Part 2

Shew thy bosom and then hide it; License touching and then chide it; Give a grant and then forbear it, Offer something and forswear it; Ask where all our shame is gone; Call us wicked wanton men; Do as turtles, kiss and groan; Say[9] "We ne'er shall meet again."

I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee; Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee; Easy riches is no treasure; She that's willing spoils the pleasure. Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10] fight; Pull and struggle whilst[11] ye twine; Let me use my force to-night, The next conquest shall be thine.

[7] The poem is headed "Cartwright's Song of Dalliance. Never printed before." It was printed in the same year, without the author's name, in _Parnassus Biceps_, where it is headed, "Love's Courtship." Unquestionably the finest of Cartwright's poems.

[8] _Parnassus Biceps_ reads,--

"Softer lists are nowhere found, And the strife itself's the prize."

[9] _Parnassus Biceps_,--

"Say thou ne'er shalt joy again."

[10] This is the reading in _Parnassus Biceps_--_Sportive Wit_, "restless."

[11] _Parnassus Biceps_, "when we twine."

From DAVISON'S _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602.

MADRIGAL.

MY love in her attire doth shew her wit, It doth so well become her: For every season she hath dressings fit, For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on; But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie, And like the sea about it I; Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight, Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white; Like the kind Ocean I will be, With loving arms for ever clasping thee; But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than so As their fresh banks soft rivers do; Nor shall the proudest planet boast a power Of making my full love to ebb an hour: It never dry or low can prove Whilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love. Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bear As if like doves w' engender'd there; No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure, In love there's none too much an epicure. Nought shall my hands or lips control; I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul. Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know, Night that's both blind and silent too. Alpheus found not a more secret trace His loved Sicanian fountain to embrace, Creeping so far beneath the sea, Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee. Men out of wisdom, women out of pride, The pleasant thefts of love do hide. That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from me A more infallible security; For there's no danger I should tell The joys which are to me unspeakable.

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.

HE that intends to woo a maid With youthful heat, must shun the shade. When Flora's gardens are i' th' prime Let him and her pluck _May_ and _Time_:[12] There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing, Let them two both kiss and fling, Till summer's fairest carpet spread Yields them a green and pleasant bed: If lovers there would strive together, Chastity would not weigh one feather.

[12] Compare Morley's song, "Thyrsis and Milla," in _More Lyrics_, pp. 116-7.

From JOHN ATTEY'S _First Book of Airs_, 1622.

MY days, my months, my years I spend about a moment's gain, A joy that in th' enjoying ends, A fury quickly slain;

A frail delight, like that wasp's life Which now both frisks and flies, And in a moment's wanton strife It faints, it pants, it dies.

And when I charge, my lance in rest, I triumph in delight, And when I have the ring transpierced I languish in despite;

Or like one in a lukewarm bath, Light-wounded in a vein, Spurts out the spirits of his life And fainteth without pain.

From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.

MY mistress sings no other song, But still complains I did her wrong; Believe her not, it was not so, I did but kiss her and let her go.

And now she swears I did,--but what? Nay, nay, I must not tell you that. And yet I will, it is so sweet As teehee tahha when lovers meet.

But women's words they are heedless, To tell you more it is needless; I ran and caught her by the arm, And then I kissed her,--this was no harm.

But she, alas! is angry still, Which sheweth but a woman's will: She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!" And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.

Yet sure her looks bewrays content, And cunningly her brawls[13] are meant, As lovers use to play and sport When time and leisure is too-too short.

[13] Old ed. "brales."

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

TO HIS MISTRESS DESIROUS TO GO TO BED.

SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I see Morpheus is fallen in love with thee; Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries To draw the curtains of thine eyes, And fans them with his wing asleep; Makes drowsy love to play bopeep. How prettily his feathers blow Those fleshy shuttings to and fro! O how he makes me Tantalise With those fair apples of thine eyes! Equivocates and cheats me still, Opening and shutting at his will, Now both, now one! the doting god Plays with thine eyes at even or odd. My stammering tongue doubts which it might Bid thee, good-morrow or good-night. So thy eyes twinkle brighter far Than the bright trembling evening star; So a wax taper, burnt within The socket, plays at out and in. Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye, Meaning there all night to lie: Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid! The eye, their bed and coverlid. Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air; Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher. Make me thy maiden chamber-man, Or let me be thy warming-pan. O that I might but lay my head At thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright, As my dear Julia did the other night. Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to see What gave the world a greater light than she; But angry soon she disappear'd and fled Into her inner rooms, and so to bed. I envied not Endymion's joys that night: Far greater had I with her lustre-light.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

AFTER long service and a thousand vows, To her glad lover she more kindness shows. Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'd When the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade; And many a time had given her a green gown, And oft he kissed her when he had her down; With sighs and motions he to her made known What fain he would have done: then with a frown She would forbid him, till the minute came That she no longer could conceal her flame. The am'rous shepherd, forward to espy Love's yielding motions triumph in her eye, With eager transport straight himself addrest To taste the pleasures of so rich a feast: When with resistance, and a seeming flight, As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite, Unto a place where flowers thicker grew Out of his arms as swift as air she flew: Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as she When from the god[14] she fled and turn'd t' a tree. The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain, Since she intended to be overta'en. He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ball To stay her flight, for she herself did fall, Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she lay To gain more breath that she might lose't in play. She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threw When he addressed to crop a flower too. Then a faint strife she seemed to renew; She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do. At length o'ercome she suffers with a sigh Her ravish'd lover use his victory, And gave him leave to punish her delay With double vigour in the am'rous play; But then, alas! soon ended the delight; For too much love had hastened[15] its flight, And _every_ ravish'd sense too soon awake, Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake: Which left the lovers in a state to prove Long were the pains but short the joys of love.

[14] Old ed. "Gods."

[15] Old ed. "had had hastn'ed."

From _MS. Rawlinson Poet._ 94. fol. 192.

THE[16] RESOLUTION.

NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown; I'll swear you most unjustly frown. I only asked (in vain) to taste What you denied with mighty haste; I asked--but I'm ashamed to tell What 'twas you took so wondrous ill-- A kiss. But with a coy disdain You view'd my sighings and my pain; 'Twas but a civil small request, Yet with proud looks and hand on breast, You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd," Put case[17] that I had loosed your gown, And then by force had laid you down, And with unruly hands had teased you,-- Too justly then I had displeased you. Or had I (big with wanton joys) Engaged you for a brace of boys, Then basely left you full of nature,-- This would have been provoking matter. But I, poor harmless civil I, Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy, And saw denial in your eye; For with a squeamish glance you cried "I hate the nauseous bliss." "'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied, For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."

[16] There are some verses in Thomas Flatman's _Songs and Poems_, 1674, which suggested, or were suggested by, the present poem. They run thus:--

THE SLIGHT.

I did but crave that I might kiss, If not her lip, at least her hand, The coolest lover's frequent bliss; And rude is she that will withstand That inoffensive liberty: She (would you think it?) in a fume Turn'd her about and left the room: "Not she!" she vowed, "not she!"

"Well, Charissa," then said I, "If it must thus for ever be, I can renounce my slavery And, since you will not, can be free." Many a time she made me die, Yet (would you think it?) I loved the more: But I'll not take 't as heretofore, Not I, I'll vow, not I.

"The Resolution" is far the better poem.

[17] Quite in Mr. Browning's vein this expression, "Put case that."

From CAPTAIN WM. HICKS' _Oxford Drollery_, 1671.

A[18] NEW SONG, TO THE NEW JIG-TUNE.

WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she, Your will, sir? I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she, Do so still, sir. I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she? But what, sir? Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she? Let me ha't, sir. I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she? But where, sir? To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she? Why there, sir? I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she? But when, sir? Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she, Nor then, sir. I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she? How much, sir? Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she; Not a touch, sir. I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she? But why, sir? 'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she? 'Tis a lie, sir. I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she? Are you sure on't? 'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she? There's no cure on't. Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she, My true Love. I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she, To a new love.

[18] _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672, has a similar copy of verses:--

I'd have you, quoth he? Would you have me? quoth she; O where, sir?

In my chamber, quoth he. In your chamber? quoth she; Why there, sir?

To kiss you, quoth he. To kiss me? quoth she; O why, sir?

'Cause I love it, quoth he. Do you love it? quoth she; So do I, sir.

Compare another copy of verses, "O Amis! quoth he. Well, Thomas! quoth she," in the _Academy of Compliments_, 1671, p. 270.

From _Folly in Print_, 1667.

A SONG IN DIALOGUE.

_Strephon._

DEAR, I must do. _Phillis._ O I dare not. _Strephon._ 'Twill not hurt you. _Phillis._ No, I care not. _Strephon._ Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason. _Phillis._ Will you marry? _Strephon._ Yes, to-morrow. _Phillis._ Till then tarry. _Strephon._ I would borrow. _Phillis._ Fruit is best when gathered in season.

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

(_After Anacreon._)[19]

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowery beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'erflowing And around it roses growing, What should I do but drink away The heat and troubles of the day? In this more than kingly state, Love himself shall on me wait: Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up, And mingled cast into the cup Wit and mirth, and noble fires, Vigorous health, and gay desires. The wheel of life no less will stay In a smooth than rugged way; Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments shower, Nobler wines why do we pour, Beauteous flowers why do we spread Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses while I live, Now your wines and ointments give: After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have: All are stoics in the grave.

[19] A delightful rendering of the fourth ode of Anacreon. I have found a MS. copy of it in _Rawlinson MS. Poet._, 214, where it is ascribed (how truly I know not) to "Mr. Tho. Head." It occurs in several later miscellanies; and in the variorum translation of Anacreon published at Oxford in 1683. Here is Stanley's rendering of the same ode: it is good, but far inferior to the version in the _Drollery_:--

On this verdant lotus laid, Underneath the myrtle's shade, Let us drink our sorrows dead, While Love plays the Ganymed. Life like to a wheel runs round, And, ere long, we underground (Ta'en by Death asunder) must Moulder in forgotten Dust. Why then graves should we bedew, Why the ground with odours strew? Better whilst alive prepare Flowers and unguents for our hair. Come, my fair one, come away; All our cares behind us lay; That these pleasures we may know Ere we come to those below.

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

ON HIS BLACK MISTRESS.

THINE'S fair, facetious,[20] all that can Delight the airy part of man: My love is black, thou sayst, her eye Hath something of severity. Therefore I love: her spring will last When all thy flowers are dead and blast She's wisely framed, with art is made; Your best night-pieces have most shade. And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mine Yields not as great a warmth as thine? Her heat is inward, and she may More pleasant be another way: They're slow to yield, but, when they do, You have both soul and body too. The quicker eye and nimble tongue Leaves footsteps for suspicion; But in her looks and language lies A very charm for Argus' eyes. Now pray then tell me, and withal Pray be not too-too partial, Doth not one feature[21] now in mine Appear more lovely than all thine? No airy objects will me[22] move, It is the sober black I love: I love't so well that I protest I love the blackest parts the best.

[20] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "factious."

[21] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "fortune."

[22] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "we."

From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.

TWO KISSES.

ONCE and no more: so said my life, When in my arms inchained She unto mine her lips did move, And so my heart she gained. Thus done, she saith, "Away I must For fear of being missed; Your heart's made over but in trust;" And so again she kissed.

From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 199.

ON MRS. BEATA POOLE WITH BLACK EYES.

IF shadows be the picture's excellence And make it seem more lively to the sense; If stars in the bright day do lose their light And shine more glorious in the masque of night, Why should you think, fair creature, that you lack Perfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black? Or that your beauty that so far exceeds The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads, That cherry colour of your cheek and lips, Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse? Or is it fit that nature should have made So bright a sun to shine without a shade? It seems that nature, when she first did fancy Your rare composure, studied necromancy; And when to you those gifts she did impart, She studied altogether the black art. She drew the magic circle of your eyes, And made the chain where, in your hair, she ties Rebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear, Twining Meander-like to either sphere, Mysterious figures are; and when you list, Your voice commandeth like an exorcist. O if in magic you have skill so far, Vouchsafe to make me your familiar! Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'd On outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd. As by the spring-head we may often know The nature of the streams that run below, So your black hair and eyes do give direction To make me think the rest of like perfection,-- The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man, That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan, That world-dividing gulf where whoso venters With swelling sails and ravish'd senses enters Into a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray, If my rude muse doth seem here to display Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast In praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste. Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may, Though hid from them, yet know there is a day. A rover in the mark his arrows sticks Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks. And if I could direct my shaft aright, The black mark would I hit and miss the white.

From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.

BLACK EYES AND ENTICING FROWNS.[23]

_To Lucina._

BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie My ill or happy destiny. If with clear looks you me behold, You give me treasures full of gold; If you dart forth disdainful rays, To your own dye you turn my days. That lamp which all the stars doth blind To modest Cynthia is less kind, Though you do wear, to make you bright, No other dress than that of night. He glitters only in the day; You in the dark your beams display. The cunning thief, that lurks for prize, At some dark corner watching lies; So that heart-robbing God doth stand In those black gems, with shaft in hand, To rifle me of what I hold More precious far than Indian gold. Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes, Who in your circles strictly pries Will find that Cupid with his dart In you doth practise the black art; And by those spells I am possest, Tries his conclusions in my breast. Though from those objects frowns arise, Some kind of frowns become black eyes, As pointed diamonds being set Cast greater lustre out of jet. Those pieces we esteem most rare, Which in night-shadows postured are. Darkness in churches congregates the sight; Devotion strays in open daring light.

[23] "This poem was written by James Howell. It is printed among his Poems, 1664, p. 68. Also in Poems collected by P. F. [= P. Fisher], 1663. See my Note in _Choyce Drollery_, reprint, 1876, p. 298."--_J. W. Ebsworth._

From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.

METHOUGHT[24] the other night I saw a pretty sight That pleased me much; A fair and comely maid, Not squeamish nor afraid To let me touch, Our lips most sweetly kissing, Each other never missing; Her smiling looks did show content And that she did but what she meant.

And as her lips did move The echo still was love, "Love, love me, sweet!" Then with a maiden blush, Instead of crying "Push!"[25] Our lips did meet: With music sweetly sounding, With pleasures all abounding, We kept the burthen of the song, Which was that love should take no wrong.

And yet, as maidens use, She seemed to refuse The name of love, Until I did protest That I did love her best, And so will prove: With that, as both amazed, Each at the other gazed, My eyes did see, my hands did feel, Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.

O when I felt her breast Where love did rest, My love was such I could have been content My best blood to have spent In that sweet touch: But now comes that which vext us, There was a bar betwixt us, A bar that barred me from that part Where nature did contend with art.

If ever love had power To send one happy hour, Then show thy might, And take such bars away Which are the only stay Of love's delight. All this was but a dreaming, Although another meaning. Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free; I will love you, you may love me.

[24] Old ed. "My thought." The first two stanzas of this poem (which becomes somewhat enigmatical towards the end) are also found in _The Westminster Drollery_.

[25] Old ed. "pish;" but "push" (required for the rhyme), the reading in _The Westminster Drollery_, is an old form of "pish."

From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.