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PHILLIPS'S PREFACE

TO THE

EDITION OF 1656.

TO THE READER.

INGENIOUS READER,

o say that these poems are the effects of a genius, the most polite and verdant that ever the Scottisia tion produced, although it be a commendation not to be rejected, (for it is well known, that that untry hath afforded many rare and admirable wits) yet it is not the highest that may be given him; r should I affirm that neither Tasso, nor Guarini, nor any of the most neat and refined spirits of Italy, or even the choicest of our English poets, can challenge to themselves any advantages above him, it ould not be judged any attribute superiour to what he deserves; nor shall I thinke it any arrogance maintain, that among all the severall fancies, that in these times have exercised the most nice and rious judgements, there hath not come forth any thing that deserves to be welcomed into the world ith greater estimation and applause: and though he hath not had the fortune to be so generally med abroad, as many others, perhaps, of lesse esteeme, yet this is a consideration that cannot at all minish, but rather advance his credit; for by breaking forth of obscurity he will attract the higher Imiration, and, like the Sun emerging from a cloud, appeare at length with so much the more forcible yes. Had there been nothing extant of him but his History of Scotland, consider but the language, ow florid and ornate it is; consider the order, and the prudent conduct of his story, and you will nke him in the number of the best writers, and compare him even with Thuanus himselfe. Neither he lesse happy in his verse than prose: for here are all those graces met together that conduce any ing toward the making up of a compleat and perfect poet, a decent and becomming majesty, a brave d admirable height, and a wit so flowing, that Jove himselfe never dranke nectar that sparkled ith a more spritly lustre. Should I dwell any longer (ingenuous reader) upon the commendation of is incomparable author, I should injure thee, by forestalling the freedome of thy owne judgement, d him, by attempting a vain designe, since there is nothing can so well set him forth as his own orks; besides the losse of time, which is but trifled away so long as thou art detained from perusing e poems themselves.

E. PHILLIPS.

POEMS

OF

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE FIRST PART.

SONNETS.

I. SONNET.

IN my first prime, when childish humours fed
My wanton wit, ere I did know the bliss
Lies in a loving eye, or amorous kiss,
Or with what sighs a lover warms his bed;
By the sweet Thespian sisters' errour led,
I had more mind to read, than lov'd to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white;
But (God wot) knew not what was in my head.
Love smil❜d to see me take so great delight,
To turn those antiques of the age of gold,
And that I might more mysteries behold,
He set so fair a volume to my sight,
That I Ephemerides laid aside,

Glad on this blushing book my death to read.

III. SONNET.

Ye who so curiously do paint your thoughts,
Enlight'ning ev'ry line in such a guise,
That they seem rather to have fall'n from skies,
Than of a human hand by mortal draughts:
In one part Sorrow so tormented lies,
As if his life at every sigh would part;
Love here blindfolded stands with bow and dart,
There Hope looks pale, Despair with flaming eyes:
Of my rude pencil look not for such art,
My wit I find too little to devise

So high conceptions to express my smart;
And some say love is feign'd that's too too wise.
These troubled words and lines confus'd you find
Are like unto their model, my sick mind.

II. SONNET.

I KNOW that all beneath the Moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In time's great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought;
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty's like the purple flow'r,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will bring under reason's power:
Know what I list, this all cannot me move,
But that, alas, I both must write and love.

IV. SONNET.

AH me, and I am now the man whose Muse
In happier times was wont to laugh at Love,
And those who suffer'd that blind boy's abuse,
The noble gifts were given them from above.
What metamarphose strange is this I prove?
Myself now scarce I find myself to be,
And think no fable Circe's tyranny,
And all the tales are told of changed Jove:
Virtue hath taught with her philosophy
My mind unto a better course to move:
Reason may chide her full, and oft reprove
Affection's power; but what is that to me,
Who ever think, and never think on aught
But that bright cherubin which thralls my thought?

V. SONNET.

How that vast Heaven entitled First is roll'd,
If any glancing towers beyond it be,
And people living in eternity,

Or essence pure that doth this all uphold:
What motion have those fixed sparks of gold,
The wand'ring carbuncles which shine from high,
By sprites, or bodies cross-ways in the sky,
If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold:
How Sun posts heaven about, how night's pale queen
With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round;
What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen
In air's large fields of light and seas profound,
Did hold my wand'ring thoughts; when thy sweet
Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.

VI. SONNET.

[eye

FAIR is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,
Sweet are my wounds, although they deeply smart,
My bit is gold, though shorten'd be the reins,
My bondage brave, though I may not depart;
Although I burn, the fire which doth impart
Those flames, so sweet reviving force contains,
That, like Arabia's bird, my wasted heart,
Made quick by death, more lively still remains.
I joy, though oft my waking eyes spend tears,
I never want delight, even when I groan,
Best 'companied when most I am alone,
A Heaven of hopes I have midst Hells of fears:
Thus every way contentment strange I find
But most in her rare beauty, my rare mind,

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Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread,
And silently her resty coach doth roll,
Rousing with her from Thetis' azure bed,
Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole;
While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad,
The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries,
And looking pale from height of all the skies,
She dyes her beauties in a blushing red;
While sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,
And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep,
And Porteus' monstrous people in the deep,
The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice;
I wake, I turn, I weep oppress'd with pain,
Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain.

X. SONNET.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,

Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd;
Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd,
And yet o're me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,
I long to kiss the image of my death.

VIL SONNET.

VAUNT not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,
Which though most bright, yet see not when they
And shining, cannot show their beams divine [shine,
Both in one place, but part by days and nights,
Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,
Held only dear, because hid from our sights,
Your pure and burnish'd gold, your diamonds fine,
Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights.
Nor seas, of those dear wares are in you found
Vaunt not, rich pearl, red coral, which do stir
A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground;
These all more fair are to be had in her:
Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,
Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair are to behold.

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FAIR Moon, who with thy cold and silver shine
Mak'st sweet the horror of the dreadful night,
Delighting the weak eye with smiles divine,
Which Phoebus dazzles with his too much light;
Bright queen of the First Heaven, if in thy shrine
By turning oft, and Heaven's eternal might,
Thou hadst not yet that once sweet fire of thine,
Endemion, forgot, and lovers' plight:
If cause like thine may pity breed in thee,
And pity somewhat else to it obtain,
Since thou hast power of dreams as well as he
That holds the golden rod and moral chain;
Now while she sleeps, in doleful guise her show
These tears, and the black map of all my woe.

VIII. SONNET.

WHEN Nature now had wonderfully wrought
All Auristella's parts, except her eyes,
To make those twins two lamps in beauty's skies,
She counsel of her starry senate sought.
Mars and Apollo first did her advise,
To wrap in colour black those comets bright,
That Love him so might soberly disguise,
And unperceived wound at every sight.
Chaste Phoebe spake for purest azure dyes;
But Jove and Venus green about the light,
To frame thought best, as bringing most delight,
That to pin'd hearts hope might for aye arise:
Nature, all said, a paradise of green [seen.
There plac'd to make all love which have them

XII. SONNET.

LAMP of Heaven's crystal hall that brings the hours,
Eye-dazzler, who makes the ugly night
At thy approach fly to her slumb'ry bowers,
And fills the world with wonder and delight;
Life of all lives, death-giver by thy flight
To the south pole from these six signs of ours,
Goldsmith of all the stars, with silver bright
Who Moon enamels, Apelles of the flowers:
Ah from those wat'ry plains thy golden head
Raise up, and bring the so long ling'ring morn;
A grave, nay Hell, I find become this bed,
This bed so grievously where I am torn:
But wo is me though thou now brought the day,
Day shall but serve more sorrows to display.

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XV. SONNET.

THAT learned Grecian who did so excel In knowledge passing sense, that he is nam'd Of all the after world divine, doth tell That all the time when first our souls are fram'd, Ere in these mansions blind they come to dwell, They live bright rays of that eternal light, And others see, know, love, in Heaven's great height, Not toil'd with aught 'gainst reason to rebel. It is most true, for straight at the first sight My mind me told that in some other place It elsewhere saw th' idea of that face, And lov'd a love of heavenly pure delight. What wonder now I feel so fair a flame, Since I her lov'd ere on this Earth she came ?

XVI. SONNET.

NOR Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber, Sebethus, nor the flood into whose streams He fell who burnt the world with borrow'd beams, Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber, [Seine, Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron, nor proud-banked Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon, Nor she whose nymphs excel her loved Adon, Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rhine, Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange, Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like Meander, The flood which robbed Hero of Leander, Nile that so far his hidden head doth range, Have ever had so rare a cause of praise, As Ora where this northern phenix stays.

XIX. SONNET.

WITH flaming horns the Bull now brings the year, Melt do the mountains, rolling floods of snow, The silver rivers in smooth channels flow, The late bare woods green anadems do wear; Spread are those flow'rs which names of princes bear, The nightingale, forgetting winter's woe, Calls up the lazy morn her notes to hear; Some red, some azure, white, and golden grow. Here lows a heifer, there bewailing strays A harmless lamb, not far a stag rebounds; The shepherds sing to grazing flocks sweet lays, And all about the echoing air resounds. Hills, dales, woods, floods, ev'ry thing doth change, But she in rigour, I in love am strange.

XX. SONNET.

O'ercharg'd with brass in these so golden times, THAT I So slenderly set forth my mind, When others tow'r so high, I'm left behind: Writing I know not what in ragged rhymes, I crave not Phoebus leave his sacred cell, To bind my brows with fresh Aonian bays; But leav't to those, who, tuning sweetest lays, By Tempe sit, or Aganippe's well; Nor yet to Venus' tree do I aspire, Since she for whom I might affect that praise, My best attempts with cruel words gainsays, And I seek not that others me admire. Of weeping myrrh the crown is which I crave, With a sad cypress to adorn my grave.

XVII. SONNET.

To bear my plaints, fair river crystalline,
Thou in a silent slumber seem'st to stay;
Delicious flowers, lily and columbine,
Ye bow your heads when I my woes display;
Forests, in you the myrtle, palm and bay,
Have had compassion, list'ning to my groans;
The winds with sighs have solemniz'd my moans
'Mong leaves, which whisper'd what they could not
say;

The caves, the rocks, the hills, the sylvans' thrones,
(As if even pity did in them appear)
Have at my sorrow rent their ruthless stones:
Each thing I find hath sense except my dear,
Who doth not think I love, or will not know
My grief, perchance delighting in my woe.

XVIII. SONNET.

SWEET brook, in whose clear crystal I my eyes Have oft seen great in labour of their tears; Enamell'd bank, whose shining gravel bears These sad charactures of my miseries; [spheres, High woods, whose mountain-tops menace the Wild citizens, Amphions of the trees, You gloomy groves at hottest noons which freeze, Elysian shades which Phoebus never clears; Vast solitary mountains, pleasant plains, Embroider'd meads that ocean-ways you reach; Hills, dales, springs, all whom my sad cry constrains To take part of my plaints, and learn woe's speech, Will that remorseless fair e'er pity show? Of grace now answer, if ye aught know: No.

XXI. MADRIGAL.

WHEN as she smiles I find
More light before mine eyes,
Than when the Sun from Inde
Brings to our world a flow'ry paradise:
And pours forth pearly showers,
But when she gently weeps,
On cheeks fair blushing flowers,
A sweet melancholy my senses keeps;
Both feed so my disease,

So much both do me please,

That oft I doubt, which more my heart doth burn, Love to behold her smile, or pity mourn.

XXII. SONNET.

My tears may well Numidian lions tame, And pity breed into the hardest heart When she them first of blushing rocks did frame. That ever Pyrrha did to maid impart, Ah, eyes, which only serve to 'wail my smart, How long will you my inward woes proclaim? May 't not suffice you bear a weeping part All night, at day but you must do the same? Cease, idle sighs, to spend your storms in vain, Contain you in the prison of my breast, And these sweet silent thickets to molest, You do not ease but aggravate my pain; Or if burst forth you must, that tempest move In sight of her whom I so dearly love.

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