VI. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I feare; Because her cheekes are neere.

Dr. John Wilson was a native of Feversham in Kent, a gentleman of Charles the First's chapel, and chamber-musician to his majesty. For an account of his works, see Burney's HISTORY OF MUSIC, vol. iii. pp. 399-400, or Hawkins' HISTORY OF MUSIC, iii. 57, where a portrait of Wilson, taken from the original painting, will be found. Wood, author of the FASTI and ATHENAE, says that he was in his time, "the best at the lute in all England." Herrick, in his HESPERIDES, 1648, has these lines in reference to Henry Lawes:—

"Then if thy voice commingle with the string, I hear in thee the rare Laniere to sing, OR CURIOUS WILSON."

In a MS. copy of the poem contemporary with the author, now before me, this word is omitted.



LOVE CONQUER'D. A SONG. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.

I. The childish god of love did sweare Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver, Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair, I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr, And their knit imbraces shiver.

II. Up then to th' head with his best art Full of spite and envy blowne, At her constant marble heart, He drawes his swiftest surest dart, Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

III. Now the prince of fires burnes; Flames in the luster of her eyes; Triumphant she, refuses, scornes; He submits, adores and mournes, And is his votresse sacrifice.

IV. Foolish boy! resolve me now What 'tis to sigh and not be heard? He weeping kneel'd, and made a vow: The world shall love as yon' fast two; So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.



A LOOSE SARABAND. SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.

I. Ah me! the little tyrant theefe! As once my heart was playing, He snatcht it up and flew away, Laughing at all my praying.

II. Proud of his purchase, he surveys And curiously sounds it, And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel one, still he wounds it.

III. And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth From hand to breast, from breast to lip, And all its rest confoundeth.

IV. Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine, Then straight againe he strips it.

V. He cover'd it with false reliefe, Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning-cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it.

VI. Each day, with her small brazen stings, A thousand times she rac'd it; But then at night, bright with her gemmes, Once neere her breast she plac'd it.

VII. There warme it gan to throb and bleed; She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poore condemned heart With these rich drugges repreeved.

VIII. She washt the wound with a fresh teare, Which my LUCASTA dropped, And in the sleave-silke of her haire 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

IX. She proab'd it with her constancie, And found no rancor nigh it; Only the anger of her eye Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

X. Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine, Which from her kisses trilled; And with the balme heald all its paine, That from her hand distilled.

XI. But yet this heart avoyds me still, Will not by me be owned; But's fled to its physitian's breast; There proudly sits inthroned.

Prize. It is not uncommonly used by the early dramatists in this sense; but the verb TO PURCHASE is more usually found than the noun.

"Yet having opportunity, he tries, Gets her goodwill, and with his purchase flies." Wither's ABUSES STRIPT AND WHIPT, 1613.

Here I have hazarded an emendation of the text. In original we read, CRUELL STILL ON. Lovelace's poems were evidently printed without the slightest care.

Original reads IT'S.

Original has BELIEFE.

> Soft, like floss.



ORPHEUS TO WOODS. SONG. SET BY MR. CURTES.

Heark! Oh heark! you guilty trees, In whose gloomy galleries Was the cruell'st murder done, That e're yet eclipst the sunne. Be then henceforth in your twigges Blasted, e're you sprout to sprigges; Feele no season of the yeere, But what shaves off all your haire, Nor carve any from your wombes Ought but coffins and their tombes.



ORPHEUS TO BEASTS. SONG. SET BY MR. CURTES.

I. Here, here, oh here! EURIDICE, Here was she slaine; Her soule 'still'd through a veine: The gods knew lesse That time divinitie, Then ev'n, ev'n these Of brutishnesse.

II. Oh! could you view the melodie Of ev'ry grace, And musick of her face, You'd drop a teare, Seeing more harmonie In her bright eye, Then now you heare.

By Orpheus we may perhaps understand Lovelace himself, and by Euridice, the lady whom he celebrates under the name of Lucasta. Grainger mentions (BIOG. HIST. ii. 74) a portrait of Lovelace by Gaywood, in which he is represented as Orpheus. I have not seen it. The old poets were rather fond of likening themselves to this legendary personage, or of designating themselves his poetical children:—

"We that are ORPHEUS' sons, and can inherit By that great title"— Davenant's WORKS, 1673, p. 215.

Many other examples might be given. Massinger, in his CITY MADAM, 1658, makes Sir John Frugal introduce a representation of the story of the Thracian bard at an entertainment given to Luke Frugal.

A lutenist. Wood says that after the Restoration he became gentleman or singing-man of Christ Church, Oxford. He was one of those musicians who, after the abolition of organs, &c. during the civil war, met at a private house at Oxford for the purpose of taking his part in musical entertainments.

"Such was Zuleika; such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone; The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face." Byron's BRIDE OF ABYDOS, canto 1. (WORKS, ed. 1825, ii. 299.)



DIALOGUE. LUCASTA, ALEXIS. SET BY MR. JOHN GAMBLE.

I. Lucasta. TELL me, ALEXIS, what this parting is, That so like dying is, but is not it?

Alexis. It is a swounding for a while from blisse, 'Till kind HOW DOE YOU call's us from the fit.

Chorus. If then the spirits only stray, let mine Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine: Thus in our native seate we gladly give Our right for one, where we can better live.

II. Lu. But ah, this ling'ring, murdring farewel! Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures the ill. Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover, Still to be dying, still for to recover.

Cho. Soldiers suspected of their courage goe, That ensignes and their breasts untorne show: Love nee're his standard, when his hoste he sets, Creates alone fresh-bleeding bannerets.

III. Alex. But part we, when thy figure I retaine Still in my heart, still strongly in mine eye? Lu. Shadowes no longer than the sun remaine, But his beams, that made 'em, fly, they fly. Cho. Vaine dreames of love! that only so much blisse Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse; And deale a larger measure in our paine By showing joy, then hiding it againe.

IV. Alex. No, whilst light raigns, LUCASTA still rules here, And all the night shines wholy in this sphere. Lu. I know no morne but my ALEXIS ray, To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.

Chorus. Alex. So in each other if the pitying sun Thus keep us fixt, nere may his course be run! Lu. And oh! if night us undivided make; Let us sleepe still, and sleeping never wake!

The close. Cruel ADIEUS may well adjourne awhile The sessions of a looke, a kisse, or smile, And leave behinde an angry grieving blush; But time nor fate can part us joyned thus.

i.e. the poet himself.

"John Gamble, apprentice to Ambrose Beyland, a noted musician, was afterwards musician at one of the playhouses; from thence removed to be a cornet in the King's Chapel. After that he became one in Charles the Second's band of violins, and composed for the theatres. He published AYRES AND DIALOGUES TO THE THEORBO AND BASS VIOL, fol. Lond., 1659."—Hawkins.



SONNET. SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I. When I by thy faire shape did sweare, And mingled with each vowe a teare, I lov'd, I lov'd thee best, I swore as I profest. For all the while you lasted warme and pure, My oathes too did endure. But once turn'd faithlesse to thy selfe and old, They then with thee incessantly grew cold.

II. I swore my selfe thy sacrifice By th' ebon bowes that guard thine eyes, Which now are alter'd white, And by the glorious light Of both those stars, which of their spheres bereft, Only the gellie's left. Then changed thus, no more I'm bound to you, Then swearing to a saint that proves untrue.

i.e. at once, immediately.

Her eyebrows.

Original reads OF WHICH.



LUCASTA WEEPING. SONG. SET BY MR. JOHN LANEERE.

I. Lucasta wept, and still the bright Inamour'd god of day, With his soft handkercher of light, Kist the wet pearles away.

II. But when her teares his heate or'ecame, In cloudes he quensht his beames, And griev'd, wept out his eye of flame, So drowned her sad streames.

III. At this she smiled, when straight the sun Cleer'd by her kinde desires; And by her eyes reflexion Fast kindl'd there his fires.

This stanza is not found in the printed copy of LUCASTA, 1649, but it occurs in a MS. of this poem written, with many compositions by Lovelace and other poets, in a copy of Crashaw's POEMS, 1648, 12mo, a portion of which having been formed of the printer's proof-sheets, some of the pages are printed only on one side, the reverse being covered with MSS. poems, among the rest with epigrams by MR. THOMAS FULLER (about fifty in number). There can be little doubt, from the character of the majority of these little poems, that by "Mr. Thomas Fuller" we may understand the church-historian.



TO LUCASTA. FROM PRISON AN EPODE.

I. Long in thy shackels, liberty I ask not from these walls, but thee; Left for awhile anothers bride, To fancy all the world beside.

II. Yet e're I doe begin to love, See, how I all my objects prove; Then my free soule to that confine, 'Twere possible I might call mine.

III. First I would be in love with PEACE, And her rich swelling breasts increase; But how, alas! how may that be, Despising earth, she will love me?

IV. Faine would I be in love with WAR, As my deare just avenging star; But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere, Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.

V. Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane, Faire thorough-shot RELIGION; But he lives only that kills thee, And who so bindes thy hands, is free.

VI. I would love a PARLIAMENT As a maine prop from Heav'n sent; But ah! who's he, that would be wedded To th' fairest body that's beheaded?

VII. Next would I court my LIBERTY, And then my birth-right, PROPERTY; But can that be, when it is knowne, There's nothing you can call your owne?

VIII. A REFORMATION I would have, As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve; That is, a cleansing of each wheele Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.

IX. But not a reformation so, As to reforme were to ore'throw, Like watches by unskilfull men Disjoynted, and set ill againe.

X. The PUBLICK FAITH I would adore, But she is banke-rupt of her store: Nor how to trust her can I see, For she that couzens all, must me.

XI. Since then none of these can be Fit objects for my love and me; What then remaines, but th' only spring Of all our loves and joyes, the King?

XII. He who, being the whole ball Of day on earth, lends it to all; When seeking to ecclipse his right, Blinded we stand in our owne light.

XIII. And now an universall mist Of error is spread or'e each breast, With such a fury edg'd as is Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.

XIV. Oh, from thy glorious starry waine Dispense on me one sacred beame, To light me where I soone may see How to serve you, and you trust me!

This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.

"The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin, A nephew that dares COZEN any sin; A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother, Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other; Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss, ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS." Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.



LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.

I. Eastrich! thou featherd foole, and easie prey, That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst; Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day, Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.

II. O what a glorious transmigration From this to so divine an edifice Hast thou straight made! heere from a winged stone Transform'd into a bird of paradice!

III. Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie With th' arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet, And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.

IV. Sometime they wing her side, strive to drown The day's eyes piercing beames, whose am'rous heat Sollicites still, 'till with this shield of downe From her brave face his glowing fires are beat.

V. But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw, A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast, In which her fresh aspect when as she saw, And then her foe retired to the west.

VI. Deare engine, that oth' sun got'st me the day, 'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat! No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.

VII. My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse, And but unto our selves to all remaine Invisible, thou feature of this face!

VIII. So said, her sad swaine over-heard and cried: Yee Gods! for faith unstaind this a reward! Feathers and glasse t'outweigh my vertue tryed! Ah! show their empty strength! the gods accord.

IX. Now fall'n the brittle favourite lyes and burst! Amas'd LUCASTA weepes, repents and flies To her ALEXIS, vowes her selfe acurst, If hence she dresse her selfe but in his eyes.

This adaptation of the fan to the purposes of a mirror, now so common, was, as we here are told, familiar to the ladies of Lovelace's time. Mr. Fairholt, in his COSTUME IN ENGLAND, 1846, p. 496, describes many various forms which were given at different periods to this article of use and ornament; but the present passage in LUCASTA appears to have escaped his notice.

Ostrich. Lyly, in his EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c 4, has ESTRIDGE. The fan here described was composed of ostrich-feathers set with precious stones.

In allusion to the digestive powers of this bird.

Original reads NEERE.

The poet means that Lucasta, when she did not require her fan for immediate use, wore it suspended at her side or from her girdle.

The sun.



LUCASTA, TAKING THE WATERS AT TUNBRIDGE.

I. Yee happy floods! that now must passe The sacred conduicts of her wombe, Smooth and transparent as your face, When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.

II. Be proud! and if your waters be Foul'd with a counterfeyted teare, Or some false sigh hath stained yee, Haste, and be purified there.

III. And when her rosie gates y'have trac'd, Continue yet some Orient wet, 'Till, turn'd into a gemme, y'are plac'd Like diamonds with rubies set.

IV. Yee drops, that dew th' Arabian bowers, Tell me, did you e're smell or view On any leafe of all your flowers Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?

V. But as through th' Organs of her breath You trickle wantonly, beware: Ambitious Seas in their just death As well as Lovers, must have share.

VI. And see! you boyle as well as I; You, that to coole her did aspire, Now troubled and neglected lye, Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.

VII. Yet still be happy in the thought, That in so small a time as this, Through all the Heavens you were brought Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.

From this it might be conjectured, though the ground for doing so would be very slight, that LUCASTA was a native of Kent or of one of the adjoining shires; but against this supposition we have to set the circumstance that elsewhere this lady is called a "northern star."



TO LUCASTA. ODE LYRICK.

I. Ah LUCASTA, why so bright? Spread with early streaked light! If still vailed from our sight, What is't but eternall night?

II. Ah LUCASTA, why so chaste? With that vigour, ripenes grac't, Not to be by Man imbrac't Makes that Royall coyne imbace't, And this golden Orchard waste!

III. Ah LUCASTA, why so great, That thy crammed coffers sweat? Yet not owner of a seat May shelter you from Natures heat, And your earthly joyes compleat.

IV. Ah Lucasta, why so good? Blest with an unstained flood Flowing both through soule and blood; If it be not understood, 'Tis a Diamond in mud.

V. LUCASTA! stay! why dost thou flye? Thou art not bright but to the eye, Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye, Nor great but in this treasurie, Nor good but in that sanctitie.

VI. Harder then the Orient stone, Like an apparition, Or as a pale shadow gone, Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.

VII. Then receive this equall dombe: Virgins, strow no teare or bloome, No one dig the Parian wombe; Raise her marble heart i'th' roome, And 'tis both her coarse and tombe.



LUCASTA PAYING HER OBSEQUIES TO THE CHAST MEMORY OF MY DEAREST COSIN MRS. BOWES BARNE[S].

I. See! what an undisturbed teare She weepes for her last sleepe; But, viewing her, straight wak'd a Star, She weepes that she did weepe.

II. Griefe ne're before did tyranize On th' honour of that brow, And at the wheeles of her brave eyes Was captive led til now.

III. Thus, for a saints apostacy The unimagin'd woes And sorrowes of the Hierarchy None but an angel knowes.

IV. Thus, for lost soules recovery The clapping of all wings And triumphs of this victory None but an angel sings.

V. So none but she knows to bemone This equal virgins fate, None but LUCASTA can her crowne Of glory celebrate.

VI. Then dart on me (CHAST LIGHT) one ray, By which I may discry Thy joy cleare through this cloudy day To dresse my sorrow by.

This lady was probably the wife of a descendant of Sir William Barnes, of Woolwich, whose only daughter and heir, Anne, married the poet's father, and brought him the seat in Kent. See GENTS. MAGAZINE for 1791, part ii. 1095.

A translation of LUCASTA, or LUX CASTA, for the sake of the metre.



UPON THE CURTAINE OF LUCASTA'S PICTURE, IT WAS THUS WROUGHT.

Oh, stay that covetous hand; first turn all eye, All depth and minde; then mystically spye Her soul's faire picture, her faire soul's, in all So truely copied from th' originall, That you will sweare her body by this law Is but its shadow, as this, its;—now draw.

Pictures used formerly to have curtains before them. It is still done in some old houses. In WESTWARD HOE, 1607, act ii. scene 3, there is an allusion to this practice:—

"SIR GOSLING. So draw those curtains, and let's see the pictures under 'em."—Webster's WORKS, ed. Hazlitt, i. 133.



LUCASTA'S WORLD. EPODE.

I. Cold as the breath of winds that blow To silver shot descending snow, Lucasta sigh't; when she did close The world in frosty chaines! And then a frowne to rubies frose The blood boyl'd in our veines: Yet cooled not the heat her sphere Of beauties first had kindled there.

II. Then mov'd, and with a suddaine flame Impatient to melt all againe, Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl'd, And earth in ashes mournes; The sun his blaze denies the world, And in her luster burnes: Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice Disdaine had first congeal'd to ice.

III. And now her teares nor griev'd desire Can quench this raging, pleasing fire; Fate but one way allowes; behold Her smiles' divinity! They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold, So fram'd up a new sky. Thus earth, from flames and ice repreev'd, E're since hath in her sun-shine liv'd.

Original reads SIGHT.



THE APOSTACY OF ONE, AND BUT ONE LADY.

I. That frantick errour I adore, And am confirm'd the earth turns round; Now satisfied o're and o're, As rowling waves, so flowes the ground, And as her neighbour reels the shore: Finde such a woman says she loves; She's that fixt heav'n, which never moves.

II. In marble, steele, or porphyrie, Who carves or stampes his armes or face, Lookes it by rust or storme must dye: This womans love no time can raze, Hardned like ice in the sun's eye, Or your reflection in a glasse, Which keepes possession, though you passe.

III. We not behold a watches hand To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow; Must we infer that this doth stand, And therefore, that those do not blow? This she acts calmer, like Heav'ns brand, The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart, She kils, but ere we feele the smart.

IV. Oh, she is constant as the winde, That revels in an ev'nings aire! Certaine as wayes unto the blinde, More reall then her flatt'ries are; Gentle as chaines that honour binde, More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew, But as the divel not halfe so true.



AMYNTOR FROM BEYOND THE SEA TO ALEXIS.

A DIALOGUE.

Amyntor. Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be, Though so much wet and drie Doth drowne our eye, Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?

Alexis. Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare, Hath swallow'd me, where now My armes do row, I floate i'th' ocean of a teare.

Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread Your Watry land againe. Amyn. I'd through the raine; Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

Conceive how joy, after this short divorce, Will circle her with beames, When, like your streames, You shall rowle back with kinder force,

And call the helping winds to vent your thought. Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where Or in what sphere Say, may that glorious fair be sought?

Amyn. She's now the center of these armes e're blest, Whence may she never move, Till Time and Love Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high As yours, and burne as hot? Am not I shot With the selfe same artillery?

And can I breath without her air?—Amyn. Why, then, From thy tempestuous earth, Where blood and dearth Raigne 'stead of kings, agen

Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far Arise, bring in our sight The seas delight, Lucasta, that bright northerne star.

Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare The green god stops his fell Chariot of shell, And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done; He as his empire's old, And rivers, cold; His queen now runs abed to th' sun;

But all his treasure he shall ope' that day: Tritons shall sound: his fleete In silver meete, And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alex. We flye, Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent By water, earth, or aire: Or if with her By fire: ev'n there I move in mine owne element.

Endymion Porter?

Lovelace himself.



CALLING LUCASTA FROM HER RETIREMENT. ODE.

I. From the dire monument of thy black roome, Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe, As in the inmost cell of all earths wombe.

II. Sacred Lucasta, like the pow'rfull ray Of heavenly truth, passe this Cimmerian way, Whilst all the standards of your beames display.

III. Arise and climbe our whitest, highest hill; There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill, And see seas calme as earth, earth as your will.

IV. Behold! how lightning like a taper flyes, And guilds your chari't, but ashamed dyes, Seeing it selfe out-gloried by your eyes.

V. Threatning and boystrous tempests gently bow, And to your steps part in soft paths, when now There no where hangs a cloud, but on your brow.

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

Original has COLME.

i.e. own.

Original reads YOUR.

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



AMARANTHA. A PASTORALL.

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 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 in her breast: The July-flow'r 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. 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 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, 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 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 With burnisht-silver mal'd, whose oares Amazed still make to the shoares; What need she other bait or charm, What hook 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 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, 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 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, my woes I crave Smotherd in me, me 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, 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 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 kind. Then she relates, how Caelia— 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, Untill with her he live thus milde. 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.

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

The marigold.

A flower so called.

More commonly known as THE GILLIFLOWER.

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.

i.e. silvery or white milk.

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.

Original has PRIZE THEIR.

The fish with their silvery scales.

Fins.

Original reads BUT LOOK.

Original has THERE.

i.e. condemned.

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.

Original has SIGHT.

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."

Reverence.

i.e. in heaven.

i.e. than among human kind.

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

Impatient.

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! 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?

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 nor base, Are still allow'd to fiddle with the case.

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

Doom.

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, flutes of canary, That well did wash downe pasties-Mary; For peason, chickens, sawces high, Pig, and the widdow-venson-pye; 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; For glasses, heads, hands, bellies full Of wine, and loyne right-worshipfull; 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.

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, 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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sirloin of beef.

Rotterdam.

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, 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 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.

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.

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, HIS CHLORIS, ARIGO, AND GRATIANA. AN ELOGIE.

It was 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 the pearle within; Her eyes a double-flaming torch That alwayes shine, and never scorch; Her 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 of sweet To see Amyntor Chloris greet; Balme and nard, and each perfume, To blesse this payre, chafe and consume; And th' Phoenix, see! already fries! Her neast a fire in Chloris eyes! Next 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 I aske without a tush, Can kisse or touch without a blush, And we are taught that substance is, If uninjoy'd, but th' 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. 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 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. 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? 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 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 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.

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

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.

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

So original; MS. reads OF.

This and the next thirteen lines are not in MS.

> i.e. tribute.

FAIRE—MS.

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.

This and the next eleven lines are not in MS.

The MS. reads SHE.

The MS. reads for BUT TH' "the."

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

So MS.; original has A.

An allusion to the fable of Jupiter and Ganymede.

MIX'D WITH DROPPINGE SNOW—MS.

This and the succeeding line are not in MS.

This and the six following lines are not in MS.

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.

I. Why shouldst thou 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 space? I should all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new imbrace; Should I still dote upon thy face.

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

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

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."

So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads SHOULD YOU.

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

So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads MUST.

So Cotgrave. LUCASTA has COULD.

So Cotgrave. LUCASTA reads BY.

UNBIDDEN—Cotgrave.

THEE—Cotgrave.

IN SPOIL—Cotgrave.



PRINCESSE LOYSA 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 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.

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

Original has OF.



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

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 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.

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.

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. ODE.

I. Oh thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare 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 of his beames, And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men, 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 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 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.

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.

Original has HAIRE.

i.e. a beard of oats.

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.

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.

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).

Perch.

i.e. old Greek wine.



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

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.

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. 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.

Probably composed during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse.



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER. 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 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.

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.

Original reads FOR.

"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: 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 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.

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.

Original reads CARES.



THE LADY A. L. MY ASYLUM IN A GREAT EXTREMITY.

With that delight the Royal captiv's 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.

Let me leape in againe! and by that fall Bring me to my first woe, so cancel all: Ah! 's this a quitting of the debt you owe, To crush her and her goodnesse at one blowe? Defend me from so foule impiety, Would make friends grieve, and furies weep to see.

Now, ye sage spirits, which infuse in men That are oblidg'd twice to oblige agen, Informe my tongue in labour what to say, And in what coyne or language to repay. But you are silent as the ev'nings ayre, When windes unto their hollow grots repaire. Oh, then accept the all that left me is, Devout oblations of a sacred wish!

When she walks forth, ye perfum'd wings oth' East, Fan her, 'til with the Sun she hastes to th' West, And when her heav'nly course calles up the day, And breakes as bright, descend, some glistering ray, To circle her, and her as glistering haire, That all may say a living saint shines there. Slow Time, with woollen feet make thy soft pace, And leave no tracks ith' snow of her pure face; But when this vertue must needs fall, to rise The brightest constellation in the skies; When we in characters of fire shall reade, How cleere she was alive, how spotless, dead. All you that are a kinne to piety: For onely you can her close mourners be, Draw neer, and make of hallowed teares a dearth: Goodnes and justice both are fled the earth.

If this be to be thankful, I'v a heart Broaken with vowes, eaten with grateful smart, And beside this, the vild world nothing hath Worth anything but her provoked wrath; So then, who thinkes to satisfie in time, Must give a satisfaction for that crime: Since she alone knowes the gifts value, she Can onely to her selfe requitall be, And worthyly to th' life paynt her owne story In its true colours and full native glory; Which when perhaps she shal be heard to tell, Buffoones and theeves, ceasing to do ill, Shal blush into a virgin-innocence, And then woo others from the same offence; The robber and the murderer, in 'spite Of his red spots, shal startle into white: All good (rewards layd by) shal stil increase For love of her, and villany decease; Naught be ignote, not so much out of feare Of being punisht, as offending her.

So that, when as my future daring bayes Shall bow it selfe in lawrels to her praise, To crown her conqu'ring goodnes, and proclaime The due renowne and glories of her name: My wit shal be so wretched and so poore That, 'stead of praysing, I shal scandal her, And leave, when with my purest art I'v done, Scarce the designe of what she is begunne: Yet men shal send me home, admir'd, exact; Proud, that I could from her so wel detract.

Where, then, thou bold instinct, shal I begin My endlesse taske? To thanke her were a sin Great as not speake, and not to speake, a blame Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a name; So thou my all, poore gratitude, ev'n thou In this wilt an unthankful office do: Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have: My life, my love, my very soule, a slave? Tye my free spirit onely unto her, And yeeld up my affection prisoner? Fond thought, in this thou teachest me to give What first was hers, since by her breath I live; And hast but show'd me, how I may resigne Possession of those thing are none of mine.

i.e. Anne, Lady Lovelace, the poet's kinswoman, who seems to have assisted him in some emergency, unknown to us except through the present lines.

Caractacus(?).

The mythology of Greece assigned to each wind a separate cave, in which it was supposed to await the commands of its sovereign Aeolus, or Aeolos. It is to this myth that Lovelace alludes.

A very common form of VILE among early writers.

This reads like a parody on the fourth Eclogue of Virgil. The early English poets were rather partial to the introduction of miniature-pictures of the Golden Age on similar occasions to the present. Thus Carew, in his poem TO SAXHAM, says:—

"The Pheasant, Partridge, and the Lark Flew to thy house, as to the Ark. The willing Oxe of himself came Home to the slaughter with the Lamb. And every beast did thither bring Himself, to be an offering." Carew's POEMS, 1651, p. 34.

Vice.

We should read THEMSELVES.



A LADY WITH A FALCON ON HER FIST. TO THE HONOURABLE MY COUSIN A[NNE] L[OVELACE.]

I. This Queen of Prey (now prey to you), Fast to that pirch of ivory In silver chaines and silken clue, Hath now made full thy victory:

II. The swelling admirall of the dread Cold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire! Wast not enough, but thou must lead Bound, too, the Princesse of the aire?

III. Unarm'd of wings and scaly oare, Unhappy crawler on the land, To what heav'n fly'st? div'st to what shoare, That her brave eyes do not command?

IV. Ascend the chariot of the Sun From her bright pow'r to shelter thee: Her captive (foole) outgases him; Ah, what lost wretches then are we!

V. Now, proud usurpers on the right Of sacred beauty, heare your dombe; Recant your sex, your mastry, might; Lower you cannot be or'ecome:

VI. Repent, ye er'e nam'd he or head, For y' are in falcon's monarchy, And in that just dominion bred, In which the nobler is the shee.



A PROLOGUE TO THE SCHOLARS. A COMAEDY PRESENTED AT THE WHITE FRYERS.

A gentleman, to give us somewhat new, Hath brought up OXFORD with him to show you; Pray be not frighted—Tho the scaene and gown's The Universities, the wit's the town's; The lines each honest Englishman may speake: Yet not mistake his mother-tongue for Greeke, For stil 'twas part of his vow'd liturgie:— From learned comedies deliver me! Wishing all those that lov'd 'em here asleepe, Promising SCHOLARS, but no SCHOLARSHIP.

You'd smile to see, how he do's vex and shake, Speakes naught; but, if the PROLOGUE do's but take, Or the first act were past the pikes once, then— Then hopes and joys, then frowns and fears agen, Then blushes like a virgin, now to be Rob'd of his comicall virginity In presence of you all. In short, you'd say More hopes of mirth are in his looks then play.

These feares are for the noble and the wise; But if 'mongst you there are such fowle dead eyes, As can damne unaraign'd, cal law their pow'rs, Judging it sin enough that it is ours, And with the house shift their decreed desires, FAIRE still to th' BLACKE, BLACKE still to the WHITE-FRYERS; He do's protest he wil sit down and weep Castles and pyramids . . . . . . . . . No, he wil on, Proud to be rais'd by such destruction, So far from quarr'lling with himselfe and wit, That he wil thank them for the benefit, Since finding nothing worthy of their hate, They reach him that themselves must envy at:

This was the theatre in Salisbury Court. See Collier, H. E. D. P. iii. 289, and Halliwell's DICTIONARY OF OLD PLAYS, art. SCHOLAR. From the terms of the epilogue it seems to have been a piece occupying two hours in the performance. Judging, I presume, from the opening lines, Mr. Halliwell supposes it to have been originally acted at Gloucester Hall. Probably Mr. Halliwell is right.

A quibble on the two adjacent theatres in Whitefriars and Blackfriars.



THE EPILOGUE.

The stubborne author of the trifle crime, That just now cheated you of two hours' time, Presumptuous it lik't him, began to grow Carelesse, whether it pleased you or no.

But we who ground th' excellence of a play On what the women at the dores wil say, Who judge it by the benches, and afford To take your money, ere his oath or word His SCHOLLARS school'd, sayd if he had been wise He should have wove in one two COMEDIES; The first for th' gallery, in which the throne To their amazement should descend alone, The rosin-lightning flash, and monster spire Squibs, and words hotter then his fire.

Th' other for the gentlemen oth' pit, Like to themselves, all spirit, fancy, wit, In which plots should be subtile as a flame, Disguises would make PROTEUS stil the same: Humours so rarely humour'd and exprest, That ev'n they should thinke 'em so, not drest; Vices acted and applauded too, times Tickled, and th' actors acted, not their crimes, So he might equally applause have gain'd Of th' hardned, sooty, and the snowy hand.

Where now one SO SO spatters, t'other: no! Tis his first play; twere solecisme 'tshould goe; The next 't show'd pritily, but searcht within It appeares bare and bald, as is his chin; The towne-wit sentences: A SCHOLARS PLAY! Pish! I know not why, but th'ave not the way.

We, whose gaine is all our pleasure, ev'n these Are bound by justice and religion to please; Which he, whose pleasure's all his gaine, goes by As slightly, as they doe his comaedy.

Culls out the few, the worthy, at whose feet He sacrifices both himselfe and it, His fancies first fruits: profit he knowes none, Unles that of your approbation, Which if your thoughts at going out will pay, Hee'l not looke farther for a second day.

Perhaps TRIFLING was the word written by Lovelace. A VENIAL OFFENCE is meant.

It would be difficult to point out a writer so unpardonably slovenly in his style or phraseology as Lovelace. By "Presumptuous it lik't him," we must of course understand "Presumptuous that he liked it himself," or presumptuously self-satisfied.

i.e. the rough and dirty occupants of the gallery and the fair spectators in the boxes.

An exclamation of approval, when an actor made a hit. The phrase seems to be somewhat akin to the Italian "SI, SI," a corruption of "SIA, SIA."

i.e. they do not know how to act a play.

This prologue and epilogue were clearly not attached to the play when it was first performed by the fellow-collegians of the poet at Gloucester Hall, as an amateur attempt in the dramatic line, but were first added when "The Scholars" was reproduced in London, and the parts sustained by ordinary actors.



AGAINST THE LOVE OF GREAT ONES.

Vnhappy youth, betrayd by Fate To such a love hath sainted hate, And damned those celestiall bands Are onely knit with equal hands; The love of great ones is a love, Gods are incapable to prove: For where there is a joy uneven, There never, never can be Heav'n: 'Tis such a love as is not sent To fiends as yet for punishment; IXION willingly doth feele The gyre of his eternal wheele, Nor would he now exchange his paine For cloudes and goddesses againe.

Wouldst thou with tempests lye? Then bow To th' rougher furrows of her brow, Or make a thunder-bolt thy choyce? Then catch at her more fatal voyce; Or 'gender with the lightning? trye The subtler flashes of her eye: Poore SEMELE wel knew the same, Who both imbrac't her God and flame; And not alone in soule did burne, But in this love did ashes turne.

How il doth majesty injoy The bow and gaity oth' boy, As if the purple-roabe should sit, And sentence give ith' chayr of wit.

Say, ever-dying wretch, to whom Each answer is a certaine doom, What is it that you would possesse, The Countes, or the naked Besse? Would you her gowne or title do? Her box or gem, the thing or show? If you meane HER, the very HER, Abstracted from her caracter, Unhappy boy! you may as soone With fawning wanton with the Moone, Or with an amorous complaint Get prostitute your very saint; Not that we are not mortal, or Fly VENUS altars, and abhor The selfesame knack, for which you pine; But we (defend us!) are divine, [Not] female, but madam born, and come From a right-honourable wombe. Shal we then mingle with the base, And bring a silver-tinsell race? Whilst th' issue noble wil not passe The gold alloyd (almost halfe brasse), And th' blood in each veine doth appeare, Part thick Booreinn, part Lady Cleare; Like to the sordid insects sprung From Father Sun and Mother Dung: Yet lose we not the hold we have, But faster graspe the trembling slave; Play at baloon with's heart, and winde The strings like scaines, steale into his minde Ten thousand false and feigned joyes Far worse then they; whilst, like whipt boys, After this scourge hee's hush with toys.

This heard, Sir, play stil in her eyes, And be a dying, live like flyes Caught by their angle-legs, and whom The torch laughs peece-meale to consume.

i.e. THAT hath sainted, &c.

So the Editor's MS. copy already described; the printed copy has BONDS.

So Editor's MS. Printed copy has— "The Love of Great Ones? 'Tis a Love."

> Subtle—Editor's MS.

Semele she—Editor's MS.

She—Ibid.

Dombe—LUCASTA.

BESS is used in the following passage as a phrase for a sort of female TOM-O-BEDLAM—

"We treat mad-Bedlams, TOMS and BESSES, With ceremonies and caresses!" Dixon's CANIDIA, 1683, part i. canto 2.

And the word seems also to have been employed to signify the loose women who, in early times, made Covent Garden and its neighbourhood their special haunt. See Cotgrave's WITS INTERPRETER, 1662, p. 236. But here "naked Besse," means only a woman who, in contradistinction to a lady of rank, has no adventitious qualities to recommend her.

Original reads HER.

Altars, or—LUCASTA.

Borne—LUCASTA.

Allay'd—LUCASTA.

So Editor's MS. LUCASTA has HELLS.

From this word down to LIVES is omitted in the MS. copy.

Original has LIVES.



TO ALTHEA. FROM PRISON. SONG. SET BY DR. JOHN WILSON.

I. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates; And my divine ALTHEA brings To whisper at the grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, And fetterd to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the aire, Know no such liberty.

II. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying THAMES, Our carelesse heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertie.

III. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetnes, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King. When I shall voyce aloud, how good He is, how great should be, Inlarged winds, that curle the flood, Know no such liberty.

IV. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Mindes innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedome in my love, And in my soule am free, Angels alone that sore above Enjoy such liberty.

The first stanza of this famous song is harmonized in CHEERFULL AYRES OR BALLADS: FIRST COMPOSED FOR ONE SINGLE VOICE, AND SINCE SET FOR THREE VOICES. By John Wilson, Dr. in Music, Professor of the same in the University of Oxford. Oxford, 1660 (Sept. 20, 1659), 4to. p. 10. I have sometimes thought that, when Lovelace composed this production, he had in his recollection some of the sentiments in Wither's SHEPHERDS HUNTING, 1615. See, more particularly, the sonnet (at p. 248 of Mr. Gutch's Bristol edition) commencing:—

"I that er'st while the world's sweet air did draw."

Peele, in KING DAVID AND FAIR BETHSABE, 1599, has a similar figure, where David says:—

"Now comes my lover tripping like the roe, And brings my longings tangled in her hair."

The "lover" is of course Bethsabe.

Thus Middleton, in his MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN, printed in 1657, but written before 1626, says:—

"But for modesty, I should fall foul in words upon fond man, That can forget his excellence and honour, His serious meditations, being the end Of his creation, to learn well to die; And live a PRISONER TO A WOMAN'S EYE."

Original reads GODS; the present word is substituted in accordance with a MS. copy of the song printed by the late Dr. Bliss, in his edition of Woods ATHENAE. If Dr. Bliss had been aware of the extraordinary corruptions under which the text of LUCASTA laboured, he would have had less hesitation in adopting BIRDS as the true reading. The "Song to Althea," is a favourable specimen of the class of composition to which it belongs; but I fear that it has been over-estimated.

Percy very unnecessarily altered LIKE COMMITTED LINNETS to LINNET-LIKE CONFINED (Percy's RELIQUES, ii. 247; Moxon's ed.) Ellis (SPECIMENS OF EARLY ENGLISH POETS, ed. 1801, iii. 252) says that this latter reading is "more intelligible." It is not, however, either what Lovelace wrote, or what (it may be presumed) he intended to write, and nothing, it would seem, can be clearer than the passage as it stands, COMMITTED signifying, in fact, nothing more than CONFINED. It is fortunate for the lovers of early English literature that Bp. Percy had comparatively little to do with it. Emendation of a text is well enough; but the wholesale and arbitrary slaughter of it is quite another matter.



SONNET. TO GENERALL GORING, AFTER THE PACIFICATION AT BERWICKE. A LA CHABOT.

I. Now the peace is made at the foes rate, Whilst men of armes to kettles their old helmes translate, And drinke in caskes of honourable plate. In ev'ry hand [let] a cup be found, That from all hearts a health may sound To GORING! to GORING! see 't goe round.

II. He whose glories shine so brave and high, That captive they in triumph leade each care and eye, Claiming uncombated the victorie, And from the earth to heav'n rebound, Fixt there eternall as this round: To GORING! to GORING! see him crown'd.

III. To his lovely bride, in love with scars, Whose eyes wound deepe in peace, as doth his sword in wars; They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars: Her cheekes the morning blushes give, And the benighted world repreeve; To LETTICE! to LETTICE! let her live.

IV. Give me scorching heat, thy heat, dry Sun, That to this payre I may drinke off an ocean: Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone; Or a full bowle of heav'nly wine, In which dissolved stars should shine, To the couple! to the couple! th' are divine.

Particulars of this celebrated man, afterward created Earl of Norwich, may be found in Eachard's HISTORY, Rushworth's COLLECTIONS, Whitelocke's MEMOIRS, Collins' PEERAGE by Brydges, Pepys' DIARY (i. 150, ed. 1858), and Peck's DESIDERATA CURIOSA, (ed. 1779, ii. 479). Whitelocke speaks very highly of his military character. In a poem called THE GALLANTS OF THE TIMES, printed in "Wit Restored," 1658, there is the following passage:—

"A great burgandine for WILL MURRAY'S sake GEORGE SYMONDS, he vows the first course to take: When STRADLING a Graecian dog let fly, Who took the bear by the nose immediately; To see them so forward Hugh Pollard did smile, Who had an old curr of Canary oyl, And held up his head that GEORGE GORING might see, Who then cryed aloud, TO MEE, BOYS, TO MEE!"

See, also, THE ANSWER:—

"GEORGE, Generall of Guenefrieds, He is a joviall lad, Though his heart and fortunes disagree Oft times to make him sad."

Consult Davenant's Works, 1673, p. 247, and FRAGMENTA AULICA, 1662, pp. 47, 54. Lord Goring died Jan. 6, 1663 (Smyth's OBITUARY, p. 57; Camden Soc.).

A LA CHABOT was a French dance tune, christened after the admiral of that name, in the same manner as A LA BOURBON, mentioned elsewhere in LUCASTA, derived its title from another celebrated person. Those who have any acquaintance with the history of early English music need not to be informed that it was formerly the practice of our own composers to seek the patronage of the gentlemen and ladies about the Court for their works, and to identify their names with them. Thus we have "My Lady Carey's Dumpe," &c. &c.

> Expense.



SIR THOMAS WORTLEY'S SONNET ANSWERED.

[THE SONNET.

I. No more Thou little winged archer, now no more As heretofore, Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide, No more, Since cruell Death of dearest LYNDAMORE Hath me depriv'd, I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside.

II. Go, go; Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow Poore sillie foe, Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain, Since Death My heart hath with a fatall icie deart Already slain, Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound, Or wound it o're againe.]

THE ANSWER.

I. Againe, Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe, Through ev'ry veine, Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart, Againe, Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine. I have no heart, Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with So deare, so deare a smart.

II. Then flye, And kindle all your torches at her eye, To make me dye Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame: So I, Advanced on my blazing wings on high, In death became Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto Her glorious, glorious name.



A GUILTLESSE LADY IMPRISONED: AFTER PENANCED. SONG. SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I. Heark, faire one, how what e're here is Doth laugh and sing at thy distresse; Not out of hate to thy reliefe, But joy t' enjoy thee, though in griefe.

II. See! that which chaynes you, you chaine here; The prison is thy prisoner; How much thy jaylor's keeper art! He bindes your hands, but you his heart.

III. The gyves to rase so smooth a skin, Are so unto themselves within; But, blest to kisse so fayre an arme, Haste to be happy with that harme;

IV. And play about thy wanton wrist, As if in them thou so wert drest; But if too rough, too hard they presse, Oh, they but closely, closely kisse.

V. And as thy bare feet blesse the way, The people doe not mock, but pray, And call thee, as amas'd they run Instead of prostitute, a nun.

VI. The merry torch burnes with desire To kindle the eternall fire, And lightly daunces in thine eyes To tunes of epithalamies.

VII. The sheet's ty'd ever to thy wast, How thankfull to be so imbrac't! And see! thy very very bonds Are bound to thee, to binde such hands.



TO HIS DEARE BROTHER COLONEL F. L. IMMODERATELY MOURNING MY BROTHERS UNTIMELY DEATH AT CARMARTHEN.

I. If teares could wash the ill away, A pearle for each wet bead I'd pay; But as dew'd corne the fuller growes, So water'd eyes but swell our woes.

II. One drop another cals, which still (Griefe adding fuell) doth distill; Too fruitfull of her selfe is anguish, We need no cherishing to languish.