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Venus must lose her title now,
She hath but one, but I can spy
TO THE PAINTER.
FOND man, that hop'st to catch that face Vith those false colours, whose short grace erves but to show the lookers on The faults of thy presumption; Or at the least to let us see, That is divine, but yet not she: Say you could imitate the rays Of those eyes that out-shine the day's; Or counterfeit, in red and white, That most uncounterfeited light Of her complexion; yet canst thou, Great master though thou be) tell how To print a virtue? Then desist; This fair your artifice hath miss'd: You should have mark'd how she begins To grow in virtue, not in sins; Instead of that same rosy dye, You should have drawn out Modesty, Whose beauty sits enthroned there, And learns to look and blush at her. Or can you colour just the sanie, When virtue blushes; or when shame, When sickness, and when innocence, Shews pale or white unto the sense? Can such coarse varnish e'er be said To imitate her white and red? This may do well elsewhere in Spain, Among those faces dy'd in grain; So you may thrive, and what you do Prove the best picture of the two. Besides (if all I hear be true) 'T is taken ill by some, that you Should be so insolently vain, As to contrive all that rich gain Into one tablet, which alone May teach us superstition; Instructing our amazed eyes T'admire and worship imag'ries, Such as quickly might out-shine Some new saint, wer 't allow'd a shrine, And turn each wand'ring looker-on Into a new Pygmalion.
Yet your art cannot equalize
Mark it in their posterity,
And you shall read it truly there,
Kiss, lovely Celia, and be kind;
Mars would disdain his mistress' charms,
Nor may the Sun behold our bliss,
And while I shade thee from his eye,
ON A DAMASK ROSE
LET pride grow big, my rose, and let the clear
A blushing lightning-flash, and blasts his eyes.
No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers,
The fish shall in the ocean burn,
Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, And Venus' doves want wings to fly;
The Sun refuse to show his light,
Love shall no more inhabit Earth,
TOOTH-ACH CURED BY A KISS.
FATE 's now grown merciful to men,
For had not kind rheum vex'd me then
Physicians, you are now my scorn;
By your dull art, which may
Patch up a body for a time,
But can restore to health No more than chymists can sublime True gold, the Indies' wealth.
The angel, sure, that us'd to move
TO THE JEALOUS MISTRESS.
ADMIT (thou darling of mine eyes)
I have some idol lately fram'd; That, under such a false disguise,
Our true loves might the less be fam'd; Canst thou, that know'st my heart, suppose I'll fall from thee, and worship those? Remember (dear) how loath and slow
I was to cast a look or smile, Or one love-line to mis-bestow,
Till thou hadst chang'd both face and stile; And art thou grown afraid to see That mask put on thou mad'st for me?
I dare not call those childish fears,
And henceforth kneel at ne'er a shrine, To blind the world, but only thine.
The pool of Bethesda near Jerusalem, which was frequented by all kinds of diseased people, waiting for the moving of the waters. angel," says St. John, "went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in, was made whole of whatsoever disease
OFT when I look, I may descry
WHEN on fair Celia I did spy
A wounded heart of stone, The wound had almost made me cry, "Sure this heart was my own:"
But when I saw it was enthron'd
Yet if in highest Heavens do shine Each constant martyr's heart; Then she may well give rest to mine, That for her sake doth smart:
Where, seated in so high a bliss,
Though wounded, it shall live: Death enters not in Paradise;
The place free life doth give.
Or, if the place less sacred were,
Bathe my sick heart in one kind tear,
Slight balms may heal a slighter sore; No medicine less divine
Cau ever hope for to restore
TO MY LORD ADMIRAL',
ON HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY,
WITH joy like ours, the Thracian youth invade
The duke of Buckingham, the unhappy fa vourite of Charles I. by whom he was appointed lord high admiral of England.
UPON A MOLE IN CELIA'S BOSOM...AN HYMENEAL SONG.
Your pining sickness, and your restless pain,
Nature, her fairest light eclipsed, seems
B Or thus with-held, what hasty soul would go,
By loss of thee would no advantage have,
ON MISTRESS N.
TO THE GREEN SICKNESS.
STAY, Coward blood, and do not yield
Quit not the field, faint blood, nor rush
UPON A MOLE IN CELIA'S BOSOM.
THAT lovely spot which thou dost see
Which from the neighbour vale distils,
Yet still her shadow there remains
AN HYMENEAL SONG
ON THE NUPTIALS OF THE LADY ANNE WENT-
BREAK not the slumbers of the bride,
For she, till day return, must keep
Yet gently whisper as she lies,
Now to the temple and the priest
For now, to crown his faith and truth,
For there, exalted far above
All hope, fear, change, or they to move
This lady was the daughter of Thomas Went-
They know no night, nor glaring noon,
Nor mark Time's restless glass;
Their motions the year's circle make, And we from their conjunctions take Rules to make love an almanack.
A MARRIED WOMAN.
WHEN I shall marry, if I do not find A wife thus moulded, I'll create this mind: Nor from her noble birth, nor ample dower, Beauty, or wit, shall she derive a power To prejudice my right; but if she be A subject born, she shall be so to me, As to the soul the flesh, as appetite To reason is; which shall our wills unite In habits so confirm'd, as no rough sway Shall once appear, if she but learn t' obey. For, in habitual virtues, sense is wrought To that calm temper, as the body's thought To have nor blood nor gall, if wild and rude Passions of lust and anger are subdu'd; When 't is the fair obedience to the soul Doth in the birth those swelling acts controul. If I in murder steep my furious rage, Or with adult'ry my hot lust assuage, Will it suffice to say, "My sense, the beast, Provok'd me to 't?" Could I my soul divest, My plea were good. Lions and bulls commit Both freely, but man must in judgment sit, And tame this beast; for Adam was not free, When in excuse he said, "Eve gave it me:" Had he not eaten, she perhaps had been Unpunish'd; his consent made her's a sin.
In the first ruder age, when Love was wild,
MARK how this polish'd eastern sheet
And on her smooth, soft brow these spots, Seem rather ornaments than blots, Like those you ladies use to place Mysteriously about your face; Not only to set off and break Shadows and eye-beams, but to speak To the skill'd lover, and relate, Unheard, his sad or happy fate. Nor do their characters delight, As careless works of black and white: But 'cause you underneath may find A sense that can inform the mind; Divine or moral rules impart, Or raptures of poetic art: So what at first was only fit To fold up silks, may wrap up wit.
TO HIS MISTRESS.
GRIEVE not, my Celia, but with haste Obey the fury of thy fate, "T is some perfection to waste
Discreetly out our wretched state, To be obedient in this sense Will prove thy virtue, though offence.
Who knows but Destiny may relent,
To all the griefs she plung'd thee in; And then the certainty she meant Reverted is by accident.
But yet I must confess 't is much,
When we remember what hath been, Thus parting never more to touch,
To let eternal absence in; Though never was our pleasure yet So pure, but chance distracted it.
What, shall we then submit to Fate,
And die to one another's love? No, Celia, no, my soul doth hate
Those lovers that inconstant prove. Fate may be cruel, but if you decline, The crime is yours, and all the glory mine.
Fate and the planets sometimes bodies part, But canker'd nature only alters th' heart.
IN PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESS. You, that will a wonder know, Go with me, Two Suns in a Heaven of snow Both burning be, All they fire, that do but eye them, But the snow's unmelted by them.
Leaves of crimson tulips met, Guide the way Where two pearly rows be set As white as day. When they part themselves asunder, She breathes oracles of wonder. VOL, V.
Hills of milk with azure mix'd
As fair pillars under stand
All this but the casket is
UPON LOVE'S UBIQUITY.
As one that strives, being sick, and sick to death, By changing places, to preserve a breath, A tedious restless breath, removes and tries A thousand rooms, a thousand policies, To cozen pain, when he thinks to find ease, At last he finds all change, but his disease; So (like a ball with fire and powder fill'd) I restless am, yet live, each minute kill'd, And with that moving torture must retain, With change of all things else, a constant pain, Say I stay with you, presence is to me Nought but a light to show my misery, And parting are as racks, to plague love on, The further stretch'd, the more affliction. Go I to Holland, France, or Furthest Inde, I change but only countries, not my mind. And though I pass through air and water free, Despair and hopeless fate still follow me. Whilst in the bosom of the waves I reet, My heart I 'll liken to the tottering keel, The sea to my own troubled fate, the wind To your disdain, sent from a soul unkind: But when I lift my sad looks to the skies, Then shall I think I see my Celia's eyes; And when a cloud or storm appears between, I shall remember what her frowns have been. Thus, whatsoever course my fates allow, All things but make me mind my business, you. The good things that I meet, I think streams be From you the fountain; but when bad I see, How vile and cursed is that thing, think I, That to such goodness is so contrary? My whole life is 'bout you, the center star, But a perpetual motion circular.
I am the dial's hand, still walking round;
Time shall stand still, and moist waves flaming be: