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Tis true the beauteous Starre<17.1>
To which I first did bow
Burnt quicker, brighter far,
Than that which leads me now;
Which shines with more delight,
For gazing on that light
So long, neere lost my sight.

Through foul we follow faire,
For had the world one face,
And earth been bright as ayre,
We had knowne neither place.
Indians smell not their neast;
A Swisse or Finne tastes best
The spices of the East.<17.2>

So from the glorious Sunne
Who to his height hath got,
With what delight we runne
To some black cave or grot!
And, heav’nly Sydney you
Twice read, had rather view
Some odde romance so new.

The god, that constant keepes
Unto his deities,
Is poore in joyes, and sleepes
Imprison’d in the skies.
This knew the wisest, who
From Juno stole, below
To love a bear or cow.

<17.1> i.e. LUCASTA.

<17.2> The East was celebrated by all our early poets as the land of spices and rich gums:–

“For now the fragrant East,
The spicery o’ th’ world,
Hath hurl’d
A rosie tincture o’er the Phoenix nest.” OTIA SACRA, by Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland, 1648, p. 37.


Amarantha sweet and faire,
Ah brade<18.2> no more that shining haire!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it flye.

Let it flye as unconfin’d
As it’s calme ravisher, the winde,
Who hath left his darling, th’ East, To wanton o’re that<18.3> spicie neast.

Ev’ry tresse must be confest:
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.

Doe not then winde up that light
In ribands, and o’er-cloud in night, Like the sun in’s early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day.

See, ’tis broke! within this grove, The bower and the walkes of love,
Weary lye we downe and rest,
And fanne each other’s panting breast.

Heere wee’ll strippe and coole our fire, In creame below, in milk-baths<18.4> higher:
And when all wells are drawne dry, I’ll drink a teare out of thine eye.

Which our very joys shall leave,
That sorrowes thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrowes weepe,
That joyes so ripe so little keepe.

<18.1> A portion of this song is printed, with a few orthographical variations, in the AYRES AND DIALOGUES, part i. 1653; and it is also found in Cotgrave’s WITS INTERPRETER, 1655, where it is called “Amarantha counselled.” Cotgrave used the text of Lawes, and only gives that part of the production which he found in AYRES AND DIALOGUES.

<18.2> Forbear to brade–Lawes’ AYRES AND DIALOGUES, and Cotgrave.

<18.3> This–Lawes’ AYRES AND DIALOGUES. Cotgrave reads HIS.

<18.4> Milk-baths have been a favourite luxury in all ages. Peele had probably in his mind the custom of his own time and country when he wrote the following passage:–

“Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David’s bower, In water mix’d with purest almond flower, And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids.” KING DAVID AND FAIR BETHSABE, 1599.


Depose your finger of that ring,
And crowne mine with’t awhile;
Now I restor’t. Pray, dos it bring
Back with it more of soile?
Or shines it not as innocent,
As honest, as before ’twas lent?

So then inrich me with that treasure, ‘Twill but increase your store,
And please me (faire one) with that pleasure Must please you still the more.
Not to save others is a curse
The blackest, when y’are ne’re the worse.


Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske<19.2> head.

New-startled blush of FLORA!
The griefe of pale AURORA,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

Vermilion ball, that’s given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleas’d VENUS,
And jollie plumpe SILENUS;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th’ only sweetly faire.

See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.

<19.1> Dr. John Wilson was a native of Feversham in Kent, a gentleman of Charles the First’s chapel, and chamber- musician to his majesty. For an account of his works, see Burney’s HISTORY OF MUSIC, vol. iii. pp. 399-400, or Hawkins’ HISTORY OF MUSIC, iii. 57, where a portrait of Wilson, taken from the original painting, will be found. Wood, author of the FASTI and ATHENAE, says that he was in his time, “the best at the lute in all England.” Herrick, in his HESPERIDES, 1648, has these lines in reference to Henry Lawes:–

“Then if thy voice commingle with the string, I hear in thee the rare Laniere to sing, OR CURIOUS WILSON.”

<19.2> In a MS. copy of the poem contemporary with the author, now before me, this word is omitted.


The childish god of love did sweare Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver,
Yon’ weeping, kissing, smiling pair, I’le scatter all their vowes i’ th’ ayr, And their knit imbraces shiver.

Up then to th’ head with his best art Full of spite and envy blowne,
At her constant marble heart,
He drawes his swiftest surest dart, Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

Now the prince of fires burnes;
Flames in the luster of her eyes;
Triumphant she, refuses, scornes;
He submits, adores and mournes,
And is his votresse sacrifice.

Foolish boy! resolve me now
What ’tis to sigh and not be heard? He weeping kneel’d, and made a vow:
The world shall love as yon’ fast two; So on his sing’d wings up he steer’d.


Ah me! the little tyrant theefe!
As once my heart was playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.

Proud of his purchase,<20.1> he surveys
And curiously sounds it,
And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel one, still<20.2> he wounds it.

And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip, And all its<20.3> rest confoundeth.

Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;
Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine, Then straight againe he strips it.

He cover’d it with false reliefe,<20.4>
Which gloriously show’d it;
And for a morning-cushionet
On’s mother he bestow’d it.

Each day, with her small brazen stings, A thousand times she rac’d it;
But then at night, bright with her gemmes, Once neere her breast she plac’d it.

There warme it gan to throb and bleed; She knew that smart, and grieved;
At length this poore condemned heart With these rich drugges repreeved.

She washt the wound with a fresh teare, Which my LUCASTA dropped,
And in the sleave<20.5>-silke of her haire
‘Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

She proab’d it with her constancie, And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

Then prest she narde in ev’ry veine, Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balme heald all its paine, That from her hand distilled.

But yet this heart avoyds me still, Will not by me be owned;
But’s fled to its physitian’s breast; There proudly sits inthroned.

<20.1> Prize. It is not uncommonly used by the early dramatists in this sense; but the verb TO PURCHASE is more usually found than the noun.

“Yet having opportunity, he tries,
Gets her goodwill, and with his purchase flies.” Wither’s ABUSES STRIPT AND WHIPT, 1613.

<20.2> Here I have hazarded an emendation of the text. In original we read, CRUELL STILL ON. Lovelace’s poems were evidently printed without the slightest care.

<20.3> Original reads IT’S.

<20.4> Original has BELIEFE.

<<20.5>> Soft, like floss.


Heark! Oh heark! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries
Was the cruell’st murder done,
That e’re yet eclipst the sunne.
Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted, e’re you sprout to sprigges; Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire, Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but coffins and their tombes.


Here, here, oh here! EURIDICE,
Here was she slaine;
Her soule ‘still’d through a veine: The gods knew lesse
That time divinitie,
Then ev’n, ev’n these
Of brutishnesse.

Oh! could you view the melodie
Of ev’ry grace,
And musick of her face,<21.3>
You’d drop a teare,
Seeing more harmonie
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.

<21.1> By Orpheus we may perhaps understand Lovelace himself, and by Euridice, the lady whom he celebrates under the name of Lucasta. Grainger mentions (BIOG. HIST. ii. 74) a portrait of Lovelace by Gaywood, in which he is represented as Orpheus. I have not seen it. The old poets were rather fond of likening themselves to this legendary personage, or of designating themselves his poetical children:–

“We that are ORPHEUS’ sons, and can inherit By that great title”–
Davenant’s WORKS, 1673, p. 215.

Many other examples might be given. Massinger, in his CITY MADAM, 1658, makes Sir John Frugal introduce a representation of the story of the Thracian bard at an entertainment given to Luke Frugal.

<21.2> A lutenist. Wood says that after the Restoration he became gentleman or singing-man of Christ Church, Oxford. He was one of those musicians who, after the abolition of organs, &c. during the civil war, met at a private house at Oxford for the purpose of taking his part in musical entertainments.

<21.3> “Such was Zuleika; such around her shone The nameless charms unmark’d by her alone; The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face.” Byron’s BRIDE OF ABYDOS, canto 1.
(WORKS, ed. 1825, ii. 299.)


TELL me, ALEXIS, what this parting is, That so like dying is, but is not it?

It is a swounding for a while from blisse, ‘Till kind HOW DOE YOU call’s us from the fit.

If then the spirits only stray, let mine Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine: Thus in our native seate we gladly give Our right for one, where we can better live.

Lu. But ah, this ling’ring, murdring farewel! Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures the ill. Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover, Still to be dying, still for to recover.

Cho. Soldiers suspected of their courage goe, That ensignes and their breasts untorne show: Love nee’re his standard, when his hoste he sets, Creates alone fresh-bleeding bannerets.

Alex. But part we, when thy figure I retaine Still in my heart, still strongly in mine eye? Lu. Shadowes no longer than the sun remaine, But his beams, that made ’em, fly, they fly. Cho. Vaine dreames of love! that only so much blisse Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse; And deale a larger measure in our paine By showing joy, then hiding it againe.

Alex. No, whilst light raigns, LUCASTA still rules here, And all the night shines wholy in this sphere. Lu. I know no morne but my ALEXIS ray, To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.

Alex. So in each other if the pitying sun Thus keep us fixt, nere may his course be run! Lu. And oh! if night us undivided make; Let us sleepe still, and sleeping never wake!

The close.
Cruel ADIEUS may well adjourne awhile The sessions of a looke, a kisse, or smile, And leave behinde an angry grieving blush; But time nor fate can part us joyned thus.

<22.1> i.e. the poet himself.

<22.2> “John Gamble, apprentice to Ambrose Beyland, a noted musician, was afterwards musician at one of the playhouses; from thence removed to be a cornet in the King’s Chapel. After that he became one in Charles the Second’s band of violins, and composed for the theatres. He published AYRES AND DIALOGUES TO THE THEORBO AND BASS VIOL, fol. Lond., 1659.”–Hawkins.


When I by thy faire shape did sweare, And mingled with each vowe a teare,
I lov’d, I lov’d thee best,
I swore as I profest.
For all the while you lasted warme and pure, My oathes too did endure.
But once turn’d faithlesse to thy selfe and old, They then with thee incessantly<23.1> grew cold.

I swore my selfe thy sacrifice
By th’ ebon bowes<23.2> that guard thine eyes,
Which now are alter’d white,
And by the glorious light
Of both those stars, which of<23.3> their spheres bereft,
Only the gellie’s left.
Then changed thus, no more I’m bound to you, Then swearing to a saint that proves untrue.

<23.1> i.e. at once, immediately.

<23.2> Her eyebrows.

<23.3> Original reads OF WHICH.


Lucasta wept, and still the bright
Inamour’d god of day,
With his soft handkercher of light, Kist the wet pearles away.

But when her teares his heate or’ecame, In cloudes he quensht his beames,
And griev’d, wept out his eye of flame, So drowned her sad streames.

At this she smiled, when straight the sun Cleer’d by her kinde desires;
And by her eyes reflexion
Fast kindl’d there his fires.

<24.1> This stanza is not found in the printed copy of LUCASTA, 1649, but it occurs in a MS. of this poem written, with many compositions by Lovelace and other poets, in a copy of Crashaw’s POEMS, 1648, 12mo, a portion of which having been formed of the printer’s proof-sheets, some of the pages are printed only on one side, the reverse being covered with MSS. poems, among the rest with epigrams by MR. THOMAS FULLER (about fifty in number). There can be little doubt, from the character of the majority of these little poems, that by “Mr. Thomas Fuller” we may understand the church-historian.

AN EPODE.<25.1>

Long in thy shackels, liberty
I ask not from these walls, but thee; Left for awhile anothers bride,
To fancy all the world beside.

Yet e’re I doe begin to love,
See, how I all my objects prove;
Then my free soule to that confine, ‘Twere possible I might call mine.

First I would be in love with PEACE, And her rich swelling breasts increase;
But how, alas! how may that be,
Despising earth, she will love me?

Faine would I be in love with WAR,
As my deare just avenging star;
But War is lov’d so ev’rywhere,
Ev’n he disdaines a lodging here.

Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane, Faire thorough-shot RELIGION;
But he lives only that kills thee,
And who so bindes thy hands, is free.

I would love a PARLIAMENT
As a maine prop from Heav’n sent;
But ah! who’s he, that would be wedded To th’ fairest body that’s beheaded?

Next would I court my LIBERTY,
And then my birth-right, PROPERTY;
But can that be, when it is knowne, There’s nothing you can call your owne?

A REFORMATION I would have,
As for our griefes a SOV’RAIGNE salve; That is, a cleansing of each wheele
Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.

But not a reformation so,
As to reforme were to ore’throw,
Like watches by unskilfull men
Disjoynted, and set ill againe.

The PUBLICK FAITH<25.2> I would adore,
But she is banke-rupt of her store: Nor how to trust her can I see,
For she that couzens all, must me.

Since then none of these can be
Fit objects for my love and me;
What then remaines, but th’ only spring Of all our loves and joyes, the King?

He who, being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to ecclipse his right, Blinded we stand in our owne light.

And now an universall mist
Of error is spread or’e each breast, With such a fury edg’d as is
Not found in th’ inwards of th’ abysse.

Oh, from thy glorious starry waine
Dispense on me one sacred beame,
To light me where I soone may see
How to serve you, and you trust me!

<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet’s confinement in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.

<25.2> “The publick faith? why ’tis a word of kin, A nephew that dares COZEN any sin;
A term of art, great BEHOMOTH’S younger brother, Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other; Which, when subscrib’d, writes LEGION, names on truss, ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS.”
Cleaveland’s POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.


Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey, That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst; Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day, Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.<26.3>

O what a glorious transmigration
From this to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made! heere<26.4> from a winged stone
Transform’d into a bird of paradice!

Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie With th’ arch of heav’n that triumphs or’e past wet, And in a rich enamel’d pinion lye
With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.

Sometime they wing her side,<26.5> strive to drown
The day’s eyes piercing beames, whose am’rous heat Sollicites still, ’till with this shield of downe From her brave face his glowing fires are beat.

But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw, A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast, In which her fresh aspect when as she saw, And then her foe<26.6> retired to the west.

Deare engine, that oth’ sun got’st me the day, ‘Spite of his hot assaults mad’st him retreat! No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.

My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse,
And but unto our selves to all remaine Invisible, thou feature of this face!

So said, her sad swaine over-heard and cried: Yee Gods! for faith unstaind this a reward! Feathers and glasse t’outweigh my vertue tryed! Ah! show their empty strength! the gods accord.

Now fall’n the brittle favourite lyes and burst! Amas’d LUCASTA weepes, repents and flies To her ALEXIS, vowes her selfe acurst,
If hence she dresse her selfe but in his eyes.

<26.1> This adaptation of the fan to the purposes of a mirror, now so common, was, as we here are told, familiar to the ladies of Lovelace’s time. Mr. Fairholt, in his COSTUME IN ENGLAND, 1846, p. 496, describes many various forms which were given at different periods to this article of use and ornament; but the present passage in LUCASTA appears to have escaped his notice.

<26.2> Ostrich. Lyly, in his EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c 4, has ESTRIDGE. The fan here described was composed of ostrich-feathers set with precious stones.

<26.3> In allusion to the digestive powers of this bird.

<26.4> Original reads NEERE.

<26.5> The poet means that Lucasta, when she did not require her fan for immediate use, wore it suspended at her side or from her girdle.

<26.6> The sun.


Yee happy floods! that now must passe The sacred conduicts of her wombe,
Smooth and transparent as your face, When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.

Be proud! and if your waters be
Foul’d with a counterfeyted teare, Or some false sigh hath stained yee,
Haste, and be purified there.

And when her rosie gates y’have trac’d, Continue yet some Orient wet,
‘Till, turn’d into a gemme, y’are plac’d Like diamonds with rubies set.

Yee drops, that dew th’ Arabian bowers, Tell me, did you e’re smell or view
On any leafe of all your flowers
Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?

But as through th’ Organs of her breath You trickle wantonly, beware:
Ambitious Seas in their just death
As well as Lovers, must have share.

And see! you boyle as well as I;
You, that to coole her did aspire, Now troubled and neglected lye,
Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.

Yet still be happy in the thought,
That in so small a time as this,
Through all the Heavens you were brought Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.

<27.1> From this it might be conjectured, though the ground for doing so would be very slight, that LUCASTA was a native of Kent or of one of the adjoining shires; but against this supposition we have to set the circumstance that elsewhere this lady is called a “northern star.”


Ah LUCASTA, why so bright?
Spread with early streaked light!
If still vailed from our sight,
What is’t but eternall night?

Ah LUCASTA, why so chaste?
With that vigour, ripenes grac’t,
Not to be by Man imbrac’t
Makes that Royall coyne imbace’t,
And this golden Orchard waste!

Ah LUCASTA, why so great,
That thy crammed coffers sweat?
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.

Ah Lucasta, why so good?
Blest with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soule and blood; If it be not understood,
‘Tis a Diamond in mud.

LUCASTA! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not bright but to the eye, Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye,
Nor great but in this treasurie,
Nor good but in that sanctitie.

Harder then the Orient stone,
Like an apparition,
Or as a pale shadow gone,
Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.

Then receive this equall dombe:
Virgins, strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart i’th’ roome, And ’tis both her coarse and tombe.


See! what an undisturbed teare
She weepes for her last sleepe;
But, viewing her, straight wak’d a Star, She weepes that she did weepe.

Griefe ne’re before did tyranize
On th’ honour of that brow,
And at the wheeles of her brave eyes Was captive led til now.

Thus, for a saints apostacy
The unimagin’d woes
And sorrowes of the Hierarchy
None but an angel knowes.

Thus, for lost soules recovery
The clapping of all wings
And triumphs of this victory
None but an angel sings.

So none but she knows to bemone
This equal virgins fate,
None but LUCASTA can her crowne
Of glory celebrate.

Then dart on me (CHAST LIGHT)<28.2> one ray,
By which I may discry
Thy joy cleare through this cloudy day To dresse my sorrow by.

<28.1> This lady was probably the wife of a descendant of Sir William Barnes, of Woolwich, whose only daughter and heir, Anne, married the poet’s father, and brought him the seat in Kent. See GENTS. MAGAZINE for 1791, part ii. 1095.

<28.2> A translation of LUCASTA, or LUX CASTA, for the sake of the metre.


Oh, stay that covetous hand; first turn all eye, All depth and minde; then mystically spye Her soul’s faire picture, her faire soul’s, in all So truely copied from th’ originall,
That you will sweare her body by this law Is but its shadow, as this, its;–now draw.

<29.1> Pictures used formerly to have curtains before them. It is still done in some old houses. In WESTWARD HOE, 1607, act ii. scene 3, there is an allusion to this practice:–

“SIR GOSLING. So draw those curtains, and let’s see the pictures under ’em.”–Webster’s WORKS, ed. Hazlitt, i. 133.


Cold as the breath of winds that blow To silver shot descending snow,
Lucasta sigh’t;<30.1> when she did close
The world in frosty chaines!
And then a frowne to rubies frose
The blood boyl’d in our veines:
Yet cooled not the heat her sphere
Of beauties first had kindled there.

Then mov’d, and with a suddaine flame Impatient to melt all againe,
Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl’d, And earth in ashes mournes;
The sun his blaze denies the world, And in her luster burnes:
Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice Disdaine had first congeal’d to ice.

And now her teares nor griev’d desire Can quench this raging, pleasing fire;
Fate but one way allowes; behold
Her smiles’ divinity!
They fann’d this heat, and thaw’d that cold, So fram’d up a new sky.
Thus earth, from flames and ice repreev’d, E’re since hath in her sun-shine liv’d.

<30.1> Original reads SIGHT.


That frantick errour I adore,
And am confirm’d the earth turns round; Now satisfied o’re and o’re,
As rowling waves, so flowes the ground, And as her neighbour reels the shore:
Finde such a woman says she loves; She’s that fixt heav’n, which never moves.

In marble, steele, or porphyrie,
Who carves or stampes his armes or face, Lookes it by rust or storme must dye:
This womans love no time can raze, Hardned like ice in the sun’s eye,
Or your reflection in a glasse,
Which keepes possession, though you passe.

We not behold a watches hand
To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow; Must we infer that this doth stand,
And therefore, that those do not blow? This she acts calmer, like Heav’ns brand, The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart, She kils, but ere we feele the smart.

Oh, she is constant as the winde,
That revels in an ev’nings aire!
Certaine as wayes unto the blinde,
More reall then her flatt’ries are; Gentle as chaines that honour binde,
More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew, But as the divel not halfe so true.



Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,
Though so much wet and drie
Doth drowne our eye,
Thou keep’st thy winged voice from me?

Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare, Hath swallow’d me, where now
My armes do row,
I floate i’th’ ocean of a teare.

Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread Your Watry land againe.
Amyn. I’d through the raine;
Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

Conceive how joy, after this short divorce, Will circle her with beames,
When, like your streames,
You shall rowle back with kinder force,

And call the helping winds to vent your thought. Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where
Or in what sphere
Say, may that glorious fair be sought?

Amyn. She’s now the center of these armes e’re blest, Whence may she never move,
Till Time and Love
Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high As yours, and burne as hot?
Am not I shot
With the selfe same artillery?

And can I breath without her air?–Amyn. Why, then,
From thy tempestuous earth,
Where blood and dearth
Raigne ‘stead of kings, agen

Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far Arise, bring in our sight
The seas delight,
Lucasta, that bright northerne star.

Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare The green god stops his fell
Chariot of shell,
And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters’ fires are done; He as his empire’s old,
And rivers, cold;
His queen now runs abed to th’ sun;

But all his treasure he shall ope’ that day: Tritons shall sound: his fleete
In silver meete,
And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alex. We flye, Amyntor, not amaz’d how sent By water, earth, or aire:
Or if with her
By fire: ev’n there
I move in mine owne element.

<31.1> Endymion Porter?

<31.2> Lovelace himself.


From the dire monument of thy black roome, Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe, As in the inmost cell of all earths wombe.

Sacred Lucasta, like the pow’rfull ray Of heavenly truth, passe this Cimmerian way, Whilst all the standards of your beames display.

Arise and climbe our whitest, highest hill; There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill, And see seas calme<32.1> as earth, earth as your will.

Behold! how lightning like a taper flyes, And guilds your chari’t, but ashamed dyes, Seeing it selfe out-gloried by your eyes.

Threatning and boystrous tempests gently bow, And to your steps part in soft paths, when now There no where hangs a cloud, but on your brow.

No showrs but ‘twixt your lids, nor gelid snow, But what your whiter, chaster brest doth ow,<32.2>
Whilst winds in chains colder for<32.3> sorrow blow.

Shrill trumpets doe only sound to eate, Artillery hath loaden ev’ry dish with meate, And drums at ev’ry health alarmes beate.

All things Lucasta, but Lucasta, call, Trees borrow tongues, waters in accents fall, The aire doth sing, and fire is<32.4> musicall.

Awake from the dead vault in which you dwell, All’s loyall here, except your thoughts rebell Which, so let loose, often their gen’rall quell.

See! she obeys! By all obeyed thus, No storms, heats, colds, no soules contentious, Nor civill war is found; I meane, to us.

Lovers and angels, though in heav’n they show, And see the woes and discords here below, What they not feele, must not be said to know.

<32.1> Original has COLME.

<32.2> i.e. own.

<32.3> Original reads YOUR.

<32.4> Original has FIRE’S, but FIRE IS is required by the metre, and it is probably what the poet wrote.


Up with the jolly bird of light
Who sounds his third retreat to night; Faire Amarantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises red
As the carnation-mantled morne,
Who now the blushing robe doth spurne, And puts on angry gray, whilst she,
The envy of a deity,
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin’d in such a weed;
Yet lovely ’twas and strait, but fit; Not made for her, but she to it:
By nature it sate close and free,
As the just bark unto the tree:
Unlike Love’s martyrs of the towne, All day imprison’d in a gown,
Who, rackt in silke ‘stead of a dresse, Are cloathed in a frame or presse,
And with that liberty and room,
The dead expatiate in a tombe.
No cabinets with curious washes,
Bladders and perfumed plashes;
No venome-temper’d water’s here,
Mercury is banished this sphere:
Her payle’s all this, in which wet glasse She both doth cleanse and view her face. Far hence, all Iberian smells,
Hot amulets, Pomander spells,
Fragrant gales, cool ay’r, the fresh And naturall odour of her flesh,
Proclaim her sweet from th’ wombe as morne. Those colour’d things were made, not borne. Which, fixt within their narrow straits, Do looke like their own counterfeyts.
So like the Provance rose she walkt, Flowerd with blush, with verdure stalkt; Th’ officious wind her loose hayre curles, The dewe her happy linnen purles,
But wets a tresse, which instantly
Sol with a crisping beame doth dry. Into the garden is she come,
Love and delight’s Elisium;
If ever earth show’d all her store, View her discolourd budding floore;
Here her glad eye she largely feedes, And stands ‘mongst them, as they ‘mong weeds; The flowers in their best aray
As to their queen their tribute pay, And freely to her lap proscribe
A daughter out of ev’ry tribe.
Thus as she moves, they all bequeath At once the incense of their breath.
The noble Heliotropian
Now turnes to her, and knowes no sun. And as her glorious face doth vary,
So opens loyall golden Mary<33.2>
Who, if but glanced from her sight, Straight shuts again, as it were night.
The violet (else lost ith’ heap)
Doth spread fresh purple for each step, With whose humility possest,
Sh’ inthrones the Poore Girle<33.3> in her breast:
The July-flow’r<33.4> that hereto thriv’d,
Knowing her self no longer-liv’d,
But for one look of her upheaves,
Then ‘stead of teares straight sheds her leaves. Now the rich robed Tulip who,
Clad all in tissue close, doth woe
Her (sweet to th’ eye but smelling sower), She gathers to adorn her bower.
But the proud Hony-suckle spreads
Like a pavilion her heads,
Contemnes the wanting commonalty,
That but to two ends usefull be,
And to her lips thus aptly plac’t,
With smell and hue presents her tast. So all their due obedience pay,
Each thronging to be in her way:
Faire Amarantha with her eye
Thanks those that live, which else would dye: The rest, in silken fetters bound,
By crowning her are crown and crown’d.<33.5>
And now the sun doth higher rise,
Our Flora to the meadow hies:
The poore distressed heifers low,
And as sh’ approacheth gently bow,
Begging her charitable leasure
To strip them of their milkie treasure. Out of the yeomanry oth’ heard,
With grave aspect, and feet prepar’d, A rev’rend lady-cow drawes neare,
Bids Amarantha welcome here;
And from her privy purse lets fall
A pearle or two, which seeme[s] to call This adorn’d adored fayry
To the banquet of her dayry.
Soft Amarantha weeps to see
‘Mongst men such inhumanitie,
That those, who do receive in hay,
And pay in silver<33.6> twice a day,
Should by their cruell barb’rous theft Be both of that and life bereft.
But ’tis decreed, when ere this dies, That she shall fall a sacrifice
Unto the gods, since those, that trace Her stemme, show ’tis a god-like race,
Descending in an even line
From heifers and from steeres divine, Making the honour’d extract full
In Io and Europa’s bull.
She was the largest goodliest beast, That ever mead or altar blest;
Round [w]as her udder, and more white Then is the Milkie Way in night;
Her full broad eye did sparkle fire; Her breath was sweet as kind desire,
And in her beauteous crescent shone, Bright as the argent-horned moone.
But see! this whiteness is obscure, Cynthia spotted, she impure;
Her body writheld,<33.7> and her eyes
Departing lights at obsequies:
Her lowing hot to the fresh gale,
Her breath perfumes the field withall; To those two suns that ever shine,
To those plump parts she doth inshrine, To th’ hovering snow of either hand,
That love and cruelty command.
After the breakfast on her teat,
She takes her leave oth’ mournfull neat Who, by her toucht, now prizeth her<33.8> life,
Worthy alone the hollowed knife.
Into the neighbring wood she’s gone, Whose roofe defies the tell-tale Sunne,
And locks out ev’ry prying beame;
Close by the lips of a cleare streame, She sits and entertaines her eye
With the moist chrystall and the frye<33.9>
With burnisht-silver mal’d, whose oares<33.10>
Amazed still make to the shoares;
What need she other bait or charm,
What hook<33.11> or angle, but her arm?
The happy captive, gladly ta’n,
Sues ever to be slave in vaine,
Who instantly (confirm’d in’s feares) Hasts to his element of teares.
From hence her various windings roave To a well-orderd stately grove;
This is the pallace of the wood
And court oth’ Royall Oake, where stood The whole nobility: the Pine,
Strait Ash, tall Firre, and wanton Vine; The proper Cedar, and the rest.
Here she her deeper senses blest;
Admires great Nature in this pile,
Floor’d with greene-velvet Camomile, Garnisht with gems of unset fruit,
Supply’d still with a self recruit; Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes
Of never-planted Strawberries;
Where th’ winged musick of the ayre Do richly feast, and for their fare,
Each evening in a silent shade,
Bestow a gratefull serenade.
Thus ev’n tyerd with delight,
Sated in soul and appetite;
Full of the purple Plumme and Peare, The golden Apple, with the faire
Grape that mirth fain would have taught her, And nuts, which squirrells cracking brought her; She softly layes her weary limbs,
Whilst gentle slumber now beginnes
To draw the curtaines of her eye;
When straight awakend with a crie
And bitter groan, again reposes,
Again a deep sigh interposes.
And now she heares a trembling voyce: Ah! can there ought on earth rejoyce!
Why weares she this gay livery,
Not black as her dark entrails be?
Can trees be green, and to the ay’r Thus prostitute their flowing hayr?
Why do they sprout, not witherd dy? Must each thing live, save wretched I?
Can dayes triumph in blew and red,
When both their light and life is fled? Fly Joy on wings of Popinjayes
To courts of fools, where<33.12> as your playes
Dye laught at and forgot; whilst all That’s good mourns at this funerall.
Weep, all ye Graces, and you sweet
Quire, that at the hill inspir’d meet: Love, put thy tapers out, that we
And th’ world may seem as blind as thee; And be, since she is lost (ah wound!)
Not Heav’n it self by any found.
Now as a prisoner new cast,<33.13>
Who sleepes in chaines that night, his last, Next morn is wak’t with a repreeve,
And from his trance, not dream bid live, Wonders (his sence not having scope)
Who speaks, his friend or his false hope. So Amarantha heard, but feare
Dares not yet trust her tempting care; And as againe her arms oth’ ground
Spread pillows for her head, a sound More dismall makes a swift divorce,
And starts her thus:—-Rage, rapine, force! Ye blew-flam’d daughters oth’ abysse,
Bring all your snakes, here let them hisse; Let not a leaf its freshnesse keep;
Blast all their roots, and as you creepe, And leave behind your deadly slime,
Poyson the budding branch in’s prime: Wast the proud bowers of this grove,
That fiends may dwell in it, and move As in their proper hell, whilst she
Above laments this tragedy:
Yet pities not our fate; oh faire
Vow-breaker, now betroth’d to th’ ay’r! Why by those lawes did we not die,
As live but one, Lucasta! why—-
As he Lucasta nam’d, a groan
Strangles the fainting passing tone; But as she heard, Lucasta smiles,
Posses<33.14> her round; she’s slipt mean whiles Behind the blind of a thick bush,
When, each word temp’ring with a blush, She gently thus bespake; Sad swaine,
If mates in woe do ease our pain,
Here’s one full of that antick grief, Which stifled would for ever live,
But told, expires; pray then, reveale (To show our wound is half to heale),
What mortall nymph or deity
Bewail you thus? Who ere you be,
The shepheard sigh’t,<33.15> my woes I crave
Smotherd in me, me<33.16> in my grave;
Yet be in show or truth a saint,
Or fiend, breath anthemes, heare my plaint, For her and thy breath’s symphony,
Which now makes full the harmony
Above, and to whose voice the spheres Listen, and call her musick theirs;
This was I blest on earth with, so
As Druids amorous did grow,
Jealous of both: for as one day
This star, as yet but set in clay,
By an imbracing river lay,
They steept her in the hollowed brooke, Which from her humane nature tooke,
And straight to heaven with winged feare,<33.17>
Thus, ravisht with her, ravish her. The nymph reply’d: This holy rape
Became the gods, whose obscure shape They cloth’d with light, whilst ill you grieve Your better life should ever live,
And weep that she, to whom you wish What heav’n could give, has all its blisse. Calling her angell here, yet be
Sad at this true divinity:
She’s for the altar, not the skies, Whom first you crowne, then sacrifice.
Fond man thus to a precipice
Aspires, till at the top his eyes
Have lost the safety of the plain,
Then begs of Fate the vales againe. The now confounded shepheard cries:
Ye all-confounding destines!
How did you make that voice so sweet Without that glorious form to it?
Thou sacred spirit of my deare,
Where e’re thou hoverst o’re us, hear! Imbark thee in the lawrell tree,
And a new Phebus follows thee,
Who, ‘stead of all his burning rayes, Will strive to catch thee with his layes; Or, if within the Orient Vine,
Thou art both deity and wine;
But if thou takest the mirtle grove, That Paphos is, thou, Queene of Love,
And I, thy swain who (else) must die, By no beasts, but thy cruelty:
But you are rougher than the winde. Are souls on earth then heav’n<33.18> more kind?
Imprisoned in mortality
Lucasta would have answered me.
Lucasta, Amarantha said,
Is she that virgin-star? a maid,
Except her prouder livery,
In beauty poore, and cheap as I;
Whose glory like a meteor shone,
Or aery apparition,
Admir’d a while, but slighted known. Fierce, as the chafed lyon hies,
He rowses him, and to her flies,
Thinking to answer with his speare—- Now, as in warre intestine where,
Ith’ mist of a black battell, each
Layes at his next, then makes a breach Through th’ entrayles of another, whom
He sees nor knows whence he did come, Guided alone by rage and th’ drumme,
But stripping and impatient wild,
He finds too soon his onely child.
So our expiring desp’rate lover
Far’d when, amaz’d, he did discover Lucasta in this nymph; his sinne
Darts the accursed javelin
‘Gainst his own breast, which she puts by With a soft lip and gentle eye,
Then closes with him on the ground
And now her smiles have heal’d his wound. Alexis too again is found;
But not untill those heavy crimes
She hath kis’d off a thousand times, Who not contented with this pain,
Doth threaten to offend again.
And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep, Whilst each cheek doth the other’s steep, Whilst tongues, as exorcis’d, are calm;
Onely the rhet’rick of the palm
Prevailing pleads, untill at last
They[re] chain’d in one another fast. Lucasta to him doth relate
Her various chance and diffring fate: How chac’d by Hydraphil, and tract
The num’rous foe to Philanact,
Who whilst they for the same things fight, As Bards decrees and Druids rite,
For safeguard of their proper joyes And shepheards freedome, each destroyes
The glory of this Sicilie;
Since seeking thus the remedie,
They fancy (building on false ground) The means must them and it confound,
Yet are resolved to stand or fall,
And win a little, or lose all.
From this sad storm of fire and blood She fled to this yet living wood;
Where she ‘mongst savage beasts doth find Her self more safe then humane<33.19> kind.
Then she relates, how Caelia–<33.20>
The lady–here strippes her array,
And girdles her in home-spunne bayes Then makes her conversant in layes
Of birds, and swaines more innocent, That kenne not guile [n]or courtship ment. Now walks she to her bow’r to dine
Under a shade of Eglantine,
Upon a dish of Natures cheere
Which both grew, drest and serv’d up there: That done, she feasts her smell with po’ses Pluckt from the damask cloath of Roses.
Which there continually doth stay,
And onely frost can take away;
Then wagers which hath most content Her eye, eare, hand, her gust or sent.
Intranc’t Alexis sees and heares,
As walking above all the spheres:
Knows and adores this, and is wilde,<33.21>
Untill with her he live thus milde.<33.22>
So that, which to his thoughts he meant For losse of her a punishment,
His armes hung up and his sword broke, His ensignes folded, he betook
Himself unto the humble crook.
And for a full reward of all,
She now doth him her shepheard call, And in a see of flow’rs install:
Then gives her faith immediately,
Which he returns religiously;
Both vowing in her peacefull cave
To make their bridall-bed and grave. But the true joy this pair conceiv’d,
Each from the other first bereav’d, And then found, after such alarmes,
Fast-pinion’d in each other’s armes, Ye panting virgins, that do meet
Your loves within their winding sheet, Breathing and constant still ev’n there; Or souls their bodies in yon’ sphere,
Or angels, men return’d from hell
And separated mindes–can tell.

<33.1> The punctuation of this piece is in the original edition singularly corrupt. I have found it necessary to amend it throughout.

<33.2> The marigold.

<33.3> A flower so called.

<33.4> More commonly known as THE GILLIFLOWER.

<33.5> i.e. the lady gathers the flowers, and binds them in her hair with a silken fillet, making of them a kind of chaplet or crown.

<33.6> i.e. silvery or white milk.

<33.7> An uncommon word, signifying WRINKLED. Bishop Hall seems to be, with the exception of Lovelace, almost the only writer who used it. Compare, however, the following passage:–

“Like to a WRITHEL’D Carion I have seen (Instead of fifty, write her down fifteen) Wearing her bought complexion in a box, And ev’ry morn her closet-face unlocks.” PLANTAGENET’S TRAGICALL STORY, by T. W. 1649, p. 105.

<33.8> Original has PRIZE THEIR.

<33.9> The fish with their silvery scales.

<33.10> Fins.

<33.11> Original reads BUT LOOK.

<33.12> Original has THERE.

<33.13> i.e. condemned.

<33.14> This word does not appear to have any very exact meaning. See Halliwell’s DICTIONARY OF ARCHAIC WORDS, art. POSSE, and Worcester’s Dict. IBID, &c. The context here requires TO TURN SHARPLY OR QUICKLY.

<33.15> Original has SIGHT.

<33.16> Original reads I. The meaning seems to be, “I crave that my woes may be smothered in me, and I may be smothered in my grave.”

<33.17> Reverence.

<33.18> i.e. in heaven.

<33.19> i.e. than among human kind.

<33.20> It may be presumed that LUCASTA had adopted the name of CAELIA during her sylvan retreat.

<33.21> Impatient.

<33.22> Tranquil or secluded.


If in me anger, or disdaine
In you, or both, made me refraine
From th’ noble intercourse of verse, That only vertuous thoughts rehearse;
Then, chaste Ellinda, might you feare The sacred vowes that I did sweare.

But if alone some pious thought
Me to an inward sadnesse brought,
Thinking to breath your soule too welle, My tongue was charmed with that spell;
And left it (since there was no roome To voyce your worth enough) strooke dumbe.

So then this silence doth reveal
No thought of negligence, but zeal: For, as in adoration,
This is love’s true devotion;
Children and fools the words repeat, But anch’rites pray in tears and sweat.


Thou snowy farme with thy five tenements!<34.1>
Tell thy white mistris here was one, That call’d to pay his dayly rents;
But she a-gathering flowr’s and hearts is gone, And thou left voyd to rude possession.

But grieve not, pretty Ermin cabinet, Thy alabaster lady will come home;
If not, what tenant can there fit The slender turnings of thy narrow roome, But must ejected be by his owne dombe?<34.2>

Then give me leave to leave my rent with thee: Five kisses, one unto a place:
For though the lute’s too high for me, Yet servants, knowing minikin<34.3> nor base,
Are still allow’d to fiddle with the case.

<34.1> i.e. the white glove of the lady with its five fingers.

<34.2> Doom.

<34.3> A description of musical pin attached to a lute. It was only brought into play by accomplished musicians. In the address of “The Country Suiter to his Love,” printed in Cotgrave’s WITS INTERPRETER, 1662, p. 119, the man says:–

“Fair Wench! I cannot court thy sprightly eyes With a base-viol plac’d betwixt my thighs, I cannot lisp, nor to a fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high-strecht minikin.”

In Middleton’s FAMILIE OF LOVE, 1608 (Works by Dyce, ii. 127) there is the following passage:–

“GUDGEON. Ay, and to all that forswear marriage, and can be content with other men’s wives. GERARDINE. Of which consort you two are grounds; one touches the bass, and the other tickles the minikin.”


For cherries plenty, and for corans
Enough for fifty, were there more on’s; For elles of beere,<35.1> flutes<35.2> of canary,
That well did wash downe pasties-Mary;<35.3>
For peason, chickens, sawces high,
Pig, and the widdow-venson-pye;<35.4>
With certaine promise (to your brother) Of the virginity of another,
Where it is thought I too may peepe in With knuckles far as any deepe in;<35.5>
For glasses, heads, hands, bellies full Of wine, and loyne right-worshipfull;<35.6>
Whether all of, or more behind–a
Thankes freest, freshest, faire Ellinda. Thankes for my visit not disdaining,
Or at the least thankes for your feigning; For if your mercy doore were lockt-well, I should be justly soundly knockt-well;
Cause that in dogrell I did mutter
Not one rhime to you from dam-Rotter.<35.7>

Next beg I to present my duty
To pregnant sister in prime beauty, Whom well I deeme (e’re few months elder) Will take out Hans from pretty Kelder,
And to the sweetly fayre Mabella,
A match that vies with Arabella;
In each respect but the misfortune, Fortune, Fate, I thee importune.

Nor must I passe the lovely Alice,
Whose health I’d quaffe in golden chalice; But since that Fate hath made me neuter, I only can in beaker pewter:
But who’d forget, or yet left un-sung The doughty acts of George the yong-son? Who yesterday to save his sister
Had slaine the snake, had he not mist her: But I shall leave him, ’till a nag on
He gets to prosecute the dragon;
And then with helpe of sun and taper, Fill with his deeds twelve reames of paper, That Amadis,<35.8> Sir Guy, and Topaz
With his fleet neigher shall keep no-pace. But now to close all I must switch-hard, [Your] servant ever;

<35.1> This expression has reference to the old practice of drinking beer and wine out of very high glasses, with divisions marked on them. A yard of ale is even now a well understood term: nor is the custom itself out of date, since in some parts of the country one is asked to take, not a glass, but A YARD. The ell was of course, strictly speaking, a larger measure than a yard; but it was often employed as a mere synonyme or equivalent. Thus, in MAROCCUS EXTATICUS, 1595, Bankes says:– “Measure, Marocco, nay, nay, they that take up commodities make no difference for measure between a Flemish elle and an English yard.”

<35.2> In the new edition of Nares (1859), this very passage is quoted to illustrate the meaning of the word, which is defined rather vaguely to be A CASK. Obviously the word signifies something of the kind, but the explanation does not at all satisfy me. I suspect that a flute OF CANARY was so called from the cask having several vent-holes, in the same way that the French call a lamprey FLEUTE D’ALEMAN from the fish having little holes in the upper part of its body.

<35.3> Forsyth, in his ANTIQUARY’S PORTFOLIO, 1825, mentions certain “glutton-feasts,” which used formerly to be celebrated periodically in honour of the Virgin; perhaps the pasties used on these occasions were thence christened PASTIES-MARY.

<35.4> Venison pies or pasties were the most favourite dish in this country in former times; innumerable illustrations might be furnished of the high esteem in which this description of viand was held by our ancestors, who regarded it as a thoroughly English luxury. The anonymous author of HORAE SUBSECIVAE, 1620, p. 38 (this volume is supposed to have been written by Giles Brydges, Lord Chandos), describes an affected Englishman who has been travelling on the Continent, as “sweating at the sight of a pasty of venison,” and as “swearing that the only delicacies be mushrooms, or CAVIARE, or snayles.”

“The full-cram’d dishes made the table crack, Gammons of bacon, brawn, and what was chief, King in all feasts, a tall Sir Loyne of BEEF, Fat venison pasties smoaking, ’tis no fable, Swans in their broath came swimming to the table.”– Poems of Ben Johnson Junior, by W. S. 1672, p. 3.

<35.5> An allusion to the scantiness of forks. “And when your justice of peace is knuckle-deep in goose, you may without disparagement to your blood, though you have a lady to your mother, fall very manfully to your woodcocks.”– Decker’s GULS HORN BOOK, 1609, ed. Nott, p. 121.

“Hodge. Forks! what be they?
Mar. The laudable use of forks,
Brought into custom here, as they are in Italy, To the sparing of napkins–“
Jonson’s THE DEVIL IS AN ASS, act. v. scene 4.

“Lovell. Your hand, good sir.
Greedy. This is a lord, and some think this a favour; But I had rather have my hand in my dumpling.” Massinger’s NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS, 1633.

<35.6> The sirloin of beef.

<35.7> Rotterdam.

<35.8> AMADIS DE GAULE. The translation of this romance by Anthony Munday and two or three others, whose assistance he obtained, made it popular in England, although, perhaps with the exception of the portion executed by Munday himself, the performance is beneath criticism.


How I grieve that I am well!
All my health was in my sicknes,
Go then, Destiny, and tell,
Very death is in this quicknes.

Such a fate rules over me,
That I glory when I languish,
And do blesse the remedy,
That doth feed, not quench my anguish.

‘Twas a gentle warmth that ceas’d
In the vizard of a feavor;
But I feare now I am eas’d
All the flames, since I must leave her.

Joyes, though witherd, circled me,
When unto her voice inured
Like those who, by harmony,
Only can be throughly cured.

Sweet, sure, was that malady,
Whilst the pleasant angel hover’d, Which ceasing they are all, as I,
Angry that they are recover’d.

And as men in hospitals,
That are maim’d, are lodg’d and dined; But when once their danger fals,
Ah th’ are healed to be pined!

Fainting so, I might before
Sometime have the leave to hand her, But lusty, am beat out of dore,
And for Love compell’d to wander.


Chloe, behold! againe I bowe:
Againe possest, againe I woe;
From my heat hath taken fire
Damas, noble youth, and fries,<36.1>
Gazing with one of mine eyes,
Damas, halfe of me expires:
Chloe, behold! Our fate’s the same. Or make me cinders too, or quench his flame

I’d not be King, unlesse there sate Lesse lords that shar’d with me in state Who, by their cheaper coronets, know,
What glories from my diadem flow:
Its use and rate<36.2> values the gem:
Pearles in their shells have no esteem; And, I being sun within thy sphere,
‘Tis my chiefe beauty thinner lights shine there.

The Us’rer heaps unto his store
By seeing others praise it more;
Who not for gaine or want doth covet, But, ’cause another loves, doth love it: Thus gluttons cloy’d afresh invite
Their gusts from some new appetite; And after cloth remov’d, and meate,
Fall too againe by seeing others eate.

<36.1> This is not unfrequently used in old writers in the sense of BURN:–

“But Lucilla, who now began to frie in the flames of love, all the company being departed,” &c.–Lyly’s EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c v. verso.

“My lady-mistresse cast an amourous eye Upon my forme, which her affections drew, Shee was Love’s martyr, and in flames did frye.” EGYPT’S FAVORITE. THE HISTORIE OF JOSEPH. By Sir F. Hubert, 1631, sig. C.

<36.2> The estimation in which it is held, its marketable worth.


See! with what constant motion
Even and glorious, as the sunne,
Gratiana steeres that noble frame, Soft as her breast, sweet as her voyce,
That gave each winding law and poyze, And swifter then the wings of Fame.

She beat the happy pavement
By such a starre-made firmament,
Which now no more the roofe envies; But swells up high with Atlas ev’n,
Bearing the brighter, nobler Heav’n, And in her, all the Dieties.

Each step trod out a lovers thought And the ambitious hopes he brought,
Chain’d to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe,
As when she ceas’d, we sighing saw
The floore lay pav’d with broken hearts.

So did she move: so did she sing:
Like the harmonious spheres that bring Unto their rounds their musick’s ayd;
Which she performed such a way,
As all th’ inamour’d world will say: The Graces daunced, and Apollo play’d.


It was<37.3> Amyntor’s Grove, that Chloris
For ever ecchoes, and her glories;
Chloris, the gentlest sheapherdesse, That ever lawnes and lambes did blesse;
Her breath, like to the whispering winde, Was calme as thought, sweet as her minde; Her lips like coral gates kept in
The perfume and<37.4> the pearle within;
Her eyes a double-flaming torch
That alwayes shine, and never scorch; Her<37.5> selfe the Heav’n in which did meet The all of bright, of faire and sweet.
Here was I brought with that delight That seperated soules take flight;
And when my reason call’d my sence
Back somewhat from this excellence, That I could see, I did begin
T’ observe the curious ordering
Of every roome, where ‘ts hard to know, Which most excels in sent or show.
Arabian gummes do breathe here forth, And th’ East’s come over to the North;
The windes have brought their hyre<37.6> of sweet
To see Amyntor Chloris greet;
Balme and nard, and each perfume,
To blesse this payre,<37.7> chafe and consume;
And th’ Phoenix, see! already fries! Her neast a fire in Chloris<37.8> eyes!
Next<37.9> the great and powerful hand
Beckens my thoughts unto a stand
Of Titian, Raphael, Georgone
Whose art even Nature hath out-done; For if weake Nature only can
Intend, not perfect, what is man,
These certainely we must prefer,
Who mended what she wrought, and her; And sure the shadowes of those rare
And kind incomparable fayre
Are livelier, nobler company,
Then if they could or speake, or see: For these<37.10> I aske without a tush,
Can kisse or touch without a blush, And we are taught that substance is,
If uninjoy’d, but th’<37.11> shade of blisse.
Now every saint cleerly divine,
Is clos’d so in her severall shrine; The gems so rarely, richly set,
For them wee love the cabinet;
So intricately plac’t withall,
As if th’ imbrordered the wall,
So that the pictures seem’d to be
But one continued tapistrie.<37.12>
After this travell of mine eyes
We sate, and pitied Dieties;
Wee bound our loose hayre with the vine, The poppy, and the eglantine;
One swell’d an oriental bowle
Full, as a grateful, loyal soule
To Chloris! Chloris! Heare, oh, heare! ‘Tis pledg’d above in ev’ry sphere.
Now streight the Indians richest prize Is kindled in<37.13> glad sacrifice;
Cloudes are sent up on wings of thyme, Amber, pomgranates, jessemine,
And through our earthen conduicts sore Higher then altars fum’d before.
So drencht we our oppressing cares, And choakt the wide jawes of our feares. Whilst ravisht thus we did devise,
If this were not a Paradice
In all, except these harmlesse sins: Behold! flew in two cherubins,
Cleare as the skye from whence they came, And brighter than the sacred flame;
The boy adorn’d with modesty,
Yet armed so with majesty,
That if the Thunderer againe
His eagle sends, she stoops in vaine.<37.14>
Besides his innocence he tooke
A sword and casket, and did looke
Like Love in armes; he wrote but five, Yet spake eighteene; each grace did strive, And twenty Cupids thronged forth,
Who first should shew his prettier worth. But oh, the Nymph! Did you ere know
Carnation mingled with snow?<37.15>
Or have you seene the lightning shrowd, And straight breake through th’ opposing cloud? So ran her blood; such was its hue;
So through her vayle her bright haire flew, And yet its glory did appeare
But thinne, because her eyes were neere. Blooming boy, and blossoming mayd,
May your faire sprigges be neere betray’d To<37.16> eating worme or fouler storme;
No serpent lurke to do them harme;
No sharpe frost cut, no North-winde teare, The verdure of that fragrant hayre;
But<37.17> may the sun and gentle weather,
When you are both growne ripe together, Load you with fruit, such as your Father From you with all the joyes doth gather: And may you, when one branch is dead,