he threats of cruell Warre now cease:,

In stead of them safety and peace,

Banish’d th’unhallowed earth, doe please

’Returne in their white Waine;

Faith joyn’d with Truth, and Plenty too

O’re pleasant fields doe nimbly goe;

The precious Ages past, doe flow

With liberall streames againe.

Cleare dayes, such yeares as were of old

Recalled are, o’th’ ancient mold,

The Heavens hayle Pearles, and molten Gold

Doth raine down-right in showres;

Whilst I with my Prophetique string

Thy Winter feastivalls doe sing,

The whole world doth with Ecchoes ring

Old Saturn’s age is ours.

Our Fathers pure and golden rule

Exil’d as farre as farthest Thule,

Justice from bright Olympus schoole

Comes boldly back againe.

The streams which Milk and Honey yeild,

Their passage cut through open field,

And the full banks with Nectar swell’d

Doe drowne the flowrie plaine.

The glad Corne in the restles stalke

Waves, and the fields as wee doe walke,

So fruitfull reele, to any balke

The Heat no spight doth owe.

The Herdsmans Pipe to’s wandring Goats,

Provokes the Grashoppers hoarse notes;

The tyred Herd with strayned throats,

Makes Hills and Woods to low.

The Mountaines leape, and rough Rocks smile

For gentle Peace rejoyceth still

Such solitary roomes to fill

Hills set apart, ’lone Townes.

Ceres with yellow Chaplet, and

The Summer rich with eares doth stand,

Great Prince of our appeased Land,

Thee to encompasse round.

The Myrtle begs with humble shade

To serve thee and the Laurel’s glade;

The lofty Oake doth rise; Its head

The trembling Pine doth bow;

Hee that o’re Starrs and earth hath powre,

Beholding us, from his bright Towre,

Calms all, and sets thee father o’re

The covetous world below.

The Laurell signe long life to thee,

Let Fates and destinies agree

To twine thy thred, which cannot bee

Cut ’till th’ appointed time.

May shee amidst those glorious fires,

For thy sake, pittying our desires,

’Bout whom the beauteous starrs inquires,

And flowing measures swim;

May shee, I say, our Country’s griefe

Cure, and the chast complaints releive

Of all our youth, and willing eares

Apply to th’ praiers of all our Peeres.

U

nmanly howlings, Lycuas, leave,

Thy sad breast doe not vex, nor grieve;

Thy rugged brow from cloudes set free,

Although with usuall beames ’on thee

The Sun not shines; or fortune late

Hath throwne the hardest chance of Fate.

With th’ waves, that South windes tosse to day,

The cheerfull Easterne gales will play;

The Sun that now hangs downe his head,

With joy from blushing Thetis bed

I’th’ morne will rise. Laughter and woe

Keepe time, and in their courses goe.

Cleare merriment succeeds wet eyes,

And joyes in mid’st of sorrows rise.

Thus pleaseth it the Fates, that flow

With various hazards here below.

Hee who his Oxen tyr’d, did drive,

Doth lawes to day, to th’ City give:

And the same yokes he tooke from those,

Upon the Citizens impose.

The day-starre great, that man doth see,

Whom th’ Evening saw in low degree.

But if the things that serious are

With Fortunes pastimes to compare

Doth please you; See, this Country-man

Betakes himselfe to’s farme againe,

Of’s jeering neighbours th’only sport,

And with those Axes which i’th’ Court

Hee ruled all with, Cleaves his wood,

Whose Helves are made of Laurell good.

And if a want of wood there growes,

The Fasces on the fire he throwes.

A

s if the Sun that once doth set,

From th’ blushing East a new birth doth not get

As if that those whom Fortunes frowne

By the swift violence of her wheele, throwes down,

Shee would not raise again with ease,

So active in such nimble sports as these.

Despaire not (Sir) whose footsteps now

Thou’rt said to kisse, and lick the dust of’s shooe,

Let Fortune her light wheele but turne,

And then Tarquinius, thou shalt soon discerne

From his proud height, him downward thrust,

His trampled robes smoking in mire and dust.

Thy jeeres and laughter then forbeare,

His all-bespattred lookes thou shalt not feare,

Nor trample on, remembring how

Fortune a double ball doth often throw.

T

he Valleys, now, all clad in gray

By Winter, when Sol darts his ray

On neighbouring hills, hee’l naked lay,

As heretofore.

But when the winter of thy yeares

With snow, within thy locks appeares,

When hoary frost shall dye thine haires,

It parts no more.

Summer, and Autumn’s quickly gone,

Th’approaching Spring will passe as soon:

Gray hayres, and chilling cold alone

With thee will stay.

To thy ill colour, Nard distill’d,

Nor the renew’d perfumes o’th’ field

Of flowres, can any vertue yeild,

Or tak’t away.

Thee, whom thy youth hath giv’n tó day.

At night old age will take away.

Thy time to double, is, to lay

A fame most bright.

Whom snach’d by death, his friends bemone,

He hath liv’d long. Let every one

Write Fames sole heire: that’s free alone,

From th’ rape of night.

L

ift me up quickly on your wings,

Ye Clouds, and Winds; I leave all earthly things;

How Devious Hills give way to mee!

And the vast ayre brings under, as I fly,

Kingdomes and populous states! see how

The Glyst’ring Temples of the Gods doe bow;

The glorious Tow’rs of Princes, and

Forsaken townes, shrunke into nothing, stand:

And as I downward looke, I spy

Whole Nations every where all scattred lye.

Oh the sad change that Fortune brings!

The rise and fall of transitory things!

Here walled townes that threatned Heav’n,

Now old and ruin’d, with the earth lye even:

Here stately Pallaces, that thrust

Their heads i’th’ayre, lye buried all in dust.

Here the Ayre Temp’rate is and mild,

But the fierce people rush to warres, most wild:

Here in a joyfull peace they rest,

But Direfull Murraines their quiet fields lay wast.

Here the whole Land doth scorching lye

Under the glittering Armes o’ th’ Enemy:

Under the hovering stroke o’ th’ Fates

The Armies yet both stand; and fury waites

With doubfull steps, upon the warre;

Fresh courage here, the mingled troopes prepare.

Each against other fiercely run,

And mutually they worke destruction:

The slaughtered heapes in reeking gore

With bloudy covering spread the fields all o’re:

Here on safe Seas, as joyfull prize

Is strip’d away th’ Ægyptian Merchandize,

Whilst the full Havens thick beset,

Doe furiously with fierce contention fret.

Mars hath his divers Causes, and

His severall fashion’d weapons to command.

From the Adultresse smiling lookes

Pleasure doth fight, and unto Warre provokes,

The doting world with Helen burnes.

This sordid man, oh base advantage! turnes

Revenge of vvords to blowes;

Mischiefe begets it selfe, from mischiefe growes.

Small sins by example higher dare,

Nor doth all sin, alvvaies like sin appeare.

There th’Easterne Sea lyes coverd o’re

With vvarlike Fleets: Thetis begins to rore

With stormes of flaming Brasse, and here

Th’ astonish’d Rocks all trembling stand with feare.

The troubled Sea vvith vvinds beset

With stronger vvaves ’gainst the full shore doth beat.

Forbeare, cruell men to multiply

With fire, Sword-vvrack your single destiny.

Is the large Earth too narrovv grovvne,

Such slaughters, such dire tragedies to ovvne?

Large Kingdomes there, brought under thrall

With Tumult, stagger, and for feare doe fall;

Where in one Ruine wee may see

The dying people all o’rewhelmed lye.

The silent dust remaines, to let

The weary Pilgrim this Inscription set

(In after times, at hee goes by)

King, Kingdome, People here entombed lye.

What should I name the raging Seas,

Whole Havens over-flowing, and with these

I’th’ sudden floud whole Cities drown’d

The shaken Temples of the Gods that found?

Kings Pallaces what should I name

Now sunke i’th’ deepe, small Cottages i’th’ same?

Vast wealth I see swept downe with th’ tyde

Rich treasure in the Ocean floting glyde.

The active world t’each others harmes

Doth daily fight, and the pale Goddesse armes

The bloudy scene with slaughters, warrs,

With utter ruins, and with deadly jarrs;

Thus there’s no Exit of our woes,

Till the last day the Theater shall close,

Why stay I then, when goe I may—

To’a house enlightned by the Suns bright ray?

Shall I still dote on things humane?

Lift up your longing Priest, yee Clouds, oh deigne

Lift m’up where th’aire a splendour yeilds

Lights the sun’s chariot through the azure fields.

Am I deceived? or doe I see

The following winds on their wings mounting me,

And now againe Great kingdomes lye

Whole Nations perishing before mine eye?

The earth which alwayes lesse hath beene

Then’s Globe, and now, just now can scarce be seene,

Into it’s point doth vanish, see!

Oh the brim’d Ocean of the Deitie!

Oh Glorious Island richly free

From the cold Harbours of mortality!

Yee boundlesse Seas, with endlesse flouds of rest

Girt round Sarbinius your panting Priest.

A

midst our losse it were some ease,

If things did fall, with the same stay, and leisure

They rise; but sudden ruines seize

On our most lofty things, and richest treasure.

Nothing long time hath happy been.

The restlesse Fates of peopled-Cities, passe:

In a few hour’s destroy’d w’have seen,

In many yeares what never raised was.

He gave to Chance long time, that said

One day’s enough, whole Kingdomes t’overthrow:

Each moment holds a people swayd

Under a fatall and exalted blow.

Being neere thy death, then, Publius, spare

To load the Gods, with thy blasphemous plaints;

That Funeralls so frequent are,

Or death so much thy neighbours house haunts.

The houre, that first to thee gave life,

That thou should’st likewise dye, gave first to thee.

He hath liv’d long, who well doth strive

Sure alwaies of eternall life to bee.

VV’

Are mock’d with ’baytes that fortune flings

And fed with th’empty husks of things:

Shadowes, not friends we entertaine;

W’are pleas’d with the deceitfull traine

Of words, and thinke them deeds. But when

Th’unconstant wheele shall turne agen

To th’ parting Goddesse, wee shall see

Those friends the selfe-same words deny.

Things Humane under false names please.

Our gifts match not our promises;

Religion, lesse to be doth use,

Then the large language of our vowes.

T

hou shunnest me, like to a fearfull Roe,

Which, as the stormy North-winds blow,

Or the rough noise o’ th’ suddaine Easterne blast,

Is snatch’d away with forcelesse hast.

For th’early frost the trembling leaves doth fright,

Or else the Father of the light

Hath hewne from th’ecchoing rocks his thundring darts,

Hee hastens with such doubtfull starts.

But till I find thee, I’le not cease, nor rest,

But cry aloud, Returne, ô Christ:

And when with swifter speed thou fly’st away,

Returne againe, ô Christ, I’le say.

The tops of Lebanus, so green and gay,

The faire tilths of Bethulia,

Encompasse thee, old Salem’s fruitfull Land,

Or else Capharnia low doth stand.

At length give o’re thy sad and carefull flight:

Thou shalt not scape me, th’evening bright

With its so watchfull Centry, thee’l betray,

And th’Moone with golden hornes doth stray.

By th’grones of the neglected shores I’le find

Thee; and by th’sighs o’th’ Westerne wind;

Thee the night’s watch, the starrs that walke about

With lively signes will point thee out.

T

hou Cursed off-spring of that sacred place!

Thou fatall monster of prodigious race!

A Libyan Lyonesse in some Affrick den

Gave nourishment to thee, thou shame of men.

Or mungrill Libard with a shee-Tiger, hurl’d

Thee, with a mischiefe, into th’hatefull world,

Heyre to the fury of thy Syre, and damm;

Or some wild Wolfe left thee a naked shame:

Under a huge hard rock: some angry storme,

From waves, with things so full of divers forme,

For birds and beasts, spew’d th’up a banefull prey;

The Marble quarry, ’mid’st the raging Sea,

It’s rigid veynes, from thy rough bosome drew;

Marble, from those rocks hewne, Deucalion threw

Over Gætulian fields: Megara first

Fix’d th’in thy regall seat, on thee accurst

Then Tisiphon the Scepter did bestow,

And set the Diadem on thy savage brow:

And as thy princely Ivory, of late

Thou proudly lean’dst upon, close by thee sate

With stately columnes prop’d, fell tyrannie,

Her Ensignes, who through Palestine let fly:

And her black sword with bloudy trembling hand

Did brandish round, when straight at her command

Hatreds, and strifes appear’d, murder and rage

The horrid ruine of the new-borne age,

Shee drew along; Tumultuous madness, all

The slaughter’d peoples unjust funerall:

Each famous kingdome, inexhausted towne

In a large streame of bloud by her, o’re-throwne.

Next followed Her, the plaints, and direfull grones

Of sighing parents, rob’d of their little ones,

Whole tydes of teares, sobs, and lamentings great

And mourning in each corner of the street.

But if this show’r, from this sad cause begun,

In too too narrow rivulets doth run;

Why doe revenging stormes so much delay

To back the rayne? what doth their fury stay?

Why doth the shaken sky with rustling noise

Of the Sun’s chariot, bridle in the voice

Of the slow thunder? why the lightning stop

From breaking through the clouds with hideous clap?

Those ayrie feather’d arrowes in the darke

That stray, why do they spare their cursed marke?

Acroceraunia with his three-fork’d flame.

And that huge Hill the Thracian Queen gave name,

Æmathia’s craggy trembling rocks may passe

Guiltlesse; they have not sin’d at all, alasse!

Unlesse their Marble, with a prodigious birth,

This direfull Monster teem’d, t’infest the earth:

Breake then the mountaines, break yee lightnings,

Throw headlong downe ye fruitfull rocks of Kings.

May hee exspire! oh may the murth’rer fall!

Most execrable, cruell, tragicall!

Upon his kingdom’s pile, and flaming yew

Let his high carkasse blaze; the ayre anew

May th’ monster purge from his infectious breath,

The mocke of wrangling furyes, and of death.

Oh breake your entrayles, sluggish earth, and downe

Let the high ruins of the rocks be throwne;

’Gainst which the waves o’th’raging Sea may rore

And Nereus with his Quicksands Boyling o’re:

Wee’re heard. The climbing surges strike the stars

And the big Ocean all her strength prepares;

Her foame, and slimy mud sh’hath heap’d together

Devouring waves toss’d with the worst of weather:

The firmament doth shake, & Hell so neere

Through the earths large chinks, which gapeth doth appear:

The shatt’red world now falls on’s impious head,

Goe, Tyrant with thy death unpardoned,

Even Hell it selfe pollute, possesse, alone,

Cocytus, and sulphureous Acheron.

Fulcite me floribus, &c.

Stay me with flagons, &c.

Adiuro vos, filiæ Jeruſalem, ne ſuſcitetis, &c.

Ecce iſte venit, ſaliens in montibus, tranſiliens colles, &c.

S

tay mee with saffron, underneath me set

Full banks of Roses, beds of violet;

Refresh mee with the choicest fruit, and spread

The whitest Lillies round about my head:

For the delay of the seene-pow’re divine

In sacred flames, consumes this breast of mine.

Yee Daughters of that holy Citie, yee!

Yee Sisters! I, ’tis I, that humbly pray!

O, I, intreat you, by each Hind, and Roe,

That straying o’re the tops of Hills doe goe,

Yee stock of ancient Isaac, yee that move

With nimble foot through Lebanus sweet grove,

O’re Carmels fragrant top! yee Nymphs so faire

The glory of the noble Hills that are,

Molest not my beloved with your cryes,

Amongst the twining Violets that lyes:

Doe not with claps of hands, or noise of feet,

Awake her, from her carefull slumbers yet:

Untill my Spouse, of her owne selfe, shall rise

And wipe away the soft sleep, from her eyes;

Untill the golden day-starre shall release

All things from silent rest, and gentle peace.

Behold from tops of yonder hills doth come

The blessed off-spring of’s faire mothers womb,

The only issue of’s bright father too,

On the thick tops o’th’ groves doth leaping goe,

The unshorne head of Lebanus so hye

Hee leaps, and the great backs of Mountaines by,

The stately dwellings of the woods hee skips,

And down again with nimble foot hee trips:

Like to a frighted, and swift running Roe.

Beholding Lions in a vale below,

With an amazed haste, and deep fetch’d breath

Through uncouth places runs t’escape his death.

A

rt thou blow’n on, with gentle gale,

Or in rough waters forc’d to sayle?

Still conquer Fortune, make but sports

Of her, and her uncertain Arts.

Laughs shee? turne bravely away thy face.

Weeps shee? bring’t back, with smiling grace:

When shee’s most busie, be thou than

Retyr’d, and alwayes thine own man.

Thus close shut up, thine owne free state

Thou best mayst rule, chiefe Magistrate;

When the fierce Fates shall most molest,

The serene palace of thy brest.

When light mischance, thy fort, or thee

Shall visit; meet it merrily:

Good luck, and peace, in that house stay

Where mourning, first, hath led the way.

In dext’rous chance, this hurt we see,

It makes us soft: Extremity—

This, prosperous hath, wheresoe’re it hits,

It hardens, and for danger fits.

The griefe that hath been of such length,

Doth ’bate its violence and strength.

By bearing much, make fortune frees

Shee learnes, by custome, light to be.

A

rash believer of their ticklish play,

With Fates, I ne’re joyn’d greedy hands in hast.

From the strict course of private jarres, that they

With mee, in such an equall peace should rest.

I know not what to morrow’s fortune brings

Heire to my selfe alone. The wealth she gave

Lyes in my outmost roomes, ’mongst worst of things;

Which, without force, she may for taking have.

Things can be ta’ne away, I ne’re thought mine;

Not poorer I, if mine owne selfe compleat.

I kingdome, Marcus, of my selfe I find

If the great custome of mine owne estate—

Within me I could in just numbers cast.

A great part of my mind lyes close, more wide

Then the rich Indyes are, to which at most

But thrice a yeare, we can but sayle or ride.

But my rich mind, oft to it selfe a guest,

By its owne selfe is daily visited;

Not ’bout to buy Toyes for a roome, or feast,

If of its selfe it’s seen, it’s richly fed.

I

f the first barke, Fuscus, thou would’st but pare

From empty things, the rest will flow,

And vanish quite like vernal snow;

Which melts away, with the mild breath o’th’ ayre.

Valour from beauty sever’d, slowly moves.

Meere outsides please: had Paris seene

Faire Helens heart, how foule ’t had beene,

How ill requiting to the Trojan Loves,

Ne’re, through the midst of Nereus broyles, had hee

Or the winds anger, borne away

O’th’ Grecian bed that beauteous prey.

But Nature’s Lord, the mutuall yoke, we see,

Of things hath ord’red well, that black with white,

Sad things with joyfull cov’red lye.

And from this various mixture, hee

The best would choose, from Heav’n must learne the right. 

T

he large-commanding Thracians wee

Have fear’d. More large command hath hee,

Who all alone himselfe retyres,

And keepes sure guard o’re his desires.

Thy unwarlike breast, with shield of proofe

Forbeare to fortifie; throw off

From thy unpractic’d sides the shirt

Of Mayle, so hard about thee girt.

Let not the Quiver and the bow

Such homage to thy soft neck doe.

Whether’t bee Dane, or Pict, ta’ne out

From farthest Brittaine, hems th’about

Or Goth, ne’re labour much to know

Thine owne Commander, Champion too.

Wee are—’tis true a kingdome small;

But, Pausilipius, hee that shall

His flatt’ring selfe, t’ himselfe subdue,

A businesse great doth undergoe;

If his owne lawes hee can perswade,

And doth performe them being made,

An host, makes no Kings title good,

Nor Robes deepe dy’d in peoples blood.

A high brow set with starrs of gold,

Or Jems more glorious to behold.

Hee who hath tam’d all coward feares,

And his owne Guard himselfe prepares,

Who practic’d, in faire combate, first

Dares Chance and Fortune do their worst;

That man’s a King. Hee doth not faine

His lookes to th’ votes o’th’ vulgar straine,

The popular stage, and publike showes

Ne’re moves him, nor the ayre that blowes

With swift applause; Hee’s blest whose sprite,

Fall Fortune sad, or fall she light,

Hath ne’re exprest, to th’standers by,

A low complaint, or haughty cry;

But, lest the curious Fates displease—

Hee should, holds modestly his peace.

At’s first wounds, who nor grones, nor quakes,

A Conquest with his silence makes:

Hee that mischance knowes how to hide,

The worst of ills, can best abide.

Hee, though the Sea should every where

Hang up its waves i’th’ flitting ayre;

And the rough winds on him, should presse

Flames mix’d with billowes, nay whole Seas,

From the high Court of’s lofty mind

I’th’ midst o’th’ ruine, sport can find;

Sets to his neck to th’ falling skye,

And props the world most valiantly:

To the now gasping Age safe heyre,

Leans on the Earth’s sad sepulchre,

Whence, ’midst the fragments of the skye,

Hee sees most clearly from on hye,

How much more great those things appeare,

Hee treads on, then indeed they are,

Being then prepar’d, and ready drest

To dye Olympus certaine guest.

Where, when by th’ Fates hee’s gladly brought,

Whether disease, it matter’s not,

Or enemies sword, doth thrust him on,

When his last journey he must run.

To th’ Port wee are but once brought in

To which w’have alwayes sayling bin:

Whether, as mighty Princes, wee

In gallant ships have spread the Sea;

Or, as the common sort of men,

In smaller Barks, have carryed been.

May my poore bottome to that brinke

Mee happy bring; why should I shrinke—

Safe on th’Aeternall shore to stand,

If with such trash I can shake hand?

W

ee erre (my Dellius) if wee take

That baser path of life, the people make;

In highest and remotest Hills

Vertue sequesters up her selfe, and dwells.

There where the way more beaten lyes,

Lesse certaine, and more slipp’ry alwayes ’tis.

From fruitlesse order, errours grow;

Custome, not reason, drawes the people now.

Men live by Chance, our time we spend

I’th’ way, like Truants, and forget the end,

Where ’mid’st the throng of passers by,

The noyse of the mad rout, the hatefull cry

Of envy, calls, wee’re drawne amaine

B’example; others wee draw back againe;

No man is ill to himselfe alone,

Nor no mans life is onely call’d his owne.

Whil’st that the rambling rout treads o’re

With after steps, the heeles of them before,

They that goe formost are design’d

A mischiefe oft to those that come behind.

Pernassus, and chaste Helicon

Sublimes and takes mee from the vulgar throng:

From whence, the false mistakes I view

And wandring mindes of the too slothfull crew;

And from on hye I fearelesse see,

With sport, the dangers that below me lye;

Thus warily with joy I live,

And by, other mens mischances I can thrive.

W

hy fleeting glory follow wee,

Lætus, with weapons all in vaine?

When like a Moore, or Parthian, shee

Flyes at her backe with wounded Trayne.

The Talking-peoples love, denyes

Under one roofe a guest to fix:

With’s empty care, one takes up lyes,

And them with truths, doth subt’ly mix,

Another sticks, and thinkes to build

His nest: but when he plainly sees

His empty breast with noise beguild,

Aloft with silent wings, hee flees.

True praise would not be knowne; the Sun

Forbids from being seen below

By his own light: and hee that can

Ecclipse himselfe, doth brighter show.

Hee that in silence, of his mind

The sacred Treasury containes;

Safety i’th’ vulgar noyse doth find:

In’s doubtfull Court, and wisely raignes.

Still banks thy Pinnace well may passe.

But when with hoarse rocks they do roare,

Remember wisely to forecast

And turn’t aside with wary Oare.

W

hat ’tis detaines me here, and why—

I hide my selfe from every eye.

How in so poore a house I spend

My houres, y’have often ask’d me, friend;

When the free Courts of free-borne men,

Fall out, which first shall let me in.

I enjoy my selfe, what need I more?

Of every sense I lock the dore;

And close shut up, a taske I find

In the retyring house o’th’ mind:

The Theatre of my life I view

My owne spectator and iudge too—

Whether the tale I first begun

In well digested Acts I’ue spun;

In every scene, if every clause

Goes neatly off, with heav’ns applause:

Each Action scan’d, is there set free

Or sentenc’d by authoritie—

If there, with well Done I escape,

I’me blest without the peoples clap.

I hate the common road of praise,

Or what the gaping vulgar raise,

Which with a pleasant gale a while

Fame hurries, but doth soone beguile:

Now Envie’s sting it feeles, ere long

Th’Artillery of some spightfull tongue:

Thus chac’d, with weak’ned wings it dyes;

Or torne, on the bare ground it lyes.

A private fame, a meane house, where

I live conceal’d from popular ayre,

Best fits my mind, and shelters me:

Vertue t’her owne praise deafe should be.

Our emulation, things a farre off command,

But Envy haunts things that are neere at hand.

I

f mournfull eyes could but prevent

The evils they so much lament

Sidonian Pearles, or Gems more rare,

Would be too cheap for ev’ry teare.

But moyst’ned woes grow fresh, and new,

As Come besprinkled with the dew.

Teare followes teare, and fruitfull griefe

Hath from it selfe, its owne reliefe.

The man whom Fortune doth espy

With drooping spirit, and moyst’ned eye,

Shee, often strikes; ill Fate, amaine

Runs Scarr’d no notice being ta’ne.

Bewayle not then thy selfe, deare friend,

Or evills that on thee attend;

What they expell, teares cherish oft;

Hard things deny to yeild to soft.

Mischance is conquered, when she spies

A valiant patience with dry eyes.

A

s cheerefully I walke with thee,

My shoulders from all burdens free.

Our native soyle again to see

Rich to my selfe I sing,

Whil’st care strikes thee, and thy Muse dumb,

The heavy weight of thy vast summe,

Or what estate in time to come

The faithlesse rout may bring.

Hee’s rich that nothing hath; Hee that

In’s certaine hand holds his estate,

That makes himselfe his constant mate

Where need commands him go;

What can I want, that nought desire?

Then Pindus vale, I reach no higher:

O sacred Grove! O pleasant quire

In those coole shades below!

What paths soe’re my steps invite

Ye Delphian hills, my sole delight

Doe goe with mee; in weary plight,

And veyle me with good grace.

Let th’Goth his strongest chaines prepare,

The Scythian hence mee captive teare,

My mind being free with you, I’le stare

The Tyrants in the face.

N

othing Munatius, nothing I sing’t againe,

That’s mortall, nothing from th’ uncured paine

Of tediousnesse is free. The Sun

Which bright to our forefathers shone

To us, but little healthfull, doth appeare,

And though not guilty of one spott, not cleare:

Whatsoe’re immortall thing we see

In high Olympus, silly wee

Doe over-cast with Envy’s shade; here one

From his owne native Hills the rising Sun.

Disclaimes; or th’ancient Moone, that strikes

Her beames through’s fathers glasse, dislikes.

Each yeare we change our ayre, and soyle, so light;

Him, Hollands warmer Climate doth invite:

Another differs, and doth cry

Ausonia’s clearer Suns please mee.

In vaine all this, if faithfull sicknesses

Wait close behind; if secret griefes ne’re cease,

All’s one, whether in Chariot

Thou goest, or in Venetian boat.

Poore exiles! then, things left doe please us most,

Who a sure building can from vertue boast,

To him the smoke of’s father’s Hall

Doth never hurt his eyes at all.

Vertue oft-times, rich in a rustick ease

Confines her selfe to her owne private blisse;

And in the guiltlesse straw, her throne

With great delight can leane upon.

T

hou said’st, farewell my Spouse, & went’st away

More fleet then Clouds with liquid paces stray:

Oh what a longing, Jesu thus

With thy delay thou mak’st in us?

’Tis now high noone, the scorching Sun doth burne

I’th’ mid’st o’th’ pole, the mower spares the corne,

The Shepheard, with his flocks, is glad—

And painted birds, to seeke coole shade.

But Jesu! where art thou? what region’s blest

By holding thee so long in silent rest?

What darksome shade denyes my love?

Or with thick boughs what shady Grove?

Knew I on what green Turfe thou dost repose

Thy fainting limbs; what wind with soft breath blowes’

What streame, with bubling, passing by

Disturbs thy sleep, or wakens thee;

Oh! lest the too much noise should raise thee, I

Would let fall streams of teares should qualifie;

My warmer sighes thou mix’d should’st find

With the cold blasts o’th’ Easterne wind.

D

o I mistake? or from Elyzium cleare

My life’s call doe I heare?

Sister arise, and harnesse thy sweet paire

Of Doves, thy selfe more faire;

Mount and drive hither, here let thy Chariot stop,

From Libanus hye top;

At thy approach the falling showres doe fly,

Tempestuous stormes passe by,

The lightning’s quench’d under thy harmlesse feet,

Winter turnes Spring to see’t.

While in the sacred Green, a bow’re we see

Doth spread it selfe for thee.

The Earth new Turff’s it selfe for thee to tread,

The straying starrs fresh fields make glad.

Here with their dams, of Kids th’amazed flocks

Hang on steep sides of Rocks;

Here as they swim, the wanton Hinds do play

In the coole streames all day.

The Lion with the Libard downe is l’ed

Tame and well governed;

Each with his Lamb about the Mountaines skip,

O’re Hills they lightly trip.

By these a spacious brooke doth slowly glide,

Which with a spreading tyde

Through bending Lilyes, banks of Violets

From th’hollow Pumice sweats.

The rivers gently flow, and a still sound

From mossie Rocks doth bound.

The sporting fish dance in the christall Mayne,

The Birds sweetly complaine,

The ayre, if dolefull comforts please, doth ring

With mournfull murmuring.

For when the Doves eccho each others cry

That sound doth hither fly.

As they with widowed notes themselves do please,

Just so, our joyes increase.

No want appeares; th’officious Vine doth stand

With bending clusters to our hand.

Here, thou shalt pick sweet Violets, and there

Fresh Lillyes all the yeare:

The Apple ripe drops from its stalke to thee,

From tast of death made free.

The luscious fruit from the full Figtree shall

Into thy bosome fall.

Meane while, the Vine no pruning knife doth know,

The wounded earth no plow.

The Corne growes green alone, and th’unhurt land

Doth white with harvest stand.

The grasse affords a stately bed, the Plane

Spreads thee to entertaine.

Arabian mists sweat from the gummy tree

Of Balme, and all for thee;

Which through the ayre, a rich perfume doe throw,

Fann’d with each neighb’ring bough.

Arise my Sister deare, why dost thou stay,

And spend th’unwilling day?

Behold thy harness’d Doves, at thy delay

Doe sigh, come, drive away.

Put on, and hither drive thy beauteous paire

Of Doves, thy selfe more faire.

W

hat though the Gods have promis’d she shall bee

Enfranchis’d to Eternity?

Yet (valiant Sir) so great a losse still cryes

For a just tribute from your eyes;

View but her pious mind, that tow’re of state

Not shaken by sad stownes of Fate,

Her humble innocent soule, her guiltlesse feare,

Her modesty chiefe Regent there;

The prudent thrift of her presaging mind

Her constant zeale, pure and refin’d;

And who can then forbeare t’embalme her Hearse

With the daily precious dew of teares?

Tis not in Fate to promise length of dayes,

To things of such esteeme and praise;

Nor can the starrs suffer so ripe a birth

To be long sullied with dull earth.

Load not the Heavens then with unjust complaints,

For taking back one of their Saints.

The courage of her richly temp’red breast

Made her for them a fitter guest:

Such jewells of her mind sparkle about her

The starres themselves can’t shine without her.

Thus Tanaquil; thus Claudia’s virgin band

Steer’d the unwilling Barke to land.

Thus shee, that durst her Husbands fate abide,

And Cloelia over Tiber’s tyde;

Too early crop’d, survive in Poesie,

And keepe perpetuall jubilie.

’Tis not in Art to fetch her back againe,

Or charme the spirits with Orpheus straine,

To breake the bars of Adamant or scale

The Rampiers of th’ Elysian wall,

No Orisons prevaile, sent from the breast

Of great Apollo’s choisest Priest.

Yet in the arched entrance chinks there bee,

Which may befriend the covetous eye;

Through these to th’hidden mysteries I peep,

And (if the spirits nor dream, nor sleep)

I saw, or else me thoughts, I there had seene

Her, wandring o’re a Spacious Greene,

With walls of Diamond, gates of purest glasse,

No Chrystall more transparent was:

Each blade of grasse was gold, each tree was there,

A golden Periwig did weare.

The swelling banks of Violets did curle

Themselves with Gems, and Orient Pearle;

The glorious nothing, of the Trigon glasse—

And all Apelles Art, which passe.

Through the sweet vales a Quire of Damsels sing

Eternall Pæans to their King.

The stars with sparkling light stand round I see,

Twinkling to their shrill melodie.

Her and her tender darling, then I spy,

I’th’ mid’st of that blest company;

With looks more fresh and sweet, then are the Roses

Of which her Garlands shee composes—

Two flowry Chaplets, which with Gems set round

Her owne and Nephew’s temples crown’d.

But here a veyle was drawne, I must not prie

Nor search too farre with mortall eye,

Nor would you more. It may suffice that shee

Hath chang’d fraile flesh for blest Eternitie.

VV

hether a shorter sleep, or whether

A long one (Turscius) joyns mine eyes together

In my soft dreames, me thinks, I see

To my light shoulders wings set on, and I

With joy transported, upward soare,

The flowry Meddowes, and the pastures o’re;

Where the greene Grove its coole shade yeilds

To th’stately grasse plotts, and ripe swelling fields:

Straight, ’mid’st the river Swans, up hyer

A winged fowle above the cloudes I’aspire;

The lively Lakes below, I sleight,

And with sweet straines a bird I counterfeit.

See, now me thinkes, the cloudes in throngs

The lightning leaps too, at my ravishing songs;

Iris about my neck hangs round,

And with her divers colour’d bow, I’me bound.

Being now my selfe, and newly wak’d,

My not unwelcome dreames, just now off shak’d;

Thrice o’re my Lute, I scarce had run

With nible finger neat division;

Remembring Horace, Thee, my guide,

When my high Genius through th’ayre doth ride;

Now o’re the scatt’red Islands, then

O’re Seas, with dry feet passing back again;

Nothing that’s mortall of mee, now

I beare, and nought to my dull bulke I owe.

Yet Turscius thou hast often told,

And warn’d mee, lest then Icarus of old

By a true fall indeed, I make

A lowder tale, and change the name o’th’Lake.

In vaine: Remembring Him, I had

A care, and counsell, to my folly, add:

For when I sleep, in bed I lye,

And if I write, my secure chaire holds mee. 

T

hou shalt not Tiberinus, call

Him rich, whose every Acre shall

Outvie the Easterne glebe, whose field

Faire Fortune’s clearest streame doth gild.

Nor him, whose birth, and pedigree

Is fam’d abroad by’s Heraldrie;

Hee who by fleeting glory’s hurld

In his rich Chariot through the world:

He’s poore that wants himselfe, yet weighs

Proudly himselfe; in this scale layes

His lands, in th’other broad one, by,

The false weight of his gold doth lye,

Great to himselfe, to others small,

That never knowes himselfe at all,

As the false people raise him higher,

Himselfe in’s shadow hee’l admire.

The fairest Gemme without true light,

Without true praise great titles, flight:

Blest Tiberinus, and most free

In thy selfe alone thoul’t learne to bee.

T

he Westerne winds, with the warm breath o’th’Spring,

Returne, and o’re our fields their soft gales fling;

The flowry-garnish’d Meadowes by,

With freshest colours painted lye.

The River, which the gainfull ships so throng,

With welcome silence gently glides along,

Although the neighbouring Hill doth ring

With the shrill notes of birds that sing;

Although the Swaine, on the green bank that sits

Old Sonnets with his Oaten Pipe repeats,

Although the Seaman doth not faile

At length to strike his full blowne sayle.

To thy Palladian labours interpose

Such changes Paullus; when the Sun forth showes

And with his golden presence smiles

On the hye tops of highest Hills,

Wee’l mount the back of green Luciscus, where

Hee’s thickest set with tallest Okes, and heare

The bubbling noise of streames that flow

From Fountaines that close by him goe.

Thence from the midst o’th’hill all VilnaC shall

Our prospect be; our eye shall lower fall—

On Vilia’s cooler streames, that wind,

And with embraces Vilna bind.

From thence, farre off, the Temples wee’l behold,

And radiant Scutcheons all adorn’d with gold;

Then wee’l looke o’re that double towre,

Th’extent of great Palæmon’s pow’re.

How in a settled peace, and kingdomes rest

The easie people raise themselves, so blest!

Three Temples in three yeares w’have seen

To th’Citizens have reared been;

Where Gediminian Rocks themselves extoll

With their plaine tops, and then the Capitol,

Those buildings, whose proud turrets stretch

Themselves to th’Cloudes, and stars doe reach:

Great things to greater growth doe thus increase,

And with least paines, improve themselves by peace.

Here, tops of Hills, themselves behold,

In all their flowry pride unfold.

The Poplar now that shakes, when th’East winds blow

Stood cloth’d in gray, under the ling’ring snow:

The Springs that now so nimbly rise,

Were all of late lock’d up, in Ice:

The fields that now with blushing Roses spread,

Lay barren, and in hardest frost all hid:

The birds which chirping sit i’th’Spring;

When Winter comes, forget to sing.

Breake off delayes then, and from grievous care

A constant day, set by; which th’ev’ning faire

Doth promise, and the next dayes Sun

With his white Steeds will freely run.

A

ppeare ye spritefull Quire with choicest sports,

All pastime fit for Phœbus Courts;

And Thou great Master of the Revels, joyne

The Graces, to thy Daughters nine;

Witt pure and quaint, with rich conceits and free

From all obscæne scurrilitie:

Here free from care, nimbly let’s dance a round

Upon Bracciano’s softer ground.

A gentle Cliffe from a steep Hill doth rise

That even to Heaven, mounts by degrees,

And safe, with uncouth passage, leanes upon

The solid backs, of Rocks and stone:

Whence ’mid’st the Bulwark’d Forts, we may descry

A displayd Banner from on hye,

Which to th’ Imperiall force a terrour was,

A terrour to great Borgias,

When through the brasen troops of’s threatning foes,

His fearfull thunder-bolts he throwes,

Pursuing routed Cæsar, whom he brought

To that he promis’d him, to nought.

Great Ursin here puts reynes toth’Tuscan pow’re

The grace of Heroes and the flow’re;

Heire to his father’s worth, chiefe guide and stay

And praise of great Oenotria.

A Bow’re growes green, set round with trembling Okes

Which fanns the Heavens with gentle strokes.

It clothes the Hills, and spreads it selfe all over

To th’open Theaters a cover.

Close joyn’d to th’walls, the Nymphs coole Arbour stands,

Which to the Sunny shore commands;

By these a banke of Vines, which th’neighbour Trench

With milder waves doth daily drench.

Nowhere the Lakes with fuller Sea doth roare,

Either of Larius that boyles o’re,

Or rough Albanus whose troubled waves doe mix

With the unnavigable Styx:

Not stormy Julia, when her swelling pride

Most rageth in her highest tyde:

Benacus doth not raise more froth, when he

Assaults the rocks with fiercest Sea.

With rugged tops the bending mountaines round

Upon the slow calme streames looke downe.

Romanus here his snowy back up-reares.

And drawes downe envy from the starres:

The lofty head of Cyminus here shakes

The Oke with trembling leaves which quakes,

And holds off Boreas, when his rawer blasts

’Gainst the weake Southerne winds he casts,

Commands the Country farre, and out he sets

His Winter sides against Heavens threats.

Meane while a pleasant calme doth smooth the Lake,

The waves ’gainst one another breake,

Mild Thetis selfe, with her own selfe finds sport,

And waters doe the waters court:

Through which a ship doth cut, with pleasant gales,

Or nimble Barke with swelling sayles:

The large-fin’d Chrystall cattell as they goe

Are forced whether they will or no

With ready dragnet; then with lines of haire

They round the Lake, or Nets more rare.

Rich Polla’s stately house there shines, and here

Full stored Fish-ponds doe appeare:

The friendly Foords which toward the Sea doe lye

Water Trebonian Vineyards by;

Here neat Aurelius farme looks gay, chiefe Lord

And Master of that healthfull Foord,

Whose water cures diseases, whose quick springs

Doe purge out all infectious things.

Where Flora makes the banks, and gives the name

To Fountaines, proud of so much fame;

From lively stones perpetuall waters flow,

And wash the fields wheresoe’re they goe,

Their father Tyber, and their King they found

And flow to Rome, with homage bound.

Nature doth purely there advance each part,

Not any place is help’d by Art:

As yet the virgin furrow, th’Hills yet stand

Untouch’d, by any tender hand.

Chast Tethys, Bacchus courts, Thetis doth woo

Bacchus againe, and Ceres too.

Hence Evius cheerfull rises, and doth twine

With th’Elme, that closely clings toth’ Vine,

With’s plenteous horne he swells, his locks hang by—

With flowing Clusters tangled lye.

Not Lesbos him, nor the sweet smelling grace,

Of rich Campania’s fruitfull race

Delights; the purple Grape not so faire showes,

In the Falernian sun that growes.

Hee’l not preferre Faliscus sandy ground,

Nor Rhætia, that doth so abound;

The yellow Tilths of happy Cyprus, hee

Ne’re lov’d so much, nor Rhodos by:

As in his owne — in his owne channells hee

Hugging himselfe, doth proudly lye.

Sole Empresse Ceres of the fertile lands

Whose large possessions shee commands:

The fields with yellow waves doe ebbe and flow,

The ripe eares swim, when winds doe blow.

No vapour, here, Heavens cleared face doth staine,

No clowdy fleece stretch’d out with raine:

The Northerne blasts are still, and all at peace,

And the hoarse noise o’th’ woods doth cease:

The stubborne Africke winds that use to stray

About th’unruly sandy Sea,

Are all hush’d up, and no Alarum sound

To th’ other winds, entrenched round;

Onely the Evening faire, a gentle gale

Of winds that each year never faile:

The bright Sun darting through th’enlightned Ayre

His beames, doth guild the Moutaines cleare,

The houres drive on heav’ns torch, that shine so bright,

And Phœbus father of the light—

With a peculiar influence bedewes

The Hills all o’re, when night ensues.

The warme Favonian winds with whistling gale

Doe merrily the boughs assaile,

And with their temperate breath, and gentle noise,

Sweet pleasing slumbers softly raise.

The prateling Nests meane while no silence keep,

Their wandring guests ne’re sleep.

To’s mate, the Turtle ’mong’st the branches grones,

And with complaints breakes hardest stones,

The Nightingale, the pleasant Groves about

Refresheth, with her warbling note,

Bewayles her losse to th’woods, i’th’ cruell fields

’Gainst Tereus her cryes shee yeilds:

And what the mournfull birds doe so complaine,

The shrill woods answer back againe.

The Oke, the Alder tells; the Poplar tree

The Ash; and that, the Elme stands by.

The Groves rejoyce with th’Eccho they afford

And tell them backe—ev’n word for word.

Jordanus here, hither thy selfe command,

Great Ruler of th’Oenotrian land.

Withdraw thy selfe from cares, from all resort

So cloy’d with’ Citie, and with Court,

So full of great affaires, at length thy breast

Convey to thy domestick rest.

Here thou may’st passe thy Foord, in gloomy shade,

On each side, by thine owne trees made,

And here between thy Mounts, with tall Okes set,

A large walke thou shalt get:

Or in December, when the fields looke white,

And th’Hills, with the earlyest snow doth light;

Sometime th’entangled game, with twining nett

I’th’ wood, with feare thou shalt besett:

Sometimes with courser fleet, pursue full sore,

The Buck thou mayst, sometimes the Bore;

With thy thrown dart the red Deer thou shalt stick.

And th’frighted ravenous Wolves shalt strick,

And if that Starre o’th’ sacred dignity

The glory of all Italy,

Will also from his cares, himselfe make free,

And keepe his Festivals with thee;

Each Citizen of thine, and every guest

With the compleatest joy is blest.

O

Fount more cleare then spotlesse glasse,

More pure, then purest snow e’re was,

The Nymphs desire, and Countries grace,

Thou joy of this my Native place.

Tyr’d with a tedious journey, I,

And press’d with cares that grievous lye,

From the farre Tuscan Land made free

Thus low I bow my selfe to thee:

Oh, if thou canst, vouchsafe to bee

Press’d, and with hollow palme drawne dry.

So let thy peace no wandring beast

Disturb, no broken bough, thy rest:

So when thou cutt’st with prattling noise

The Meads, and leap’st, men heare thy voice;

May th’whistling leaves of Poplar trees

With their unwelcome murmurs cease—

To thee, and thy Priests Lute: if nought

Urban approves, in vaine is thought

T’Blandusia thou canst nothing owe;

Nor to milde flowing Sirmio.

B

ut, Flaccus, now more happy he appeares,

Who, with the burthen of his cares,

Farre off hath left his father’s ground, set free

From the fierce wrangling Lawyer’s fee;

No scorching heat, nor blasts of Winter Jove,

Doth hurt his fruit, or him can move:

Hee shuns all strifes, and never doth resort

The sinfull gates o’th’ greedy Court.

But either doth bewayle those dayes and nights,

Lost by him in prophane delights;

Or else retyr’d, strives to collect and find

The dispers’d flock of’s wandring mind;

Having first fairly pois’d the recompence

And gaines of a good conscience.

At evening, when the harbinger of night

The torches of the sky doth light,

How he admires th’immortall rayes breake forth,

And their bright Orbes, more large then earth;

How through his trickling teares, he heips his fight,

Unto the open Courts of light,

Which with thy selfe, ô Christ, thy selfe in pray’r

He’ Adores, t’Eternall life an heire!

The Starres with golden wheeles, are hurried by,

And let their prostrate exile lye,

Over whose face, the plenteous teares doe stray,

Which chase all drowsie sleepe away;

Assoone as Phœbus head begins t’appeare,

Lately in Indus streames made cleare,

From depth of soule, lesse then himselfe he lies,

And bends the angry pow’rs with cryes:

Or when the Sun shines cleare, the aire serene,

And Aprill Festivals begin,

His eyes, so us’d to Heaven, he downe doth throw,

On a large prospect here below:

He viewes the fields, and wondring stands to see

In’s shade the shining Deitie.

See how (saies he) each herb with restlesse leaves

To th’ starres doth strive and upward heaves:

Remov’d from heaven they weep, the field appeares

All o’re dissolv’d in pious teares:

The white-flowr’d Woodbine, and the blushing Rose

Branch into th’aire with twining boughs;

The pale-fac’d Lilly on the bending stalke,

To th’starres I know not what doth talke;

At night with fawning sighes they’expresse their fears

And in the morning drop downe teares.

Am I alone, wretch that I am, fast bound

And held with heavy weight, to th’ground?

Thus spake he to the neighbouring trees, thus he

To th’Fountaines talk’d, and streames ran by,

And after, seekes the great Creator out

By these faire traces of his foot.

But if a lightsome Country house that’s free

From care, such as Luciscu’s bee,

Or Nemicini’s, if Besdan’s fruitfull field

Can Grace to his rude table yeild,

To his plaine board with country dainties set,

In August’s dry and parching heat;

Even at his dore, under a private shade

By a thick pleasant Poplar made,

Provision of all sorts, expect their guest,

A shell with salt, pure and the best,

New bread, for which, ’midst the thin bryars, the Mayd

Picks Strawberries, and’s gladly payd.

Cheese newly press’d, close by, the friendly Cann

With Cup cleane wash’d, doth ready stan’.

With me the Lucrine dainties will not downe,

The Scare, nor Mullet that’s well growne;

But the Ring-dove plump, the Turtle dun doth looke,

Or Swan, the sojourner o’th’ brooke,

A messe of Beanes which shuns the curious pallet,

The cheerfull and not simple sallet;

Clusters of grapes last gathered, that misse

And nothing owe to th’weighty presse.

Then after noone he takes a kind of pride

To th’Hills to walke, or River side,

And ’midst the pleasant Okes, a shade doth find,

T’avoyd the blasts o’th’ Southern wind;

To th’darksome shore, by the deep poole he goes,

And through, with nimble Boat he rowes;

Sometimes the sporting fish, his baite thrown in,

Hee plucks up with his trembling line.

Meane while th’ spacious woods with ecchoing note

Doe answer to the Bulls wide throat,

The shady rivers bleat; the Nightingale

I’th’ bushes chirps her dolefull tale.

With’s hastning pipe the sheapheard drives away

His flocke, which through the thickets stray:

To which as from the field they passe along,

Each mower sings by course, his song;

O’re yeilding furrowes, carts full press’d with corne

Groane, and are like to breake the barne.

Our worke once done, we doe not silent sit,

When knots of our good fellowes meet;

Nor is our talke prolong’d with rude delay;

In harmlesse jests we spend the day;

Jests dip’d in so much salt, which rubbing shall

Onely make fresh our cheeks, not gall.

If that rich churle, this had but seen, when hee

A Country man began to be,

The money which i’th’ Ides hee scraped in

Next month hee’d not put out agen.

L

ove takes the tooles of a rude Country clowne,

His owne Artill’ry, and his torch layes down;

With staffe in’s hand, Oxen to th’Plow he set

For tillage, and such honest labour fit;

Straight, as he turn’d up hearts with easie share,

And grace i’th’ virgin-furrowes did appeare,

’Mongst thousand others, one flower, quoth he, is mist:

That none may wanting be, come thou, O Christ.

W

hat is that Spouse of thine? that fairest Hee?

The barb’rous people said, of late, to mee.

A Pen I tooke, and in a Tablet drew

Whatsoe’re, O Christ, in thy blest orbe I view.

Roses, and Gold I paint, Gems, Groves, Corne-land,

Green Gardens, Lakes, and Stars with nimble hand;

Would you needs learne, what might my fairest bee?

Looke o’re this tablet, pray, O such was Hee.

T

hou run’st, & running cry’st, why dost thou stay

My Spouse? thou would’st be ta’ne, not get away.

T

hese Lillyes which on virgin stalks doe bend,

From whence do they their chaster leaves extend?

The Pæstan beds such flowres did ne’re bring forth,

Nor Pharian fields e’re gloried in such worth:

Alcinous purple banks, ne’re teem’d with these,

Nor rich Carystos watred by the Seas.

Since then these flow’res no native place do know,

Who can deny from her chast hand they grow.

W

ith hairs unkemb’d Repentance late did mourn,

When with so feirce a Feaver thou wert torne:

Shee’s said, to let loose raynes t’untamed griefe,

To’affoord her moyst’ned bosome, no reliefe,

But when th’desks agen, thy sicknesse tam’d,

Thou mountd’st, she’s said her careless haire t’have kemb’d

T’have bridled in her conquer’d griefe, and smile,

Of teares, her open’d bosome to beguile.

Who cannot then be glad, thou being safe?

When teares rejoyce, and griefe it selfe doth laugh.

A

las I thirst, great King, thou loude dost grone,

I have no pleasant Wine for Thee, thirst on.

Yet oh I thirst, thou cry’st: a Cup to thee

Woes mee! I’le give: but mix’d with gall’t must be.

Drink this, my Spouse: perhaps thou’lt ask to whom?

To me, O Christ, to th’health o’th’world let’t come.