« PreviousContinue »
Where is this love become in later age?
Alas ! 'tis gone in endless pilgrimage
From hence, and never to return, I doubt,
Till revolution wheel those times about;
Chill breasts have starv'd her here, and she is driven
Away; and with Astræa fled to heaven.
Poor Charity, that naked babe, is gone,
Her honey's spent, and all her store is done;
Her wingless bees can find out ne'er a bloom,
And crooked Até dotla usurp
Nepenthe's dry, and Love can get no drink,
And cursed Arden flows above the brink.
A Feast for Wormes, by F. Quarles,"e
the flower of the soul,
How is thy perfect fairness turn'd to foul !
How are thy blossoms blasted all to dust,
By sudden lightning of untamed lust!
How hast thou thus defil'd thy iv'ry feet!
Thy sweetness that was once, how far from sweet!
Where are thy maiden smiles, thy blushing cheek?
Thy lamb-like countenance, so fair, so meek?
Where is that spotless flower that while-ere
Within thy lily-bosom thou didst wear?
Has wanton Cupid snatch'd it, hath bis dart
Sent courtly tokens to thy simple heart ?
Where dost thou bide? the country half disclaims thee,
The city wonders when a body names thee:
Or have the rural woods engross'd thee there,
And thus forestall’d our empty markets here?
Sure thou art not, or kept where no man shows thee,
Or chang'd so much, scarce man or woman knows thee.
Hist. of Queen Ester, by F. Quarles.
What I shall leave thee none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well:
I wish thee Vin before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;
Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct, and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table, or at fire.
I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes, and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee, not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.
Bp. Corbet's Poems.
My once dear love, hapless that I no more
Must call thee so; the rich affection's store
That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.
We that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,
ust learn the hateful art how to forget*.
We that did nothing wish that heav'n could give
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must
As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.
Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
Witness the chaste desires that never break
Into unruly hearts; witness that breast
Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest,
* Must learn the haleful art how to forget.] Thus Pope:
of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget. Eloisa to Abelard.
Tis no default in us, I dare acquit
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
cross planets did
Us to each other, and heaven did untie
Faster than vows could bind. O that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand oppos'd in wars!
Since then some higher destinies command,
Let us not strive nor labour to withstand
What is past help; the longest date of grief
Can never yield a hope of our relief;
And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,
us, but not our discontents,
Fold back our arms, take home our fruitless loves
That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves
Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears
Unwind a love knit
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself, so thou again art free.
Thou in another, sad as that, resend
The truest heart that lover ere did lend.
Now turn from each, so fare our sever'd hearts
As the divorc'd soul from her body parts.
Dr. King's Poems, p. 24.
My dearest love! when thou and I must part, And th' icy hand of Death shall seize that heart Which is all thine; within some spacious will I'll leave no blanks for legacies to fill: "Tis my
ambition to die one of those Who but himself hath nothing to dispose. And since that is already thine, what need I to regive it by some newer deed? Yet take it once again, free circumstance Does oft the value of mean things advance: Who thus repeats what he bequeath'd before, Proclaims his bounty richer than his store. But let me not upon my love bestow What is not worth the giving. I do owe Somewhat to dust: my body's pamper'd care Hungry corruption and the worm will share. That mould'ring relic which in earth must lie Would prove a gift of horror to thine eye. With this cast rag of my mortality Let all
faults and errors buried be. And as my cere-cloth rots, so may kind fate Those worst acts of my life incinerate. He shall in story fill a glorious room Whose ashes and whose sins sleep in one tomb. If now to my cold hearse thou deign to bring Some melting sighs as thy last offering, My peaceful exequies are crown'd, nor shall I ask more honour at my funeral. Thou wilt more richly 'balm me with thy tears Than all the 'nard fragrant Arabia bears,