Chapter 8

Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them hearts-ease turn'd to flowers.

194. WHY FLOWERS CHANGE COLOUR

These fresh beauties, we can prove, Once were virgins, sick of love, Turn'd to flowers: still in some, Colours go and colours come.

195. THE PRIMROSE

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears,-- The sweets of love are mixt with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer,--these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

196. TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this? --No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

197. TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Has not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherds' star Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye; And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die.

198. TO DAFFADILS

Fair Daffadils, 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 hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

199. TO VIOLETS

Welcome, maids of honour, You do bring In the Spring; And wait upon her.

She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies; And so graced, To be placed 'Fore damask roses.

--Yet, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

200. THE APRON OF FLOWERS

To gather flowers, Sappha went, And homeward she did bring Within her lawny continent, The treasure of the Spring.

She smiling blush'd, and blushing smiled, And sweetly blushing thus, She look'd as she'd been got with child By young Favonius.

Her apron gave, as she did pass, An odour more divine, More pleasing too, than ever was The lap of Proserpine.

201. THE LILY IN A CRYSTAL

You have beheld a smiling rose When virgins' hands have drawn O'er it a cobweb-lawn: And here, you see, this lily shows, Tomb'd in a crystal stone, More fair in this transparent case Than when it grew alone, And had but single grace.

You see how cream but naked is, Nor dances in the eye Without a strawberry; Or some fine tincture, like to this, Which draws the sight thereto, More by that wantoning with it, Than when the paler hue No mixture did admit.

You see how amber through the streams More gently strokes the sight, With some conceal'd delight, Than when he darts his radiant beams Into the boundless air; Where either too much light his worth Doth all at once impair, Or set it little forth.

Put purple grapes or cherries in- To glass, and they will send More beauty to commend Them, from that clean and subtle skin, Than if they naked stood, And had no other pride at all, But their own flesh and blood, And tinctures natural.

Thus lily, rose, grape, cherry, cream, And strawberry do stir More love, when they transfer A weak, a soft, a broken beam; Than if they should discover At full their proper excellence, Without some scene cast over, To juggle with the sense.

Thus let this crystall'd lily be A rule, how far to teach Your nakedness must reach; And that no further than we see Those glaring colours laid By art's wise hand, but to this end They should obey a shade, Lest they too far extend.

--So though you're white as swan or snow, And have the power to move A world of men to love; Yet, when your lawns and silks shall flow, And that white cloud divide Into a doubtful twilight;--then, Then will your hidden pride Raise greater fires in men.

202. TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come, To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round; Each virgin, like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd.

But now, we see none here, Whose silvery feet did tread And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown You're left here to lament Your poor estates alone.

203. TO A GENTLEWOMAN, OBJECTING TO HIM HIS GRAY HAIRS

Am I despised, because you say; And I dare swear, that I am gray? Know, Lady, you have but your day! And time will come when you shall wear Such frost and snow upon your hair; And when, though long, it comes to pass, You question with your looking-glass, And in that sincere crystal seek But find no rose-bud in your cheek, Nor any bed to give the shew Where such a rare carnation grew:- Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping, It will be told That you are old,-- By those true tears you're weeping.

204. THE CHANGES: TO CORINNA

Be not proud, but now incline Your soft ear to discipline; You have changes in your life, Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife; You have ebbs of face and flows, As your health or comes or goes; You have hopes, and doubts, and fears, Numberless as are your hairs; You have pulses that do beat High, and passions less of heat; You are young, but must be old:-- And, to these, ye must be told, Time, ere long, will come and plow Loathed furrows in your brow: And the dimness of your eye Will no other thing imply, But you must die As well as I.

205. UPON MRS ELIZ. WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS

Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's Soft and soul-melting murmurings, Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew A Robin-red-breast; who at view, Not seeing her at all to stir, Brought leaves and moss to cover her: But while he, perking, there did pry About the arch of either eye, The lid began to let out day,-- At which poor Robin flew away; And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved, He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.

206. NO FAULT IN WOMEN

No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would chuse. --No fault: in women, to confess How tedious they are in their dress; --No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion; And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny. --No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they're nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else. --No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; --No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

207. THE BAG OF THE BEE

About the sweet bag of a bee Two Cupids fell at odds; And whose the pretty prize should be They vow'd to ask the Gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came, And for their boldness stript them; And taking thence from each his flame, With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'd seen them, She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes, And gave the bag between them.

208. THE PRESENT; OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE:

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee, And say thou bring'st this honey-bag from me; When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed, Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste; If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum, Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.

209. TO THE WATER-NYMPHS DRINKING AT THE FOUNTAIN

Reach with your whiter hands to me Some crystal of the spring; And I about the cup shall see Fresh lilies flourishing.

Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this-- To th' glass your lips incline; And I shall see by that one kiss The water turn'd to wine.

210. HOW SPRINGS CAME FIRST

These springs were maidens once that loved, But lost to that they most approved: My story tells, by Love they were Turn'd to these springs which we see here: The pretty whimpering that they make, When of the banks their leave they take, Tells ye but this, they are the same, In nothing changed but in their name.

211. TO THE HANDSOME MISTRESS GRACE POTTER

As is your name, so is your comely face Touch'd every where with such diffused grace, As that in all that admirable round, There is not one least solecism found; And as that part, so every portion else Keeps line for line with beauty's parallels.

212. A HYMN TO THE GRACES

When I love, as some have told Love I shall, when I am old, O ye Graces! make me fit For the welcoming of it! Clean my rooms, as temples be, To entertain that deity; Give me words wherewith to woo, Suppling and successful too; Winning postures; and withal, Manners each way musical; Sweetness to allay my sour And unsmooth behaviour: For I know you have the skill Vines to prune, though not to kill; And of any wood ye see, You can make a Mercury.

213. A HYMN TO LOVE

I will confess With cheerfulness, Love is a thing so likes me, That, let her lay On me all day, I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

I will not, I, Now blubb'ring cry, It, ah! too late repents me That I did fall To love at all-- Since love so much contents me.

No, no, I'll be In fetters free; While others they sit wringing Their hands for pain, I'll entertain The wounds of love with singing.

With flowers and wine, And cakes divine, To strike me I will tempt thee; Which done, no more I'll come before Thee and thine altars empty.

214. UPON LOVE: BY WAY OF QUESTION AND ANSWER

I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Like, and dislike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love will be-fool ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Heat ye, to cool ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love, gifts will send ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Stock ye, to spend ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Love will fulfil ye. I bring ye love. QUES. What will love do? ANS. Kiss ye, to kill ye.

215. LOVERS HOW THEY COME AND PART

A Gyges ring they bear about them still, To be, and not seen when and where they will; They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall, They fall like dew, and make no noise at all: So silently they one to th' other come, As colours steal into the pear or plum, And air-like, leave no pression to be seen Where'er they met, or parting place has been.

216. THE KISS: A DIALOGUE

1 Among thy fancies, tell me this, What is the thing we call a kiss? 2 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,-- CHOR. And makes more soft the bridal bed.

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

2 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, now here, now there: 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,-- CHOR. And here, and there, and every where.

1 Has it a speaking virtue? 2 Yes. 1 How speaks it, say? 2 Do you but this,-- Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; CHOR. And this Love's sweetest language is.

1 Has it a body? 2 Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And as it flies, it gently sings-- CHOR. Love honey yields, but never stings.

217. COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE

What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth, She thinks not on What's said or done In earth: She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears; Nor does she mind, Or think on't now, That ever thou Wast kind:-- But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here, Thy love. --Forbear, therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep No more.

218. ORPHEUS

Orpheus he went, as poets tell, To fetch Eurydice from hell; And had her, but it was upon This short, but strict condition; Backward he should not look, while he Led her through hell's obscurity. But ah! it happen'd, as he made His passage through that dreadful shade, Revolve he did his loving eye, For gentle fear or jealousy; And looking back, that look did sever Him and Eurydice for ever.

219. A REQUEST TO THE GRACES

Ponder my words, if so that any be Known guilty here of incivility; Let what is graceless, discomposed, and rude, With sweetness, smoothness, softness be endued: Teach it to blush, to curtsey, lisp, and show Demure, but yet full of temptation, too. Numbers ne'er tickle, or but lightly please, Unless they have some wanton carriages:-- This if ye do, each piece will here be good And graceful made by your neat sisterhood.

220. A HYMN TO VENUS AND CUPID

Sea-born goddess, let me be By thy son thus graced, and thee, That whene'er I woo, I find Virgins coy, but not unkind. Let me, when I kiss a maid, Taste her lips, so overlaid With love's sirop, that I may In your temple, when I pray, Kiss the altar, and confess There's in love no bitterness.

221. TO BACCHUS: A CANTICLE

Whither dost thou hurry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this,-- Here and there a fresh Love is; That doth like me, this doth please; --Thus a thousand mistresses I have now: yet I alone, Having all, enjoy not one!

222. A HYMN TO BACCHUS

Bacchus, let me drink no more! Wild are seas that want a shore! When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't. I have drank up for to please Thee, that great cup, Hercules. Urge no more; and there shall be Daffadils giv'n up to thee.

223. A CANTICLE TO APOLLO

Play, Phoebus, on thy lute, And we will sit all mute; By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire.

Hark, hark! the God does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven, the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears!

224. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM A SWEET SICK YOUTH

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here! Bind up his senses with your numbers, so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe. Fall gently, gently, and a-while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossess'd of pain, Like to a slumbering bride, awake again.

225. TO MUSIC: A SONG

Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell; Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms, that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies; Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.

226. SOFT MUSIC

The mellow touch of music most doth wound The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

227. TO MUSIC

Begin to charm, and as thou strok'st mine ears With thine enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire; That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again.

228. THE VOICE AND VIOL

Rare is the voice itself: but when we sing To th' lute or viol, then 'tis ravishing.

229. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER

Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers; That being ravish'd, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou Power that canst sever From me this ill;-- And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire, Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep, And give me such reposes, That I, poor I, May think, thereby, I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers, Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That having ease me given, With full delight, I leave this light, And take my flight For Heaven.

MUSAE GRAVIORES

230. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, thou hast given me a cell, Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine: All these, and better, thou dost send Me, to this end,-- That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly thine; --But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.

231. MATINS, OR MORNING PRAYER

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence; then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing. Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thence Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense. Thy golden censers fill'd with odours sweet Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.

232. GOOD PRECEPTS, OR COUNSEL

In all thy need, be thou possest Still with a well prepared breast; Nor let the shackles make thee sad; Thou canst but have what others had. And this for comfort thou must know, Times that are ill won't still be so: Clouds will not ever pour down rain; A sullen day will clear again. First, peals of thunder we must hear; When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.

233. PRAY AND PROSPER

First offer incense; then, thy field and meads Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads. The spangling dew dredged o'er the grass shall be Turn'd all to mell and manna there for thee. Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil, Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil. Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould? --Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold.

234. THE BELL-MAN

Along the dark and silent night, With my lantern and my light And the tinkling of my bell, Thus I walk, and this I tell: --Death and dreadfulness call on To the general session; To whose dismal bar, we there All accounts must come to clear: Scores of sins we've made here many; Wiped out few, God knows, if any. Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall To make payment, while I call: Ponder this, when I am gone: --By the clock 'tis almost One.

235. UPON TIME

Time was upon The wing, to fly away; And I call'd on Him but awhile to stay; But he'd be gone, For aught that I could say.

He held out then A writing, as he went, And ask'd me, when False man would be content To pay again What God and Nature lent.

An hour-glass, In which were sands but few, As he did pass, He shew'd,--and told me too Mine end near was;-- And so away he flew.

236. MEN MIND NO STATE IN SICKNESS

That flow of gallants which approach To kiss thy hand from out the coach; That fleet of lackeys which do run Before thy swift postilion; Those strong-hoof'd mules, which we behold Rein'd in with purple, pearl, and gold, And shod with silver, prove to be The drawers of the axle-tree; Thy wife, thy children, and the state Of Persian looms and antique plate: --All these, and more, shall then afford No joy to thee, their sickly lord.

237. LIFE IS THE BODY'S LIGHT