Part 4

Yet I such further favour won By suit and pleasing play, She vow'd what now was left undone Should finish'd be in May; And though perplex'd with such delay As more augments desire, 'Twixt present grief and promised joy, I from my mate retire: If she To me Preserve her vows divine And constant troth, She shall be both My love and Valentine.

[41] Old ed. "from."

[42] Motto.

[43] Sighed.

From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 206.

ON A WATCH SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.[44]

GO and count her better hours, They more happy are than ours. The day that gives her any bliss Make it again as long as 'tis; The hour she smiles, O let that be By thy art increased to three. But if she frown on thee or me, Know night is made by her not thee: Be swift in such an hour and soon Make it night though it be noon, And stay her times who is the free Fair sun that governs thee and me.

[44] Also in _Wit's Recreations_ (with slightly altered text).

From _Wit Restored_, 1658.

A SONG TO HIS MISTRESS.

I WILL not do a sacrifice To thy face or to thy eyes, Nor unto thy lily palm, Nor thy breath, that wounding balm; But the part to which my heart In vows is seal'd Is that mine of bliss divine Which is conceal'd.

What's the golden fruit to me If I may not pluck the tree? Bare enjoying all the rest Is but like a golden feast, Which at need can never feed Our love-sick wishes: Let me eat substantial meat, Not view the dishes.

From _Wit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden_, 1674.

THE SURPRISING LOVER.

LOVE, in rambling once astray, Was benighted in his way; With cold and tiresome cares opprest, He creeps in fair Lucina's breast To shelter there and take his rest. The nymph, not dreaming of her fate, And of an unexpected guess[45] Much less, To come so late, Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat, Prepares his arms to try a feat. The deed scarce done, the nymph awakes And in the act the youngster takes, Strangely surprised, yet well contented too That she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow. Then, viewing well her guess all o'er, She liked his presence more and more; Telling him, rather than he should begone, She'd nurse and keep him as her own; And if he'd vow ne'er to depart, She'd find him lodging next her heart.

[45] Old form of "guest."

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

PISH,[46] modest sipper, to't again! My sweetest joy, The wine's not coy As women are. My dearest puling, prithee then, Prithee, my fair, Once more bedew those lips of thine, Mend thy draught and mend the wine. Since it hath tasted of thy lip (Too quickly cloy'd), How overjoy'd It cheerfully Invites thee to another sip. Methinks I see The wine perfumed by thee, my fair: Bacchus himself is dabbling there. Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try; Bathe that cherry In the sherry, The jocund wine Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye As more divine; Though thou take none to drink to me, Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee. Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean! Well, I perceive Why this you leave; My love reveals And makes me guess what 'tis you mean: Because at meals My lips are kept from kissing thee, Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.

[46] There is an inferior version of this poem in _Wit's Interpreter_.

From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.

AGAINST FRUITION.

THERE is not half so warm a fire In the fruition as desire. When I have got the fruit of pain Possession makes me poor again: Expected forms and shapes unknown Whet and make sharp tentation. Sense is too niggardly for bliss, And pays me dully with what is; But fancy's liberal and gives all That can within her vastness fall. Veil therefore still, while I divine The treasure of this hidden mine, And make imagination tell What wonders doth in beauty dwell.

From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.

TO A YOUNG LADY IN A GARDEN.

_The Rose's Speech._

FAIREST, if you roses seek, Take the nearest like your cheek. I, the damask, would presume To tender you my sweet perfume; I am young, like you, a bud, Peeping thorough my green hood, Blushing only 'cause I see Fresher roses grow on thee. Crop me then and let me lie In the sun-shine of thine eye Till full-blown; then let me grow In thy bosom, next thy snow, That I may find, when my leaves fall, In that sweet place a funeral. Then, Celia, be you like the rose, Who its season wisely chose; Do not keep your maiden flower Beyond its time, its full ripe hour. Like the rose, you need not offer; But when a worthy hand doth proffer, Refuse not, Celia: on my life You'll wear as fresh when you're a wife. Let not your beauties untouch'd die, Or wither'd and neglected lie; Rather let them thrive i' th' light Of his am'rous eager sight, That when at last they fall and spread It may be sweetly on his bed.

From _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_, 1658.

LOSE NO TIME.

LOSE no time nor youth but be Kind to men, as they to thee; The fair lilies that now grow In thy cheeks, and purely show, The cherry and the rose that blow, If too long they hang and waste, Winter comes that all will blast. Thou art ripe, full ripe for men; In thy sweets be gather'd then.

From _Westminster Drollery_ (_Second Part_), 1672.

ONE AND HIS MISTRESS A-DYING.

SHALL we die Both thou and I, And leave the world behind us? Come, I say, And let's away, For nobody here doth mind us.

Why do we gape? We cannot scape The doom that is assign'd us; When we are in grave, Altho' we rave, There is nobody needs to bind us.

The clerk shall sing, The sexton ring, And old wives they shall wind us; The priest shall lay Our bones in clay, And nobody there shall find us.

Farewell wits, And folly's fits, And griefs that often pined us! When we are dead We'll take no heed What nobody says behind us.

Merry nights, And false delights, Adieu! ye did but blind us: We must to mould, Both young and old, Till nobody's left behind us.

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

A HEALTH TO HIS MISTRESS.

TO her whose beauty doth excel Story, we toss these cups and sell Sobriety a sacrifice To the bright lustre of her eyes. Each soul that sips here is divine: Her beauty deifies the wine.

From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 48.

A POEM OF SIR WALTER RAWLEIGH'S.[47]

NATURE that wash'd her hands in milk And had forgot to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and silk At Love's request to try them, If she a mistress could compose To please Love's fancy out of those.

Her eyes he would should be of light; A violet breath, and lips of jelly; Her hair not black, nor over-bright; And of the softest down her belly: As for her inside he 'ld have it Only of wantonness and wit.

At Love's entreaty such a one Nature made, but with her beauty She hath framed a heart of stone; So as Love, by ill destiny, Must die for her whom Nature gave him, Because her darling would not save him.

But Time, which Nature doth despise, And rudely gives her love the lie, Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise, His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry; But being made of steel and rust, Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.

The light, the belly, lips, and breath, He dims, discolours,[48] and destroys; With those he feeds, but fills not, Death, Which sometimes were the food of joys: Yea Time doth dull each lively wit, And dries all wantonness with it.

Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust, Our youth, our joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days.

[47] This is the heading in the MS. Archdeacon Hannah, in his valuable edition of Raleigh's poems, makes no mention of this MS. poem. The last stanza, with a couple of lines tacked on, was printed in Raleigh's _Remains_, where it is stated to have been "found in his bible in the Gatehouse at Westminster." The whole poem is very much in Raleigh's manner; and I congratulate myself upon its discovery.

[48] MS. "discovers."

From _Add. MS._ 2218, fol. 32 (compared with a copy in _Wit and Drollery_, 1661).

CUPID'S HOLIDAY.

LADIES, whose marble hearts despise, Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyes Ne'er shot glance but might beseem Diana and her maiden team Of icy virgins; hence, away! Disturb not our licentious play, For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.

Go, glory in the empty name Of virgin; let your idle flame Consume itself, while we enjoy Those pleasures which fair Venus' boy Grants to those whose mingled thighs Are trophies of his victories,[49] From whence new pleasures still arise.

Those only are admitted here Whose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fear Of man's embraces; whose fair face Can give enjoyment such a grace As wipes away the hated name Of lust, and calls their amorous flame A virtue free from fear or shame.

With them we'll number kisses till We pose arithmetic, and fill Our hearts with pleasure[50] till it swells Beyond those bounds where blushing dwells: Then will we ourselves entomb In those joys which fill the womb, Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.

At waking no repentance shall With our past sweetness mingle gall; We'll kiss again till we restore Our strength again to venture more: Then we'll renew again our play, Admitting of no long delay Till we end our holiday.

W. MUNSEY.[51]

[49] This line is omitted in the MS.

[50] Both the MS. and printed copy read "pleasures."

[51] I have at present no information about "W. Munsey," whose name is attached to this (not very valuable) poem in the MS. In Rawlinson MS. 117, fol. 151, a copy of "I saw fair Chloris walk alone" (which has been attributed, without evidence, by some to Carew, and by others to Herrick) is subscribed "Munsey." The well-known poem, "In the nonage of a winter's day," usually ascribed to Carew, is signed in _Rawlinson MS. Poet._, 210, "W. Munsey."

From _Harl. MS._ 7332, fol. 47.

IN summer-time, when birds do sing, And country maids are making hay, As I went forth myself alone To view the meadows fresh and gay, The country maidens I espied With fine lawn aprons as white as snow, And crimson ribands about their arms, Which made a pretty country show. The young men fell a-prating, And took the maidens from hay-making To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble Up and down the green meadow.

The next day being holiday, And country maids they would be seen, Each took his sweet-heart by the hand And went to dance upon the green: The country maids incontinent[52] Unto the green assembled were, Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53] Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair: The young men fell a-skipping, The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping, They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble] Up and down[54] the green meadow.

The old men that had lived long And viewed full many a summer's day, Came gently walking by themselves To see them keep their holiday: The married men of middle age Brought forth their wives to see that sport, And they put on their best array, Unto the green they did resort: There music sweetly sounding, The maidens' hearts with joys abounding, They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, tumble Up and down the green meadow. When they with tumbling well had sweat, And tumbling joys had tasted well, And Phoebus almost lost his heat, Each did return where they did dwell: Their wives unto their husbands said The pretty sports which they had seen, Wish'd them to teach them in their bed[55] As did the lovers on the green: The young men joyful-hearted Each took his lass and so departed, When they no more could tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble Up and down the green meadow.

[52] Immediately, without delay.

[53] MS. "ornaments."

[54] MS. "vppon downe."

[55] MS. "beds."

From _Harleian MS._ 791, fol. 55.

IN summer time when grass was mown And country maids were treading of hay, Then forth walked I in a fair morning Thinking to pass the time away. Fair lovely nymphs might there be seen With fine lawn aperns[56] white as snow, And crimson ribbons 'bout their arms, Which made a pretty summer show. There young lovers fell a-prating, And called their lovers from hay-making To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble Up and down the meadow. Then the old wives fell a-laughing, And held their sides with extreme coughing, To see them tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble Up and down the meadows.

[56] Old form of _aprons_.

From _Wit Restored_, 1658.

WOMEN.

ONCE I must confess I loved And expected love again, But, so often as I proved, My expectance was in vain.

Women joy to be attempted, And do glory when they see Themselves from love's force exempted, And that men captived be.

If they love they can conceal it, And dissemble when they please, Whenas men will straight reveal it And make known their heart's disease.

Men must beg and crave their favour, Making many an idle vow, Whilst they, froward in behaviour, Fain would yield but know not how.

Sweet stol'n-sport to them is grateful, And in heart they wish to have it; Yet they do account it hateful Upon any terms to crave it.

But, would men not go about it, But leave off at all to woo, Ere they would be long without it, They would beg and crave it too.

From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.

GAZE[57] not on thy beauty's pride, Tender maid, in the false tide That from lovers' eyes do[th] slide.

Let thy faithful crystal show How thy colours come and go; Beauty takes a foil from woe.

Love, that in those smooth streams lies, Under Pity's fair disguise, Will thy melting heart surprise.

Nets of Passion's finest thread (Snaring poems) will be spread All to catch thy maidenhead.

Then beware: for those that cure Love's disease, themselves endure For a reward a calenture.

Rather let the lover pine Than his pale cheek should assign A perpetual blush to thine.

[57] Attributed to Thomas Carew.

From _Wit's Recreations_, 1640.

LOVE BEGOTTEN BY PITY.

'TIS true your beauty,[58] which before Did dazzle each bold gazer's eye, And forced e'en rebel hearts t' adore Or from its conquering splendor fly, Now shines with new increase of light, Like Cynthia at her full most bright.

Yet, though you glory in th' increase Of so much beauty, dearest fair, They err who think this great access, Of which all eyes th' admirers are, Or art's or nature's gifts should be: Learn then the hidden cause from me.

Pity in thee, in me desire First bred: before I durst but aim At fair respect: now that close fire Thy love hath fann'd into a flame, Which, mounting to its proper place, Shines like a glory 'bout thy face.

[58] Old ed. "beauties."

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

BE[59] thou joyful, I am jolly; In thy pleasure's my delight. Art th' inclined to melancholy? I am of that humour right; For I can joy, or joys can slight.

Art thou liberal of embraces? I can also lavish be. Or dost thou scorn to yield such graces? I can scorn as well as thee: Of these I can be nice or free.

Dost thou joy I should attain thee? Then I will thy servant be; Or if my presence do disdain thee, I will never wait on thee; For I can love or let thee be.

If to singing thou'lt apply thee, I can warble notes to thee: Or if to[60] sighing, I'll sigh by thee; To thy passions I'll agree, For I'm to all thy humours free.

Dost thou joy I should come near thee With a heart both firm and true? Or dost thou fly my sight and jeer me? Unto lovers that's not new; For I can stay or bid adieu.

[59] There is a somewhat similar copy of verses in _Choice Drollery_, 1656:--

"If at this time I am derided, And you please to laugh at me, Know I am not unprovided Every way to answer thee, Love or hate, Whate'er it be," &c.

[60] Old ed. "by."

From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Second Book of Airs_, 1612.

AWAY, away! call back what you have said When you did vow to live and die a maid: O if you knew what chance to them befell That dance about with bobtail apes in hell, Yourself your virgin girdle would divide And put aside the maiden veil that hides The chiefest gem of nature; and would lie Prostrate to every peasant that goes by, Rather than undergo such shame: no tongue can tell What injury is done to maids in hell.

From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.

UNDER[61] the willow-shades they were Free from the eye-sight of the sun, For no intruding beam could there Peep through to spy what things were done: Thus sheltered they unseen did lie, Surfeiting on each other's eye; Defended by the willow shades alone, The sun's heat they defied and cool'd their own.

Whilst they did embrace unspied, The conscious willow seem'd to smile, That them[62] with privacy supplied, Holding the door, as 'twere, the while; And when their dalliances were o'er, The willows, to oblige them more, Bowing, did seem to say, as they withdrew, "We can supply you with a cradle too."

[61] Mr. Ebsworth reminds me that this is Theocles' song, by Sir William Davenant, sung in Act iii. of "The Rivals," 1668.

[62] Old ed. "they."

From _The Treasury of Music_, 1669.

CÆLIA'S[63] COMPLAINT.

POOR Cælia once was very fair, A quick bewitching eye she had; Most neatly look'd her braided hair, Her dainty cheek would make you mad: Upon her lips did all the Graces play, And on her breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.

Then many a doting lover came, From seventeen till twenty-one; Each told her of his mighty flame, But she foresooth affected none: One was not handsome, 'tother was not fine, This of tobacco smelt and that of wine.

But 'tother day it was my fate To walk along that way alone; I saw no coach before her gate, But at her door I heard her moan: She dropt a tear, and sighing seem'd to say "Young ladies, marry, marry while you may!"

[63] This poem is by Thomas Flatman, and is printed among his _Songs and Poems_, 1669.

["Also in _Westminster Drollery_, _Windsor Drollery_, and _Pills to P. Mel._, iii. 153. The music to it was composed by Roger Hill."--_J. W. Ebsworth._]

From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Second book of Airs_, 1612.

TWO lovers sat lamenting Hard by a crystal brook, Each other's heart tormenting, Exchanging look for look, With sighs and tears bewraying Their silent thoughts delaying: At last coth[64] one, "Shall we alone Sit here our thoughts bewraying? Fie, fie, O fie, O fie it may not be: Set looking by, Let speaking set us free."

Then thus their silence breaking, Their thoughts too long estranged They do bewray by speaking, And words with words exchanged: Then one of them replied, "Great pity we had died Thus all alone In silent moan And not our thoughts descried. Fie, fie, O fie, O fie that had been ill That inwardly Silence the heart should kill."

From looks and words to kisses They made their next proceeding, And as their only blisses They therein were exceeding. O what a joy is this To look, to talk, to kiss! But thus begun, Is now all done? Ah, all then nothing is! Fie, fie, O fie, O fie it is a hell And better die Than kiss and not end well.

[64] "Coth" = quoth.

From _Sportive Wit_, 1656.

CHLORIS,[65] forbear a while, Do not o'erjoy me, Urge not another smile Lest it destroy me; That beauty passeth most And is best taking, Which is soon won, soon lost, Kind, yet forsaking: I love a coming Lady, 'faith I do, But now and then I'd have her scornful too.

O'ercloud those eyes of thine, Bopeep thy features, Warm with an April shine, Scorch not thy creatures; Still to display thy ware, Still to be fooling, Argues how rude you are In Cupid's schooling: Disdain begets a smile, scorn draws us nigh, 'Tis 'cause I would, and cannot, makes me try.

Chloris, I'd have thee wise: When gallants view thee, Courting do thou despise, Fly those pursue thee: Fast moves an appetite Makes hunger greater; Who's stinted of delight Falls to't the better: Be coy and kind betimes, be smooth and rough, And buckle now and then, and that's enough.

[65] "This was written by Henry Bold; it is in his _Poems Lyrique_, 1664, p. 6."--_J. W. Ebsworth._ (I suspect Bold stole it: he was a notorious pilferer.)

From _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_. By T. W., 1654.

FAIR Chloris in a gentle slumber lay, Sleep taking rest In her calm breast, Whilst her veil'd eyes seem'd to eclipse the day

The wanton sun would court her fain, Peep'd here and there, but all in vain. The leafy boughs a guard had made, Planting between their envious shade; Whereat he chid his idle beams, that he Should want an eye whereby himself might see.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER'S _Book of Airs_, 1601.

MY love hath vowed he will forsake me, And I am already sped; Far other promise he did make me When he had my maidenhead. If such danger be in playing And sport must to earnest turn, I will go no more a-maying.

Had I foreseen what is ensued, And what now with pain I prove, Unhappy then I had eschewed This unkind event of love: Maids foreknow their own undoing, But fear naught till all is done, When a man alone is wooing.

Dissembling wretch, to gain thy pleasure, What didst thou not vow and swear? So didst thou rob me of the treasure Which so long I held so dear. Now thou provest to me a stranger: Such is the vile guise of men When a woman is in danger.

That heart is nearest to misfortune That will trust a feigned tongue; When flatt'ring men our loves importune They intend us deepest wrong. If this shame of love's betraying But this once I cleanly shun, I will go no more a-maying.

From _Vinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company_, 1687.

SILVIA, now your scorn give over Lest you lose a faithful lover: If this humour you pursue, Farewell Love and Silvia too. Long have I been unregarded, Sighs and tears still unrewarded: If this does with you agree, Troth, good Madam, 'twon't with me.