NON EST MORTALE QUOD OPTO.
Thou think'st I flatter, when thy praise I tell,
But thou dost all hyperboles excell;
For I am sure thou art no mortal creature,
But a divine one throned in human feature.
Thy piety is such that Heaven by merit,
If ever any did, thou should'st inherit :
Thy modesty is such that had'st thou been
Tempted as Eve thou would'st have shun'd her sin.
So lovely fair thou art that sure Dame Nature
Meant thee the Pattern of the Female Creature ;
Besides all this thy flowing wit is such
That were it not for thee 't had been too much
For Woman kind; should Envy look thee o'er,
It would confess thus much, if not much more.
I love thee well, yet wish some bad in thee,
For, sure I am thou art too good for me.
SUCH CONSTANCY.
Out upon it! I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me :
Love with me had made no stays
Had it any been but She.
Had it any been but She,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
WHY SO PALE?
Why so pale and wan? fond lover!
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale ?
Why so dull and mute? young sinner!
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This can not take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her :
The Devil take her!
OF BEAUTY.
Let us use it while we may
Snatch those joys that haste away!
Earth her winter coat may cast,
And renew her beauty past :
But, our winter come, in vain
We solicit Spring again;
And when our furrows snow shall cover
Love may return, but never lover.
AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late Spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Tow'rd which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
Hence, loathed Melancholy!
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn
'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
And the night-raven sings!
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell!—
But come, thou Goddess! fair and free,
In Heaven yclept Euphrosynè,
And by men heart-easing Mirth!
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy crowned Bacchus bore :
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph! and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek
And love to live in dimple sleek,
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides!
Come! and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe!
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty!
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth! admit me of thy crew,
To live with her and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free :
To hear the lark begin his flight
And singing startle the dull night
From his watch-tower in the skies
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid Good-Morrow
Through the sweet-briar or the vine
Or the twisted eglantine,—
While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack or the barn-door
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill
Through the high wood echoing shrill;
Sometimes walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms on hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern Gate
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,-
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale !
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
While the landscape round it measures:
Russet lawns, and fallows grey
Where the nibbling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,-
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes;
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two agèd oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met
Are at their savoury dinner set,
Of herbs and other country messes
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
|