SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT

TO MR. COTTON.

UNLUCKY fire, which tho' from Heaven deriv'd,
Is brought too late, like cordials to the dead,
When all are of their sovereign sense depriv'd,
And honour, which, my rage should warm, is fled.
Dead to heroic song this isle appears,
The ancient music of victorious verse;
They taste no more than he his dirges hears,
Whose useless mourners sing about his herse.
Yet shall this sacred lamp in prison burn,
And through the darksome ages hence invade
The wondering world, like that in Tully's urn,
Which, tho' by time conceal'd, was not decay'd.
And, Charles, in that more civil century,
When this shall wholly fill the voice of Fame,
The busy antiquaries then will try

To find amongst their monarchs' coin thy name.
Much they will bless thy virtue, by whose fire
I'll keep my laurel warm, which else would fade;
And, thus enclos'd, think me of Nature's choir,
Which still sings sweetest in the shade.

To Fame, who rules the world, I lead thee now,
Whose solid power the thoughtful understand;
Whom, tho' too late weak princes to her bow,
The people serve, and poets can command.
And Fame, the only judge of empire past,
Shall to Verona lead thy fancy's eyes;
Where Night so black a robe on Nature cast,
As Nature seem'd afraid of her disguise.

TO SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

IN ANSWER TO THE SEVENTH CANTO, OF THE THIRD
BOOK OF HIS GONDIBERT, DIRECTED TO MY FATHER.
WRITTEN BY SIR WILLIAM, WHEN PRISONER IN THE
TOWER. 1652.

Oн, happy fire! whose heat can thus control
The rust of age, and thaw the frost of death,
That renders man immortal, as his soul,

And swells his fame with everlasting breath.
Happy's that hand, that unto honour's clime
Can lift the subject of his living praise;
That rescues frailty from the scythe of Time,
And equals glory to the length of days.
Such, sir, is yours, that, uncontrol'd as Fate,
In the black bosom of o'ershading Night
Can sons of immortality create,

To dazzle envy with prevailing light.

In vain they strive your glorious lamp to hide
In that dark lanthorn to all noble minds;
Which through the smallest cranny is descry'd,
Whose force united no resistance finds.
Blest is my father, that has found his name
Amongst the heroes by your pen reviv'd;
By running in Time's wheel, his thriving fame
Shall still more youthful grow, and longer liv'd.
Had Alexander's trophies thus been rear'd,
And in the circle of your story come,
The spacious orb full well he might have spar'd,
And reap'd his distant victories at home.

Let men of greater wealth than merit cast Medals of gold for their succeeding part; That paper monument shall longer last, Than all the rubbish of decaying art.

LES AMOURS.

SHE, that I pursue, still flies me;
Her, that follows me, I fly;
She, that I still court, denies me:
Her, that courts me, I deny.
Thus in one web we're subtly wove,
And yet we mutiny in love.

She, that can save me, must not do it;
She, that cannot, fain would do:
Her love is bound, yet I still woo it:
Hers by love is bound in woe.
Yet, how can I of love complain.
Since I have love for love again?

This is thy work, imperious child,

Thine's this labyrinth of love, That thus hast our desires beguil❜d,

Nor see'st how thine arrows rove. Then prythee, to compose this stir, Make her love me, or me love her. But, if irrevocable are

Those keen shafts, that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far,

That thon once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both.

ELEGY.

How was I blest when I was free
From mercy, and from cruelty!
When I could write of love at ease,
And guess at passions in my peace;
When I could sleep, and in my breast
No love sick thoughts disturb'd my rest;
When in my brain of her sweet face
No torturing idea was,

Not planet-struck with her eye's light,
But blest with thoughts as calm as night!
Now I could sit and gaze to death,
And vanish with each sigh I breathe;
Or else in her victorions eye
Dissolve to tears, dissolving die:
Nor is my life more pleasant than
The minutes of condemned men,
Toss'd by strange fancies, wrack'd by fears,
Sunk by despair, and drown'd in tears,
And dead to hope; for, what bold he
Dares hope for such a bliss as she?

And yet I am in love: ah! who
That ever saw her, was not so?
What tiger's unrelenting seed
Can see such beauties, and not bleed?
Her eyes two sparks of heavenly fire,
To kindle and to charm desire;
Her cheeks Aurora's blush; her skin
So delicately smooth and thin,
That you may see each azure vein
Her bosom's snowy whiteness stain:
But with so rich a tincture, as
China 'bove başer metals has,

She's crown'd with unresisted light
Of blooming youth, and vigorous sp'rit;
Careless charms, unstudied sweetness,
Innate virtue, humble greatness,
And modest freedom, with each grace
Of body, and of mind, and face;
So pure, that men nor gods can find
Throughout that body, or that mind,
A fault, but this, to disapprove,
She cannot, or she will not love.

Ah! then some god possess her heart
With mine uncessant vows and smart;
Grant but one hour that she may be
In love, and then she'll pity me.
Is it not pity such a guest

As cruelty should arm that breast
Against a love assaults it so ?

Can heavenly minds such rigour know?
Then make her know, her beauties must
Decay, and moulder into dust:
That each swift atom of her glass
Runs to the ruin of her face;
That those fair blossoms of her youth
Are not so lasting as my truth,
My lasting firm integrity:
Tell her all this; and if there be
A lesson to present her sense
Of more persuading eloquence,
Teach her that too, for all will prove
Too little to provoke her love.
Thus dying people use to rave,
And I am grown my passion's slave;
For fall I must, my lot's despair,
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.

WELCOME, blest symptom of consent,
More welcome far,
Than if a star,
Instead of this bright hair,
Should beautify mine ear,
And light me to my banishment.

Methinks I'm now all sacred fire,

And wholly grown
Devotion:

Sensual love's in chains,
And all my boiling veins

Are blown with sanctify'd desire.

Sure, she is Heaven itself, and I,
In fervent zeal,

This lock did steal,
And each life-giving thread,
Snatch'd from her beamy head,
As once Prometheus from the sky.

No: 'tis a nobler treasure: she (Won to believe)

Was pleas'd to give

These rays unto my care:
The spheres have none so fair,

Nor yet so blest a deity.

Yet knows she not what she has done,
She'll hear my prayers,

And see my tears;
She's now a Nazarite
Robb'd of her vigorous light,
For her resisting strength is gone.

I now could glory in my power.
And in pretence

Of my suspence,
Revenge, by kissing those

Twins, that Nature's pride disclose, My languishing and tedious hours.

Yet I'll not triumph: but, since she
Will that I go

Thus wrapt in woe,
I'll tempt my prouder fate
T'improve my estimate,
And justle with my destiny.

As well I may, thus being sure,
Whether on land

I firmly stand;

Or Fortune's footsteps trace,
Or Neptune's foamy face,
Mischance to conquer, or endure.

If on a swelling wave I ride,
When Eolus

His winds lets loose,
Those winds shall silent lie,
And moist Orion dry,

By virtue of this charming guide.

Or, if I hazard in a field,
Where Danger is
The sole mistress,
Where Death, in all his shapes,
Commits his horrid rapes,'
And he, that but now slew, is kill'd:

Then in my daring crest I'll place
This plume of light
T'amaze the sight

O' th' fiercest sons of Mars,
That rage in bloody wars,

And make them fly my conquering face,

Thus in her favour I am blest;

And, if by these

Few of her rays,

I am exalted so,

What will my passions do

When I have purchas'd all the rest?

They must continue in the same
Vigour and force,

Better nor worse:

I lov'd so well before,
I cannot love her more,
Nor can I mitigate my flame.

In love then persevere I will
Till my hairs grow

As white as snow:
And when in my warm veins
Nought but trembling cold remains,
My youthful love shall flourish still.

SONG.

JOIN once again, my Celia, join
Thy rosy lips to these of mine,

Which, though they be not such,
Are full as sensible of bliss,
That is, as soon can taste a kiss,
As thine of softer touch.

Each kiss of thine creates desire,

Thy odorous breath inflames love's fire,
And wakes the sleeping coal:
Such a kiss to be I find
The conversation of the mind,
And whisper of the soul.

Thanks, sweetest, now thou'rt perfect grown,
For by this last kiss I'm undone;

Thou breathest silent darts,

Henceforth cach little touch will prove
A dangerous stratagem in love,

And thou wilt blow up hearts.

THE SURPRISE.

Os a clear river's flow'ry side,
When Earth was in her gaudy pride,
Defended by the friendly shade

A woven grove's dark'entrails made,
Where the cold clay, with flowers strew'd,
Made up a pleasing solitude;

'Twas there I did my glorious nymph surprise,
There stole my passion from her killing eyes.

The happy object of her eye
Was Sidney's living Arcady;
Whose amorous tale had so betray'd
Desire in this all-lovely maid;

That, whilst her cheek a blush did warm,
I read love's story in her form:
And of the sisters the united grace,
Pamela's vigour in Philoclea's face.

As on the brink this nymph did sit,
(Ah! who can such a nymph forget?)
The floods straight dispossess'd their foam,
Proud so her mirror to become;
And ran into a twirling maze,

On her by that delay to gaze;

And, as they pass'd, by streams' succeeding force,
In losing her, murmur'd t' obey their course.

She read not long, but clos'd the book,
And up her silent lute she took,
Perchance to charm each wanton thought,
Youth, or her reading, had begot.
The hollow carcase echo'd such

Airs, as had birth from Orpheus' touch,
And every snowy finger, as she play'd,

Danc'd to the music that themselves had made.

At last she ceas'd: her odorous bed
With her enticing limbs she spread,
With limbs so excellent, I could
No more resist my factious blood:

But there, ah! there, I caught the dame,

And boldly urg'd to her my flame:

I kiss'd: when her ripe lips, at every touch,

Swell'd up to meet, what she would shun so much.

I kiss'd, and play'd in her bright eyes,
Discours'd, as is the lover's guise,
Call'd her the auth'ress of my woe:
The nymph was kind, but would not do ;
Faith, she was kind, which made me bold,
Grow hot, as her denials cold.

But, ah! at last I parted, wounded more
With her soft pity, than her eyes before.

THE VISIT.

DARK was the silent shade, that hid
The fair Castanna from my sight:
The night was black (as it had need)
That could obscure so great a light.
Under the concave of each lid

A flaming ball of beauty bright,
Wrapt in a charming slumber lay,
That else would captivate the day.
(Led by a passionate desire)

I boldly did attempt the way;
And though my dull eyes wanted fire,
My seeing soul knew where she lay.
Thus, whilst I blindly did aspire,
Fear to displease her made me stay,

A doubt too weak for mine intent,
I knew she would forgive, and went.
Near to her maiden bed I drew,

Blest in so rare a chance as this;
When by her odorous breath I knew
I did approach my love, my bliss:
Then did I eagerly pursue

My hopes, and found and stole a kiss: Such as perhaps Pygmalion took, When cold his ivory love forsook. Soft was the sleep sat on her eyes,

As softest down, or whitest snow; So gentle rest upon them lies,

Happy to charm those beauties so; For which a thousand thousand dies, Or living, live in restless woe;

For all that see her killing eye,
With love or admiration die.
Chaste were the thoughts that had the power
To make me hazard this offence;

I mark'd the sleeps of this fair flower,
And found them full of innocence;
Wond'ring that hers, who slew each hour,
Should have so undisturb'd a sense:

But, ah! these murders of mankind
Fly from her beauty, not her mind.
Thus, while she sweetly slept, sat I
Contemplating the lovely maid,
Of every tear, and every sigh

That sallied from my breast, afraid.
And now the morning star drew nigh,
When, fearing thus to be betray'd,

I softly from my nymph did move,
Wounded with everlasting love.

DE LUPO.

EPIGRAM.

WHEN Lupus has wrought hard all day,
And the declining Sun,

By stooping to embrace the sea,
Tells him the day's nigh done;

Then to his young wife home he hies,

With his sore labour sped,

Who bids him welcome home, and cries, "Pray, husband, come to bed."

"Thanks, wife," quoth he, " but I were blest, Would'st thou once call me to my rest."

ON UPSTART.

And yet my Cælia did not fall

As grosser earthly mortals do,
But stoop'd, like Phœbus, to renew
Her lustre by her morning rise,
And dart new beauties in the skies.
Like a white dove, she took her flight,
And, like a star, she shot her light:
This dove, this star, so lov'd of all,
My fair, dear, sweetest, did not fall.
But, if you'll say my Cælia fell,

Of this I'm sure, that, like the dart
Of Love it was, and on my heart;
Poor heart, alas! wounded before,
She needed not have hurt it more:
So absolute a conquest she

Had gain'd before of it, and me,
That neither of us have been well
Before, or since my Cælia fell.

EPITAPH

ON MRS. MARY DRAPER.

READER, if thou cast thine eye

On this weeping stone below: Know, that under it doth lie

One, that never man did know. Yet of all men full well known

By those beauties of her breast: For, of all she wanted none,

When Death call'd her to her rest.

Then the ladies, if they would

Die like her, kind reader, tell, They must strive to be as good Alive, or 'tis impossible.

CELIA'S FALL.

CELIA, my fairest Cælia, fell,

Cælia, than the fairest, fairer ;

Cælia, (with none I must compare her)
That all alone is all in all,

Of what we fair and modest call;
Cælia, white as alabaster,
Cælia, than Diana chaster;
This fair, fair Cælia, grief to tell,
This fair, this modest, chaste one, fell.

My Calia, sweetest Cælia, fell,

As I have seen a snow-white dove
Decline her bosom from above,
And down her spotless body fling
Without the motion of the wing,
Till she arrest ber seeming fall
Upon some happy pedestal:
So soft, this sweet, I love so well,
This sweet, this dove-like Cælia, fell.
Cælia, my dearest Cælia, fell,

As I have seen a melting star
Drop down its fire from its sphere,
Rescuing so its glorious sight
From that paler snuff of light:
Yet is a star bright and entire,

As when 'twas wrapt in all that fire:
So bright, this dear, I love so well,
This dear, this star-like Cælia, fell.

Her heresy,

That my faith branded with inconstancy.

When Thisbe's Pyramus was slain,
This sigh had fetch'd him back again,
And such a sigh from Dido's chest
Wafted the Trojan to her breast.
Each of her sighs

My love does prize
Reward, for thousand thousand cruelties.

Sigh on,, my sweet, and by thy breath,
Immortal grown, I'll laugh at death.
Had fame so sweet a one, we should
In that regard learn to be good :
Sigh on, my fair,
Henceforth, I swear,

I could cameleon turn, and live by air.

ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MY DEAR UNCLE,
MR. RADCLIFF STANHOPE.

SUCH is th' unsteady state of human things,
And death so certain, that their period brings,
So frail is youth, and strength, so sure this sleep,
That much we cannot wonder, though we weep.
Yet, since 'tis so, it will not misbecome,
Either perhaps our sorrows or his tomb

To breathe a sigh, and drop a mourning tear,
Upon the cold face of his sepulchre.

Well did his life deserve it, if to be

A great example of integrity,

Honour and truth, fidelity and love,
In such perfection, as if each had strove
'T' outdo posterity, may deserve our care,
Or to his funeral command a tear.
Faithful he was, and just, and sweetly good,
To whom ally'd in virtue, or in blood:
His breast (from other conversation chaste)
Above the reach of giddy vice was plac'd:
Then, had not Death (that crops in's savage speed
The fairest flower with the rankest weed)
Thus made a beastly conquest of his prime,
And cut him off before grown ripe for time,
How bright an evening must this morn pursue,
Is to his life a contemplation due.

Proud Death, t' arrest his thriving virtue thus!
Unhappy fate! not to himself, but us,
That so have lost him; for, no doubt but he
Was fit for Heav'n, as years could make him be:
Age does but muster sin, and heap up woes
Against the last and general rendezvous;
Whereas he dy'd full of obedient tràth,
Wrapt in his spotless innocence of youth.
Farewel, dear uncle, may thy hop'd-for bliss
To thee be real, as my sorrow is;
May they be nam'd together, since I do
Nothing more perfect than my sorrow know;
And if thy soul into men's minds have eyes,
It knows I truly weep these obsequies.

ON THE LORD DERBY.

To what a formidable greatness grown
Is this prodigious beast, rebellion,
When sovereignty, and its so sacred law,
Thus lies subjected to his tyrant awe!
And to what daring impudence he grows,
When, not content to trample upon those,
He still destroys all that with honest flames
Of loyal love would propagate their names!
In this great ruin, Derby, lay thy fate,
(Derby, unfortunately fortunate)
Unhappy thus to fall a sacrifice
To such an irreligious power as this;
And blest, as 'twas thy nobler sense to die.
A constant lover of thy loyalty.

Nor is it thy calamity alone,
Since more lie whelm'd in this subversion:
And first, the justest, and the best of kings,
Rob'd in the glory of his sufferings,
By his too violent fate inform'd us all,
What tragic ends attended his great fall;
Since when his subjects, some by chance of war,
Some by perverted justice at the bar,
Have perish'd thus, what th' other leaves, this
And whoso 'scapes the sword, falls by the axe :
Amongst which throng of martyrs none could
boast

[takes,

Of more fidelity, than the world has lost
In losing thee, when (in contempt of spite)
Thy steady faith, at th' exit crown'd with light,
His head above their malice did advance,
They could not murder thy allegiance,
Not when before those judges brought to th' test,
Who, in the symptoms of thy ruin drest,
Pronounc'd thy sentence. Basilisks! whose breath
Is killing poison, and whose locks are death.
Then how unsafe a guard man's virtue is
In this false age, (when such as do amiss

Control the honest sort, and make a prey
Of all that are not villainous as they)
Does to our reason's eyes too plain appear
In the mischance of this illustrious peer.
Bloodthirsty tyrants of usurped state!
In facts of death prompt and insatiate!
That in your finty bosoms have no sense
Of manly honour, or of conscience;
But do, since monarchy lay drown'd in blood,
Proclaim 't by act high treason to be good:
Cease yet at last, for shame! let Derby's fall,
Great and good Derby's, expiate for all;
But if you will place your eternity

In mischief, and that all good men must die,
When you have finish'd there, fall on the rest,
Mix your sham'd slaughters with the worst and
best;

And, to perpetuate your murthering fame,
Cut your own throats, despair, and die, and damn,
Ainsi soit il.

ON MARRIOT',

TEMPUS EDAX RERUM.

THANKS for this rescue, Time; for thou hast won
In this more glory than the states have done
In all their conquests; they have conquer'd men,
But thou hast conquer'd that would conquer them,
Famine and in this parricide hast shown
A greater courage than their acts dare own;
Thou'st slain thy eating brother, 'tis a fame
Greater than all past heroes e'er could claim:
Nor do I think thou could'st have conquer'd him
By force; it surely was by stratagem.
There was a dearth when he gave up the ghost:
For (on my life) his stomach he ne'er lost,
That never fail'd him; and, without all doubt,
Had he been victuali'd, he had still held out:
Howe'er, it happen'd for the nation well,
All fear of famine now's impossible, [rhymes,
Since we have 'scap'd his reign! Blest were my
Could they but prove, that for the people's crimes
He an atonement fell; for in him dy'd
More bulls, and rams, than in all times beside,
Though we the numbers of them all engross'd,
Offer'd with antique piety and cost:
And 't might have well become the people's care
To have embowell'd him, if such there were,
Who, in respect of their forefathers' peace,
Would have attempted such a task as this;
For 'tis discreetly doubted he'll go hard
To eat up all his fellows i' th' churchyard:
Then, as from several parts each mangled limb
Meet at the last, they all will rise in him;
And he (as once a pleader) may arise
A general advocate at the last assize.

I wonder, Death durst venture on this prize,
His jaws more greedy were, and wide, than his
'Twas well he only was compos'd of bone,
Had he been flesh, this eater had not gone;
Or had they not been empty skeletons,
As sure as death he'd crush'd his marrow-bones;
And knock'd 'em too, his stomach was so rife,
The rogue lov'd marrow, as he lov'd his life.

1 See Verses on the Great Eater of Gray's Ion,

p. 745.