIMENS OF CLASSIC POETS, 1814, i. 148, is a translation of Anacreon's Address to the Cicada, or Tree-Locust (Lovelace's grasshopper?), which is superior to the modern poem, being less prolix, and more natural in its manner. In all Lovelace's longer pieces there are too many obscure and feeble conceits, and too many evidences of a leaning to the metaphysical and antithetical school of poetry.

<41.2> Original has HAIRE.

<41.3> i.e. a beard of oats.

<41.4> Meleager's invocation to the tree-locust commences thus in Elton's translation:--

"Oh shrill-voiced insect! that with dew-drops sweet
Inebriate----"

See also Cowley's ANACREONTIQUES, No. X. THE GRASSHOPPER.

<41.5> i.e. horizontal lines tinged with gold. See Halliwell's GLOSSARY OF ARCHAIC WORDS, 1860, art. PLAT (seventh and eighth meaning). The late editors of Nares cite this passage from LUCASTA as an illustration of GUILT-PLATS, which they define to be "plots of gold." This definition, unsupported by any other evidence, is not very satisfactory, and certainly it has no obvious application here.

<41.6> Randolph says:--

"----toiling ants perchance delight to hear
The summer musique of the gras-hopper."
POEMS, 1640, p. 90.

It is it question, perhaps, whether Lovelace intended by the GRASSHOPPER the CICADA or the LOCUSTA. See Sir Thomas Browne's INQUIRIES INTO VULGAR ERRORS (Works, by Wilkins, 1836, iii. 93).

<41.7> Perch.

<41.8> i.e. old Greek wine.

AN ELEGIE.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CASSANDRA COTTON,
ONLY SISTER TO MR. C. COTTON.<42.1>

Hither with hallowed steps as is the ground, That must enshrine this saint with lookes profound, And sad aspects as the dark vails you weare, Virgins opprest, draw gently, gently neare; Enter the dismall chancell of this rooome, Where each pale guest stands fixt a living tombe; With trembling hands helpe to remove this earth To its last death and first victorious birth: Let gums and incense fume, who are at strife To enter th' hearse and breath in it new life; Mingle your steppes with flowers as you goe, Which, as they haste to fade, will speake your woe.

And when y' have plac't your tapers on her urn, How poor a tribute 'tis to weep and mourn! That flood the channell of your eye-lids fils, When you lose trifles, or what's lesse, your wills. If you'l be worthy of these obsequies, Be blind unto the world, and drop your eyes; Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire That's fed no more: so willingly expire; Passe through the cold and obscure narrow way, Then light your torches at the spring of day, There with her triumph in your victory. Such joy alone and such solemnity Becomes this funerall of virginity.

Or, if you faint to be so blest, oh heare! If not to dye, dare but to live like her: Dare to live virgins, till the honour'd age Of thrice fifteen cals matrons on the stage, Whilst not a blemish or least staine is scene On your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene; But as it in your swathing-bands was given, Bring't in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n. Daere to do purely, without compact good, Or herald, by no one understood But him, who now in thanks bows either knee For th' early benefit and secresie.

Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow, To which delights of pallaces are narrow, And, lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome, Where practise the probation of your tombe With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r, Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r; Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners May put in safely, and secure their feares, Who, adding to your joyes, now owe you theirs.

Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take To follow her in life, else through this lake Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars, Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of stars, Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline, Where round you love and joy for ever shine.

But you are dumbe, as what you do lament More senseles then her very monument, Which at your weaknes weeps. Spare that vaine teare, Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulcher. Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall, And celebrate your owne sad funerall: For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see, YOU ARE MORE DEAD AND BURIED THEN SHEE.

<42.1> Cassandra Cotton, only daughter of Sir George Cotton, of Warblenton, Co. Sussex, and of Bedhampton, co. Hants, died some time before 1649, unmarried. She was the sister of Charles Cotton the elder, and aunt to the poet. See WALTON'S ANGLER, ed. Nicolas, Introduction, clxvi.

THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON.
A SONG.<43.1>
SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I.
Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!
Care shackles you in liberty:
Mirth frees you in captivity.
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Chorus. Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde Griefe too can manakell the minde.

II.
Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd;
Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollitie
And throats are free--

Chorus. Tryumph in your bonds and paines, And daunce to the music of your chaines.

<43.1> Probably composed during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER.<44.1>
AN ELEGIACALL EPITAPH.

You that shall live awhile, before Old time tyrs, and is no more: When that this ambitious stone Stoopes low as what it tramples on: Know that in that age, when sinne Gave the world law, and governd Queene, A virgin liv'd, that still put on White thoughts, though out of fashion: That trac't the stars, 'spite of report, And durst be good, though chidden for't: Of such a soule that infant Heav'n Repented what it thus had giv'n: For finding equall happy man, Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen. Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled, She, making her celestiall bed In her warme alablaster, lay As cold is in this house of clay: Nor were the rooms unfit to feast Or circumscribe this angel-guest; The radiant gemme was brightly set In as divine a carkanet; Of<44.2> which the clearer was not knowne, Her minde or her complexion. Such an everlasting grace, Such a beatifick face, Incloysters here this narrow floore, That possest all hearts before.

Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth! The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth! Virgins at each step are afeard, Filmer is shot by which they steer'd, Their star extinct, their beauty dead, That the yong world to honour led; But see! the rapid spheres stand still, And tune themselves unto her will.

Thus, although this marble must, As all things, crumble into dust, And though you finde this faire-built tombe Ashes, as what lyes in its wombe: Yet her saint-like name shall shine A living glory to this shrine, And her eternall fame be read, When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.<44.3>

<44.1> This lady was perhaps the daughter of Edward Filmer, Esq., of East Sutton, co. Kent, by his wife Eliza, daughter of Richard Argall, Esq., of the same place (See Harl. MS. 1432, p. 300). Possibly, the Edward Filmer mentioned here was the same as the author of "Frenche Court Ayres, with their Ditties englished," 1629, in praise of which Jonson has some lines in his UNDERWOODS.

<44.2> Original reads FOR.

<44.3> "Which ensuing times shall warble,
When 'tis lost, that's writ in marble."
Wither's FAIR VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHILARETE, 1622.

Headley (SELECT BEAUTIES, ed. 1810, ii. p. 42) has remarked the similarity between these lines and some in Collins' DIRGE IN CYMBELINE:--

"Belov'd till life can charm no more;
And MOURN'D TILL PITY'S SELF BE DEAD."

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. PETER LILLY:<45.1>
ON THAT EXCELLENT PICTURE OF HIS MAJESTY AND THE DUKE OF YORKE,
DRAWNE BY HIM AT HAMPTON-COURT.

See! what a clouded majesty, and eyes Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise! See! what an humble bravery doth shine, And griefe triumphant breaking through each line, How it commands the face! so sweet a scorne Never did HAPPY MISERY adorne! So sacred a contempt, that others show To this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below, That mightiest monarchs by this shaded booke May coppy out their proudest, richest looke.

Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies, And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes; He cures<45.2> his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight; Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow, And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.

These, my best LILLY, with so bold a spirit And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit For that time all their greatnesse, and didst draw With those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.

Not as of old, when a rough hand did speake A strong aspect, and a faire face, a weake; When only a black beard cried villaine, and By hieroglyphicks we could understand; When chrystall typified in a white spot, And the bright ruby was but one red blot; Thou dost the things Orientally the same Not only paintst its colour, but its flame: Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare, And with the man his very hope or feare; So that th' amazed world shall henceforth finde None but my LILLY ever drew a MINDE.

<45.1> Mr., afterwards Sir Peter, Lely. He was frequently called Lilly, or Lilley, by his contemporaries, and Lilley is Pepys' spelling. "At Lord Northumberland's, at Sion, is a remarkable picture of King Charles I, holding a letter directed 'au roi monseigneur,' and the Duke of York, aet. 14, presenting a penknife to him to cut the strings. It was drawn at Hampton Court, when the King was last there, by Mr. Lely, who was earnestly recommended to him. I should have taken it for the hand of Fuller or Dobson. It is certainly very unlike Sir Peter's latter manner, and is stronger than his former. The King has none of the melancholy grace which Vandyck alone, of all his painters, always gave him. It has a sterner countenance, and expressive of the tempests he had experienced."--Walpole's ANECDOTES OF PAINTING IN ENGLAND, ed. 1862, p. 443-4.

<45.2> Original reads CARES.

THE LADY A. L.<46.1>
MY ASYLUM IN A GREAT EXTREMITY.

With that delight the Royal captiv's<46.2> brought Before the throne, to breath his farewell thought, To tel his last tale, and so end with it, Which gladly he esteemes a benefit; When the brave victor, at his great soule dumbe, Findes something there fate cannot overcome, Cals the chain'd prince, and by his glory led, First reaches him his crowne, and then his head; Who ne're 'til now thinks himself slave and poor; For though nought else, he had himselfe before. He weepes at this faire chance, nor wil allow, But that the diadem doth brand his brow, And under-rates himselfe below mankinde, Who first had lost his body, now his minde,

With such a joy came I to heare my dombe, And haste the preparation of my tombe, When, like good angels who have heav'nly charge To steere and guide mans sudden giddy barge, She snatcht me from the rock I was upon, And landed me at life's pavillion: Where I, thus wound out of th' immense abysse, Was straight set on a pinacle of blisse.