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النشر الإلكتروني

TO E. OF D.

WITH SIX HOLY SONNETS.

SEE, sir, how as the Sun's hot masculine flame Begets strange creatures on Nile's dirty slime, In me your fatherly yet lusty rhyme [same; (For these songs are their fruits) have wrought the But though th' engendring force, from whence they

came,

Be strong enough, and nature doth admit Sev'n to be born at once; I send as yet But six; they say, the seventh hath still some maim: I choose your judgment, which the same degree Doth with her sister, your invention, hold, As fire these drossy rhymes to purify,

Or as elixir to change them to gold; You are that alchymist, which always had Wit, whose one spark could make good things of bad.

ΤΟ

SIR HENRY WOOTTON,

AT HIS GOING AMBASSADOR TO VENICE.

AFTER those rev'rend papers, whose soul is [name, Our good and great king's lov'd hand and fear'd By which to you he derives much of his,

And (how he may) makes you almost the same,

A taper of his torch, a copy writ

From his original, and a fair beam

Of the same warm and dazzling Sun, though it
Must in another sphere his virtue stream;

After those learned papers, which your hand

Hath stor'd with notes of use and pleasure too, From which rich treasury you may command

Fit matter, whether you will write or do;

After those loving papers, which friends send
With glad grief to your sea-ward steps farewell,
Which thicken on you now, as pray'rs ascend
To Heaven in troops at a good man's passing bell;

Admit this honest paper, and allow

It such an audience as yourself would ask ; What you must say at Venice, this means now, And hath for nature, what you have for task.

To swear much love, not to be chang'd before
Honour alone will to your fortune fit;
Nor shall I then honour your fortune more,
Than I have done your noble-wanting wit.

But 't is an easier load (though both oppress) To want than govern greatness; for we are In that, our own and only business;

In this, we must for others' vices care.

'T is therefore well your spirits now are plac'd
In their last furnace, in activity; [past)
Which fits them (schools and courts and wars o'er-
To touch and taste in any best degree.

For me, (if there be such a thing as I)

Fortune (if there be such a thing as she) Spies that I bear so well her tyranny,

That she thinks nothing else so fit for me.

But though she part us, to hear my oft prayers
For your increase, God is as near me here;
And to send you what I shall beg, his stairs
In length and ease are alike every where.

TO MRS. M. H.

MAD paper, stay, and grudge not here to burn With all those sons, whom thy brain did create; At least lie hid with me, till thou return

To rags again, which is thy native state.

What though thou have enough unworthiness
To come unto great place as others do,
That 's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts, I confess;
But 't is not all, thou shouldst be wicked too.

And that thou canst not learn, or not of me,
Yet thou wilt go; go, since thou goest to her,
Who lacks but faults to be a prince, for she
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares prefer.

But when thou com'st to that perplexing eye,

Which equally claims love and reverence,
Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die;
And having little now, have then no sense.

Yet when her warm redeeming hand (which is
A miracle, and made such to work more)
Doth touch thee (sapless leaf) thou grow'st by this
Her creature, glorify'd more than before.

Then as a mother, which delights to hear

Her early child misspeak half utter'd words, Or, because majesty doth never fear

Ill or bold speech, she audience affords.

And then, cold speechless wretch, thou diest again,
And wisely; what discourse is left for thee?
From speech of ill and her thou must abstain ?
And is there any good which is not she?

Yet may'st thou praise her servants, though not her;
And wit and virtue and honour her attend,

And since they 're but her clothes, thou shalt not

err,

If thou her shape and beauty and grace commend.
Who knows thy destiny? when thou hast done,
Perchance her cabinet may harbour thee.
Whither all noble ambitious wits do run;
A nest almost as full of good as she.

When thou art there, if any, whom we know,
Were sav'd before, and did that Heaven partake,
When she revolves his papers, mark what show
Of favour she, alone, to them doth make.

Mark if, to get them, she o'er-skip the rest,

Mark if she read them twice, or kiss the name; Mark if she do the same that they protest; Mark if she mark, whither her woman came.

Mark if slight things b' objected, and o'erblown, Mark if her oaths against him be not still Reserv'd, and that she grieve she's not her own, And chides the doctrine that denies frèe-will.

I bid thee not do this to be my spy,

Nor to make myself her familiar;

But so much I do love her choice, that I

Would fain love him, that shall be lov'd of her.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

HONOUR is so sublime perfection,

And so refin'd; that when God was alone, And creatureless at first, himself had none;

But as of th' elements these, which we tread, Produce all things with which we 're joy'd or fed, And those are barren both above our head;

So from low persons doth all honour flow;
Kings, whom they would have honour'd, to us show,
And but direct our honour, not bestow.

For when from herbs the pure part must be won
From gross by stilling, this is better done
By despis'd dung, than by the fire or Sun:

Care not then, madam, how low your praises lie;
In labourer's ballads oft more piety
God finds, than in te deum's melody.

And ordnance rais'd on tow'rs so many mile Send not their voice, nor last so long a while, As fires from th' Earth's low vaults in Sicil isle.

Should I say I liv'd darker than were true,
Your radiation can all clouds subdue,
But one: 't is best light to contemplate you.

You, for whose body God made better clay,
Or took soul's stuff, such as shall late decay,
Or such as needs small change at the last day.

This, as an amber drop enwraps a bee,
Covering discovers your quick soul; that we [see.
May in your through shine front our heart's thoughts

You teach (though we learn not) a thing unknown
To our late times, the use of specular stone,
Through which all things within without were shown.

Of such were temples; so, and such you are;
Being and seeming is your equal care;
And virtues' whole sum is but know and dare.

Discretion is a wise man's soul, and so Religion is a Christian's, and you know How these are one; her yea is not her no.

But as our souls of growth and souls of sense
Have birthright of our reason's soul, yet hence
They fly not from that, nor seek precedence:

Nature's first lesson so discretion

Must not grudge zeal a place, nor yet keep none, Not banish itself, nor religion.

Nor may we hope to solder still and knit

In those poor types of God (round circles) so
Religion's types the pieceless centres flow,
And are in all the lines which all ways go.

If either ever wrought in you alone,
Or principally, then religion
Wrought your ends, and your ways discretion.

Go thither still, go the same way you went;
Who so would change, doth covet or repent;
Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON.

THAT unripe side of Earth, that heavy clime,
That gives us man up now, like Adam's time
Before he ate; man's shape, that would yet be
(Knew they not it, and fear'd beasts' company)
So naked at this day, as though man there
From Paradise so great a distance were,
As yet the news could not arrived be
Of Adam's tasting the forbidden tree;
Depriv'd of that free state which they were in,
And wanting the reward, yet bear the sin.

But, as from extreme heights who downward looks,
Sees men at children's shapes, rivers as brooks,
And loseth younger forms; so to your eye
These, madam, that without your distance lie,
Must either mist, or nothing seem to be,
Who are at home but wit 's mere atony.
But I, who can behold them move and stay,
Have found myself to you just their midway;
And now must pity them: for as they do
Seem sick to me, just so must I to you;
Yet neither will I vex your eyes to see
A sighing ode, nor cross-arm'd elegy.
I come not to call pity from your heart,
Like some white-liver'd dotard, that would part
Else from his slippery soul with a faint groan,
And faithfully (without you smile) were gone.
I cannot feel the tempest of a frown,
I may be rais'd by love, but not thrown down;
Though I can pity those sigh twice a day,
I hate that thing whispers itself away.
Yet since all love is feverish, who to trees
Doth talk, yet doth in love's cold ague freeze.
"T is love, but with such fatal weakness made,
That it destroys itself with its own shade.
Who first look'd sad, griev'd, pin'd, and show'd his
Was he that first taught women to disdain.

[pain,

As all things were but one nothing, dull and weak, Until this raw disorder'd heap did break, And several desires led parts away, Water declin'd with earth, the air did stay, Fire rose, and each from other but unty'd, Themselves unprison'd were and purify'd: So was love, first in vast confusion hid, An unripe willingness which nothing did, A thirst, an appetite which had no ease, That found a want, but knew not what would please. What pretty innocence in that day mov'd! Man ignorantly walk'd by her he lov'd; Both sigh'd and interchang'd a speaking eye, Both trembled and were sick, yet knew not why.

These two, and dare to break them; nor must wit That natural fearfulness, that struck man dumb,

Be colleague to religion, but be it.

Might well (those times consider'd) man become.

As all discoverers, whose first essay
Finds but the place; after, the nearest way:
So passion is to woman's love, about,
Nay, further off, than when we first set out.
It is not love, that sues or doth contend;
Love either conquers, or but meets a friend.
Man's better part consists of purer fire,
And finds itself allow'd, ere it desire.

Love is wise here, keeps home, gives reason sway,
And journies not till it find summer-way.
A weather-beaten lover, but once known,
Is sport for every girl to practise on.

Who strives through woman's scorns women to know,
Is lost, and seeks his shadow to outgo;
It is mere sickness after one disdain,
Though he be call'd aloud, to look again.
Let others sin and grieve; one cunning sleight
Shall freeze my love to crystal in a night.
I can love first, and (if I'win) love still;
And cannot be remov'd, unless she will.
It is her fault, if I unsure remain;
She only can unty, I bind again.
The honesties of love with ease I do,
But am no porter for a tedious woe.

But, madam, I now think on you; and here,
Where we are at our heights, you, but appear;
We are but clouds, you rise from our noon-ray,
But a foul shadow, not your break of day.
You are at first-hand all that 's fair and right;
And others' good reflects but back your light.
You are a p ectness, so curious hit,
That younge flatteries do scandal it;
For w

is n re doth what you are restrain;
And ti h beyond, is down the hill again.
We have no next way to you, we cross to 't;
You are the straight line, thing prais'd, attribute:
Each good in you 's a light; so many a shade
You make, and in them are your motions made.
These are your pictures to the life. From far
We see you move, and here your Zanis are:
So that no fountain good there is, doth grow
In you, but our dim actions faintly show:

Then find I, if man's noblest part be love, Your purest lustre must that shadow move. The soul with body is a Heav'n combin'd With Earth, and for man's ease nearer join'd. Where thoughts, the stars of soul, we understand, We guess not their large natures, but command. And love in you that bounty is of light, That gives to all, and yet hath infinite: Whose heat doth force us thither to intend, But soul we find too earthly to ascend; Till slow access hath made it wholly pure, Able immortal clearness to endure. Who dare aspire this journey with a stain, Hath weight will force him headlong back again. No more can impure man retain and move In that pure region of a worthy love, Than earthly substance can unforc'd aspire, And leave his nature to converse with fire.

Such may have eye and hand; may sigh, may speak;

But, like swoln bubbles, when they're highest, they break.

Though far removed northern isles scarce find
The Sun's comfort, yet some think him too kind.
There is an equal distance from her eye;
Men perish too far off, and burn too nigh.
But as air takes the Sun-beams equal bright
From the rays first, to his last opposite:

So happy man, bless'd with a virtuous love
Remote or near, or howsoe'er they move;
Their virtue breaks all clouds, that might annoy;
There is no emptiness, but all is joy.

He much profanes (whom valiant heats do move)
To style his wandring rage of passion love.
Love, that imports in every thing delight,
Is fancied by the soul, not appetite;
Why love among the virtues is not known,
Is, that love is them all contract in one.

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That thankfulness your favours have begot
In me, embalms me, that I do not rot:
This season, as 't is Easter, as 't is spring,
Must both to growth and to confession bring
My thoughts dispos'd unto your influence, so
These verses bud, so these confessions grow;
First I confess I have to others lent
Your stock, and over prodigally spent
Your treasure, for since I had never known
Virtue and beauty, but as they are grown
In you, I should not think or say they shine,
(So as I have) in any other mine;
Next I confess this my confession,

For 't is some fault thus much to touch upon
Your praise to you, where halfrights seem too much,
And make your mind's sincere complexion blush.
Next I confess m' impenitence; for I

Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby
Remote low spirits, which shall ne'er read you,
May in less lessons find enough to do,
By studying copies, not originals;
Desunt cætera.

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HERE, where by all all saints invoked are,
'T were too much schism to be singular,
And 'gainst a practice general to war.

Yet turning to saints should m' humility
To other saint than you directed be,
That were to make my schism heresy.

Nor would I be a convertite so cold,
As not to tell it; if this be too bold,
Pardons are in this market cheaply sold.

Where, because faith is in too low degree,
I thought it some apostleship in me
To speak things, which by faith alone I see.

That is, of you, who are a firmament

Of virtues, where no one is grown or spent;
They're your materials, not your ornament.

Others, whom we call virtuous, are not so
In their whole substance; but their virtues grow
But in their humours, and at seasons show.

For when through tasteless flat humility
In dough-bak'd men some harmlessness we see,
'Tis but his phlegm that 's virtuous, and not he:

So is the blood sometimes; whoever ran
To danger unimportun'd, he was then
No better than a sanguine-virtuous man.

So cloister❜d men, who in pretence of fear
All contributions to this life forbear,
Have virtue in melancholy, and only there.

Spiritual choleric critic, which in all
Religions find faults, and forgive no fall,
Have through this zeal virtue but in their gall.

We're thus but parcel guilt; to gold we 're grown, When virtue is our soul's complexion:

Who knows his virtue's name or place, hath none.

Virtue's but agueish, when 't is several,
By occasion wak'd and circumstantial;
True virtue's soul, always in all deeds all.
This virtue thinking to give dignity
To your soul, found there no infirmity,
For your soul was as good virtue as she.

She therefore wrought upon that part of you,
Which is scarce less than soul, as she could do,
And so hath made your beauty virtue too.

Hence comes it, that your beauty wounds not hearts,
As others', with profane and sensual darts
But as an influence virtuous thoughts imparts.

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FAIR, great, and good, since seeing you we see
What Heav'n can do, what any earth can be:
Since now your beauty shines, now when the Sun,
Grown stale, is to so low a value run,
That his dishevel'd beams and scatter'd fires
Serve but for ladies' periwigs and tires
In lovers' sonnets: you come to repair
God's book of creatures, teaching what is fair.
Since now, when all is wither'd, shrunk, and dry'd,
All virtues ebb'd out to a dead low tide,
All the world's frame being crumbled into sand,
Where ev'ry man thinks by himself to stand,
Integrity, friendship, and confidence,
(Cements of greatness) being vapour'd hence,
And narrow man being fill'd with little shares,
Courts, city, church, are all shops of small-wares,
All having blown to sparks their noble fire,
And drawn their sound gold ingot into wire;

All trying by a love of littleness

To make abridgments and to draw to less,
Even that nothing, which at first we were;
Since in these times your greatness doth appear,
And that we learn by it, that man, to get
Towards him that 's infinite, must first be great.
Since in an age so ill, as none is fit

So much as to accuse, much less mend it,
(For who can judge or witness of those times,
Where all alike are guilty of the crimes?)
Where he, that would be good, is thought by all
A monster, or at best fantastical:

Since now you durst be good, and that I do
Discern, by daring to contemplate you,
That there may be degrees of fair, great, good,
Through your light, largeness, virtue understood:
If in this sacrifice of mine be shown
Any small spark of these, call it your own:
And if things like these have been said by me
Of others; call not that idolatry.

For had God made man first, and man had seen The third day's fruits and flowers, and various green,

He might have said the best that he could say
Of those fair creatures, which were made that day:
And when next day he had admir'd the birth
Of Sun, Moon, stars, fairer than late-prais'd
Earth,

He might have said the best that he could say,
And not be chid for praising yesterday:
So though some things are not together true,
As, that another's worthiest, and, that you:
Yet to say so doth not condemn a man,

If, when he spoke them, they were both true then.
How fair a proof of this in our soul grows?
We first have souls of growth, and sense;
those,

and

When our last soul, our soul immortal, came,
Were swallow'd into it, and have no name:
Nor doth he injure those souls, which doth cast
The power and praise of both them on the last;
No more do I wrong any, if I adore
The same things now, which I ador'd before,
The subject chang'd, and measure; the same thing
In a low constable and in the king
I reverence; his power to work on me:
So did I humbly reverence each degree
Of fair, great, good; but more, now I am come
From having found their walks, to find their
home.

And as I owe my first soul's thanks, that they
For my last soul did fit and mould my clay,
So am I debtor unto them, whose worth
Enabled me to profit, and take forth
This new great lesson, thus to study yon;
Which none, not reading others first, could do.
Nor lack I light to read this book, though I
In a dark cave, yea, in a grave do lie;
For as your fellow angels, so you do
Illustrate them, who come to study you.
The first, whom we in histories do find
To have profess'd all arts, was one born blind:
He lack'd those eyes beasts have as well as we,
Not those, by which angels are seen and see;
So, though I'm born without those eyes to live,
Which Fortune, who hath none herself, doth give,
Which are fit means to see bright courts and you,
Yet may I see you thus, as now I do;

I shall by that all goodness have discern'd,
And, though I burn my library, be learn'd.

TO THE LADY BEDFORD.

You that are she and you, that 's double she,
In her dead face half of yourself shall see;
She was the other part; for so they do,
Which build them friendships, become one of two;
So two, that but themselves no third can fit,
Which were to be so, when they were not yet
Twins, though their birth Cusco and Masco take,
As divers stars oue constellation make;

Pair'd like two eyes, have equal motion, so
Both but one means to see, one way to go.
Had you dy'd first, a carcass she had been;
And we your rich tomb in her face had seen.
She like the soul is gone, and you here stay,
Not a live friend, but th' other half of clay;
And since you act that part, as men say, here
Lies such a prince, when but one part is there;
And do all honour and devotion due
Unto the whole, so we all reverence you ;
For such a friendship who would not adore
In you, who are all what both were before?
Not all, as if some perished by this,
But so, as all in you contracted is;
As of this all though many parts decay,
The pure, which elemented them, shall stay,
And though diffus'd, and spread in infinite,
Shall re-collect, and in one all unite:
So madam, as her soul to Heav'n is fled,
Her flesh rests in the earth, as in the bed;
Her virtues do, as to their proper sphere,
Return to dwell with you, of whom they were:
As perfect motions are all circular;

So they to you, their sea, whence less streams are.
She was all spices, you all metals; so
In you two we did both rich Indias know.
And as no fire nor rust can spend or waste
One dram of gold, but what was first shall last;
Though it be forc'd in water, earth, salt, air,
Expans'd in infinite, none will impair;
So to yourself you may additions take,
But nothing can you less or changed make.
Seek not, in seeking new, to seem to doubt,
That you can match her, or not be without;
But let some faithful book in her room be,
Yet but of Judith no such book as she.

SAPPHO TO PHILÆNIS.

WHERE is that holy fire, which verse is said
To have? is that enchanting force decay'd?
Verse, that draws Nature's works from Nature's law,
Thee, her best work, to her work cannot draw.
Have my tears quench'd my old poetic fire;
Why quench'd they not as well that of desire?
Thoughts, my mind's creatures, often are with thee;
But I, their maker, want their liberty:
Only thine image in my heart doth sit;
But that is wax, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawn it hence;
And I am robb'd of picture, heart, and sense.
Dwells with me still mine irksome memory:
Which both to keep and lose grieves equally.
That tells how fair thou art: thou art so fair,
As gods, when gods to thee I do compare,
Are grac'd thereby; and to make blind men see,
What things gods are, I say they 're like to thee.

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