Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,

Of her own growth has all that nature craves,
And all that's rare as tribute from the waves.

As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to her Nile owes more than to the sky,
So what our earth and what our heaven denies,
Our ever constant friend, the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of every vine.

ΙΟ

15

20

To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims:
Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

25

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds:
Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown,
Could never make this island all her own.

About 1652.

1655.

OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK

When we for age could neither read nor write,
The subject made us able to indite;

The soul, with nobler resolutions decked,

The body stooping, does herself erect:

No mortal parts are requisite to raise

Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
So, calm are we when passions are no more,
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost:
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

5

ΙΟ

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
After 1686.

1690.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT

FROM

GONDIBERT

Thou who some ages hence these rolls dost read,
Kept as records by lovers of love's pow'r;

Thou who dost live when I have long been dead,
And feed'st from earth when earth does me devour;

Who liv'st, perhaps, amidst some city's joys,

Where they would fall asleep with lazy peace But that their triumphs make so great a noise And their loud bells cannot for nuptials cease;

Thou who, perhaps, proudly thy bloomy bride

Lead'st to some temple where I withered lie; Proudly, as if she age's frosts defied,

And that thy springing self could never die;

15

5

ΙΟ

Thou to whom then the cheerful choir will sing,
Whilst hallowed lamps and tapers brave the sun

As a lay-light, and bells in triumph ring

15

As when from sallies the besiegers run:

Then when the priest has ended, if thine eyes
Can but a little space her eyes forbear,

To show her where my marble coffin lies,
Her virgin garlands she will offer there;
Confess that reading me she learnt to love,
That all the good behaviour of her heart,
Even tow'rds thyself, my doctrine did improve,
Where love by nature is forewarned of art.

20

She will confess that to her maiden state

This story showed such patterns of great life As, though she then could those but imitate, They an example make her now a wife;

25

And thy life's fire could she a while outlive,

Which were, though lawful, neither kind nor good,

30

Then even her sorrows would examples give
And shine to others through dark widowhood.

And she will boast how, spite of cynic age,

Of business, which does pow'r uncivil make, Of ruder cells, where they love's fire assuage

By study'ng death, and fear for virtue take; And spite of courts (where loving now is made An art, as dying is in cells) my laws

Did teach her how by nature to persuade,

And hold by virtue whom her beauty draws.

Thus when, by knowing me, thou know'st to whom

Love owes his eyes, who has too long been blind,

Then in the temple leave my body's tomb,

To seek this book, the mon'ment of my mind.

1651.

THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WAT'RY NEST

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;

He takes this window for the east,

And to implore your light he sings.

35

40

Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

5

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,

The ploughman from the sun his season takes;

But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. Before 1660.

ΙΟ

1672.

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE

FROM

PHARONNIDA

When, fearing tears should win

The victory of anger, Ammurat draws
His cimetar, which had in blood writ laws
For conquered provinces, and with a swift
And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift
Her burthened soul in a repentant thought

5

Towards heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her soft
And snowy breast. With a loud groan she falls
Upon the bloody floor, half breathless, calls
For his untimely pity; but perceiving

ΙΟ

The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were leaving
Her heart unguarded, she employs that breath
Which yet remained, not to bewail her death,
But beg his life that caused it-on her knees

Struggling to rise. But now calmed Ammurat frees
Her from disturbing death, in's last great work,
And thus declares some virtue in a Turk:

15

"I have, brave Christian, by perusing thee

In this great act of honour, learnt to be,

Too late, thy slow-paced follower: this ring"-with that
Gives him his signet-"shall, when questioned at
The castle-guards, thy safety be. And now

I see her blood's low water doth allow
Me only time to launch my soul's black bark
Into death's rubric sea-for to the dark
And silent region, though we here were by
Passion divorced, fortune shall not deny
Our souls to sail together.-From thy eyes
Remove death's load, and see what sacrifice
My love is offering!" With that word, a stroke
Pierces his breast, whose speedy pains invoke
Death's opiates to appease them. He sinks down
By's dying wife, who, ere the cold flood drown
Life in the deluge of her wounds, once more
Betrays her eyes t'the light, and, though they bore

The weight of death upon their lids, did keep
Them so long open, till the icy sleep

Began to seize on him; and then she cries:

"Oh see, just Heaven! see, see, my Ammurat dies,

To wander with me in the unknown shade

40

Of immortality! But I have made

The wounds that murdered both; his hand that gave
Mine did but gently let me blood, to save

An everlasting fever. Pardon me,

My dear, my dying lord! Eternity

45

Shall see my soul washed white in tears; but, oh,

I now feel time's dear want-they will not flow
Fast as my stream of blood. Christian, farewell!
Whene'er thou dost our tragic story tell,
Do not extenuate my crimes, but let

50

Them in their own black characters be set

Near Ammurat's bright virtues, that, read by

The unpractised lover, which posterity,

Whilst wanton winds play with our dust, shall raise

On Beauty's throne, the good may justice praise

55

By his example, and the bad by mine

From Vice's throne be scared to Virtue's shrine."

And here the speed Death's messengers did make

To hurry forth their souls, did faintly shake

Her words into imperfect accents. "This,"

60

She cries, "is our last interview!" A kiss

Then joins their bloodless lips; each close the eyes

Of the other, whilst the parting spirit flies

Mounted on both their breaths, the latest gasp

They e'er must draw. Whilst with stiff arms they clasp 65
Each other's neck, Argalia through a cloud

Of liquid sorrow did behold the proud
Triumphs of death in their untimely fate:

He sees great Ammurat for a robe of state

Grovelling in blood; the fair Janusa lie,
Purpled in death, like polished ivory
Dipped in vermilion; the bright crystals, that

Her soul in conquering flames looked thorough at,
Both quenched and cooled in death.

70