Things are distinct, and must the same appear To every piercing eye or well-tun'd ear. [meet: Though sweets with your's, sharps best with my taste Both must agree, this meat's or sharp, or sweet. But if I scent a stench, or a perfume, Whilst you smell nought at all, I may presume You have that sense imperfect: so you may Affect a sad, merry, or humorous play;
If, though the kind distaste or please, the good And bad be by your judgment understood: But if, as in this play, where with delight I feast my Epicurean appetite With relishes so curious, as dispense
The utmost pleasure to the ravish'd sense, You should profess that you can nothing meet That hits your taste either with sharp or sweet, But cry out, 'T is insipid; your bold tongue May do its master, not the author wrong; For men of better palate will by it Take the just elevation of your wit.
MY FRIEND WILLIAM D'AVENANT.
I CROWDED 'mongst the first, to see the stage (Inspir'd by thee) strike wonder in our age, By thy bright fancy dazzled; where each scene Wrought like a charm, and forc'd the audience lean To th' passion of thy pen: thence ladies went (Whose absence lovers sigh'd for) to repent Their unkind scorn; and courtiers, who by art Made love before, with a converted heart, To wed those virgins, whom they woo'd t' abuse; Both render'd Hymen's pros'lites by thy Muse.
But others, who were proof 'gainst love, did sit To learn the subtle dictates of thy wit; And, as each profited, took his degree, Master, or bachelor, in comedy. We of th' adult'rate mixture not complain, But thence more characters of virtue gain; More pregnant patterns of transcendent worth, Than barren and insipid fruit brings forth : So, oft the bastard nobler fortune meets, Than the dull issue of the lawful sheets.
Thy teeth in white do Leda's swan exceed ; Thy skin's a heavenly and immortal weed; And when thou breath'st, the winds are ready straight To filch it from thee; and do therefore wait Close at thy lips, and, snatching it from thence, Bear it to Heaven, where 't is Jove's frankincense. Fair goddess, since thy feature makes thee one, Yet be not such for these respects alone; But as you are divine in outward view, So be within as fair, as good, as true.
AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: "Tell me, (said I in deep distress) Where may I find my shepherdess?"
"Thou fool," (said Love) "know'st thou not this, In every thing that's good she is?
In yonder tulip go and seek,
There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek.
"In yon enamel'd pansy by, There thou shalt have her curious eye. In bloom of peach, in rosy bud, There wave the streamers of her blood.
"In brightest lilies that there stand, The emblems of her whiter hand. In yonder rising hill there smell Such sweets as in her bosom dwell."
""T is true" (said I): and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one, To make of parts a union;
But on a sudden all was gone.
With that I stopt: said Love, "These be, Fond man, resemblances of thee: And, as these flow'rs, thy joys shall die, Ev'n in the twinkling of an eye: And all thy hopes of her shall wither, Like these short sweets thus knit together '."
THE COMPARISON.
DEAREST, thy tresses are not threads of gold, Thy eyes of diamonds, nor do I hold Thy lips for rubies, thy fair cheeks to be Fresh roses, or thy teeth of ivory:
Thy skin, that doth thy dainty body sheath, Not alabaster is, nor dost thou breath Arabian odours; those the earth brings forth, Compar'd with which, would but impair thy worth. Such may be others' mistresses, but mine Holds nothing earthly, but is all divine. Thy tresses are those rays that do arise, Not from one sun, but two; such are thy eyes; Thy lips congealed nectar are, and such As, but a deity, there's none dare touch; The perfect crimson that thy cheek doth cloath (But only that it far exceeds them both) Aurora's blush resembles, or that red
That Iris strats in when her mantle 's spread;
My first love, whom all beauties did adorn, Firing my heart, supprest it with her scorn; Sunlike to tinder in my breast it lies, By every sparkle made a sacrifice. Each wanton eye now kindles my desire, And that is free to all, that was entire. Desiring more by thee, desire I lost,
As those that in consumptions hunger most; And now my wand'ring thoughts are not confin'd Unto one woman, but to woman-kind :
This little poem, with the several little loveverses and songs that follow, fully evince our poet's superior genius on the subject of love. We wish he had never sacrificed at any shrine but the shrine in Cyprus.
This for her shape 1 love; that for her face; This for her gesture or some other grace; And where I none of these do use to find, I choose there by the kernel, not the rind: And so I hope, since first my hopes are gone, -To find in many what I lost in one;
And, like to merchants after some great loss, - Trade by retail, that cannot now in gross.
l'he fault is hers that made me go astray; He needs must wander that hath lost his way. Guiltless I am; she did this change provoke, And made that charcoal which to her was oak: And as a looking-glass, from the aspect, Whilst it is whole, doth but one face reflect, But being crack'd or broken, there are shown Many half-faces, which at first were one; so love unto my heart did first prefer Her image, and there planted none but her;
But since 't was broke and martyr'd by her scorn, Many less faces in her face are born:
hus, like to tinder, am I prone to catch
ach falling sparkle, fit for any match.
SIGHT OF A GENTLEWOMAN'S FACE
TAND still, you floods, do not deface
That image which you bear:
votaries, from every place,
To you shall altars rear.
o winds but lovers' sighs blow here, To trouble these glad streams, a which no star from any sphere Did ever dart such beams.
0 crystal then in haste congeal, Lest you should lose your bliss; ad to my cruel fair reveal, How cold, how hard she is.
ut if the envious nymphs shall fear Their beauties will be scorn'd, nd hire the ruder winds to tear That face which you adorn'd;
ben rage and foam amain, that we Their malice may despise; nd from your froth we soon shall see A second Venus rise.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; or in your beauties, orient deep These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep.
sk me no more, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; or, in pure love, Heaven did prepare hose powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west, The phenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
WOULD you know what 's soft, I dare Not bring you to the down or air; Nor to stars to show what 's bright, Nor to snow to teach you white.
Nor, if you would music hear, Call the orbs to take your ear;
Nor, to please your sense, bring forth Bruised nard, or what 's more worth.
Or, on food were your thoughts plac'd,
Bring you nectar for a taste: Would you have all these in one, Name my mistress, and 't is done.
IN Love's name, you are charg'd hereby, To make a speedy hue and cry After a face which t' other day, Stole my wand'ring heart away. To direct you, these, in brief, Are ready marks to know the thief.
Her hair a net of beams would prove, Strong enough to captive Jove In his eagle shape; her brow Is a comely field of snow; Her eye so rich, so pure a grey, Every beam creates a day; And if she but sleep (not when The Sun sets) 't is night again; In her cheeks are to be seen
Of flowers both the king and queen, Thither by the Graces led, And freshly laid in nuptial bed; On whom lips like nymphs do wait, Who deplore their virgin state; Oft they blush, and blush for this, That they one another kiss: But observe, besides the rest, You shall know this felon best By her tongue; for if your ear Once a heavenly music hear, Such as neither gods nor men, But from that voice, shall hear again, That, that is she. O straight surprize, And bring her unto Love's assize:
If you let her go, she may Antedate the latter day,
Fate and philosophy controul,
And leave the world without a soul.
TO HIS MISTRESS CONFINED.
O THINK not, Phoebe, cause a cloud Doth now thy silver brightness shrowd, My wand'ring eye
Can stoop to common beauties of the sky, Rather be kind, and this eclipse Shall neither hinder eye nor lips; For we shall meet
With our hearts, and kiss, and none shall see 't.
Nor canst thou in thy prison be, Without some living sign of me:
When thou dost spy
A sun-beam peep into the room, 't is I; For I am hid within a flame, And thus into thy chamber came, To let thee see
In what a martyrdom I burn for thee.
When thou dost touch thy lute, thou mayst Think on my heart, on which thou play'st; When each sad tone
Upon the strings doth show my deeper groan. When thou dost please, they shall rebound With nimble airs, struck to the sound
Sure that mistress, to whose beauty
First I paid a lover's duty, Burnt in rage my heart to tinder; That nor pray'rs, nor tears can hinder; But wherever I do turn me,
Every spark let fall doth burn me. Women, since you thus inflame me, Flint and steel I'll ever name ye.
In her fair cheeks two pits do lie, To bury those slain by her eye; So, spight of death, this comforts me, That fairly buried I shall be:
My grave with rose and lilly spread, O't is a life to be so dead.
Come then and kill me with thy eye, For if thou let me live, I die.
When I behold those lips again Reviving what those eyes have slain With kisses sweet, whose balsam pure Love's wounds, as soon as made, can cure; Methinks 't is sickness to be sound, And there's no health to such a wound. Come then, &c.
When in her chaste breast I behold, Those downy mounts of snow ne'er cold, And those blest hearts her beauty kills, Reviv'd by climbing those fair hills; Methinks there 's life in such a death, And so t' expire inspires new breath. Come then, &c.
Nymph, since no death is deadly, where Such choice of antidotes are near, And your keen eyes but kill in vain Those that are sound; as soon as slain, That I no longer dead survive, Your way 's to bury me alive
In Cupid's cave, where happy I May dying live, and living die: Come then and kill me with thy eye, For if thou let me live, I die.
THE PRIMROSE.
Ask me why I send you here This firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearl'd with dew; I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears: Ask me why this flow'r doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break; I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.
Of what mould did Nature frame me? Or was it her intent to shaine me, That no woman can come near me, Fair, but her I court to hear me?
A CARVER, having lov'd too long in vain, Hew'd out the portraiture of Venus' son In marble rock, upon the which did rain Small drizzling drops that from a fount did run; Imagining the drops would either wear
His fury out, or quench his living flame: But when he saw it bootless did appear, He swore the water did augment the same. So I, that seek in verse to carve thee out, Hoping thy beauty will my flame allay, Viewing my lines impolish'd all throughout,
Find my will rather than my love obey; That, with the carver, I my work do blame, Finding it still th' augmenter of my flame.
TO THE PAINTER.
OND man, that hop'st to catch that face With those false colours, whose short grace erves but to show the lookers on The faults of thy presumption; 'r at the least to let us see, 'hat is divine, but yet not she: ay you could imitate the rays
of those eyes that out-shine the day's; 'r counterfeit, in red and white, hat most uncounterfeited light of her complexion; yet canst thou, Great master though thou be) tell how o print a virtue? Then desist; his fair your artifice hath miss'd: ou should have mark'd how she begins o grow in virtue, not in sins; stead of that same rosy dye, ou should have drawn out Modesty, Whose beauty sits enthroned there, nd learns to look and blush at her. r can you colour just the same, When virtue blushes; or when shame, Then sickness, and when innocence, hews pale or white unto the sense? an such coarse varnish e'er be said o imitate her white and red? his may do well elsewhere in Spain, mong those faces dy'd in grain; > you may thrive, and what you do rove the best picture of the two. esides (if all I hear be true)
is taken ill by some, that you hould be so insolently vain,
s to contrive all that rich gain to one tablet, which alone [ay teach us superstition; nstructing our amazed eyes 'admire and worship imag'ries, uch as quickly might out-shine
ome new saint, wer 't allow'd a shrine,
nd turn each wand'ring looker-on to a new Pygmalion.
et your art cannot equalize
his picture in her lover's eyes:
fis eyes the pencils are, which limb
ler truly, as her's copy him;
His heart the tablet, which alone
s for that portrait the tru'st stone;
f you would a truer see,
Mark it in their posterity,
And you shall read it truly there,
When the glad world shall see their heir.
Venus must lose her title now, And leave to brag of Cupid's bow; Silly queen!
She hath but one, but I can spy Ten thousand Cupids in thy eye.
Nor may the Sun behold our bliss, For sure thy eyes do dazzle his; If thou fear
That he 'll betray thee with his light, Let me eclipse thee from his sight.
And while I shade thee from his eye, Oh let me hear thee gently cry, Celia yields.
Maids often lose their maidenhead, Ere they set foot in nuptial bed.
STICKING UPON A LADY'S BREAST.
LET pride grow big, my rose, and let the clear And damask colour of thy leaves appear. Let scent and looks be sweet, and bless that hand That did transplant thee to that sacred land. O happy thou that in that garden rests, That paradise between that lady's breasts: There's an eternal spring; there shalt thou lie, Betwixt two lilly mounts, and never die : There shalt thou spring among the fertile vallies, By buds, like thee, that grow in midst of allies. There none dare pluck thee, for that place is such, That but a god divine there 's none dare touch; if any but approach, straight doth arise
A blushing lightning-flash, and blasts his eyes. There, 'stead of rain, shall living fountains flow; For wind, her fragrant breath for ever blow. Nor now, as erst, one sun shall en thee shine, But those two glorious suns, her eyes divine. O then what monarch would not think 't a grace, To leave his regal throne to have thy place? Myself, to gain thy blessed seat, do vow Would be transform'd into a rose as thou.
No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers;
Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Nor warbling birds delight to sing; Nor April violets paint the grove; If I forsake my Celia's love.
The fish shall in the ocean burn, And fountains sweet shall bitter turn; The humble oak no flood shall know When floods shall highest hills o'erflow; Black Lethe shall oblivion leave; If e'er my Celia I deceive.
Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus' doves want wings to fly;
TO THE JEALOUS MISTRESS.
ADMIT (thou darling of mine eyes)
I have some idol lately fram'd; That, under such a false disguise,
Our true loves might the less be fam'd; Canst thou, that know'st my heart, suppose I'll fall from thee, and worship those?
Remember (dear) how loath and slow I was to cast a look or smile,
Or ons love-line to mis-bestow,
Till thou hadst chang'd both face and stile; And art thou grown afraid to see That mask put on thou mad'st for me?
I dare not call those childish fears,
Coming from love, much less from thee, Put wash away with frequent tears This counterfeit idolatry; And henceforth kneel at ne'er a shrine, To blind the world, but only thine.
WHEN on fair Celia I did spy A wounded heart of stone, The wound had almost made me cry, "Sure this heart was my own:"
But when I saw it was enthron'd In her celestial breast,
O then! I it no longer own'd, For mine was ne'er so blest.
Yet if in highest Heavens do shine Each constant martyr's heart; Then she may well give rest to mine, That for her sake doth smart:
Where, seated in so high a bliss, Though wounded, it shall live: Death enters not in Paradise;
The place free life doth give.
Or, if the place less sacred were, Did but her saving eye
Bathe my sick heart in one kind tear, Then should I never die.
Slight balms may heal a slighter sore; No medicine less divine
Cau ever hope for to restore
A wounded heart like mine.
ON HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.
WITH joy like ours, the Thracian youth invade Orpheus returning from th' Elysian shade, Embrace the hero, and his stay implore, Make it their public suit he would no more Desert them so, and for his spouse's sake, His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethæau lake: The ladies too, the brightest of that time, Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb, Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, Which shall the fair Eurydice succeed; Euridice, for whom his numerous moan
Through all the air; his sounding strings dilate Makes list'ning trees and savage mountains groas
Sorrow like that which touch'd our hearts of late;
The duke of Buckingham, the unhappy favourite of Charles I. by whom he was appointak lord high admiral of England.
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