PHYLLIS, 'twas Love that injur'd you,
And on that rock your Thyrsis threw ;
Who for proud Cælia could have dy'd,
While you no less accus'd his pride.
Fond Love his darts at random throws,
And nothing springs from what he sows:
From foes discharg'd, as often meet
The shining points of arrows fleet,
In the wide air creating fire;
As souls that join in one desire.
Love made the lovely Venus burn In vain, and for the cold youth 9 mourn, Who the pursuit of churlish beasts Preferr'd, to sleeping on her breasts.
Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conquering eyes; Which she regards no more, than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh. So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the sea an useless shower; And the vex'd sailors curse the rain, For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain. Then, Phyllis, since our passions are Govern'd by chance; and not the care, But sport of Heaven, which takes delight To look upon this Parthian fight Of Love, still flying, or in chase, Never encountering face to face; No more to Love we'll sacrifice, But to the best of deities:
And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd, By his kind mother be combin'd.
LORD OF NORTHUMBERLAND,
UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.
To this great loss a sea of tears is due:
But the whole debt not to be paid by you,
Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain
Those showers, the eyes of us your servants rain.
Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart,
In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part? [dries,
Virtue would blush, if time should boast (which
Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes)
Your mind's relief; where reason triumphs so
Over all passions, that they ne'er could grow
Beyond their limits in your noble breast,
To harm another, or impeach your rest.
This we observ'd, delighting to obey
One, who did never from his great self stray:
Whose mild example seemed to engage
Th' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.
The brave Æmilius, his great charge laid down,
(The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon)
In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke
Of changing fortune; and thus highly spoke
Before Rome's people: "We did oft implore,
That if the heavens had any bad in store
For your Æmilius, they would pour that ill
On his own house, and let you flourish still."
You on the barren seas, my lord, have spent
Whole springs, and summers to the public lent:
Suspended all the pleasures of your life,
And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife:
For which your country's more obliged, than
For many lives of old, less happy, men.
You, that have sacrific'd so great a part
Of youth, and private bliss, ought to impart
Your sorrow too; and give your friends a right
As well in your affliction, as delight.
Then with Æmilian courage bear this cross,
Since public persons only public loss
Ought to affect. And though her form, and youth,
Her application to your will, and truth;
That noble sweetness, and that humble state,
(All snatch'd away by such a hasty fate!)
Might give excuse to any common breast,
With the huge weight of so just grief opprest:
Yet, let no portion of your life be stain'd
With passion, but your character maintain'd
To the last act; it is enough her stone
May honour'd be with superscription
Of the sole lady, who had power to move
The great Northumberland to grieve and love.
OF HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.
WITH joy like ours, the Thracian youth invades
Orpheus, returning from th' Elysian shades;
Embrace the hero, and his stay implore;
Make it their public suit, he would no more
Desert them so; and for his spouse's sake,
His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake:
The ladies too, the brightest of that time,
(Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb)
Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed,
Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed:
Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan
Makes listening trees and savage mountains groan:
Through all the air his sounding strings dilate
Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late.
Your pining sickness, and your restless pain,
At once the land affecting, and the main:
When the glad news, that you were admiral,
Scarce through the nation spread,'twas fear'd by all,
That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you,
Would be perplexed how to choose a new.
So more than private was the joy, and grief,
That at the worst it gave our souls relief,
That in our age such sense of virtue liv'd;
They joy'd so justly, and so justly griev'd.
Nature (her fairest lights eclipsed) seems
Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes :
While not from thine alone thy blood retires,
But from those cheeks which all the world admires.
The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee,
Droop all the branches of that noble tree!
Their beauty they, and we our love, suspend,
Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend.
As lilies overcharg'd with rain, they bend
Their beauteous heads, and with high heaven con-
Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry, [tend;
He is too faultless, and too young, to die.
So like immortals round about thee they
Sit, that they fright approaching Death away.
Who would not languish, by so fair a train
To be lamented, and restor'd again?
Or, thus withheld, what hasty soul would go,
Though to the blest? O'er her Adonis so
Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious shower
Of her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.
The next support, fair hope of your great name,
And second pillar of that noble frame,
By loss of thee would no advantage have,
But step by step pursue thee to the grave.
And now, relentless Fate about to end
The line, which backwards does so far extend
That antique stock, which still the world supplies
With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes;
Kind Phoebus interposing, bid me say, [they,
Such storms no more shall shake that house; but
Like Neptune, and his sea-born niece 1, shall be
The shining glories of the land and sea :
With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age;
And lovers fill with like poetic rage.
STAY, Phœbus, stay!
The world, to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day
From us to them, can pay your haste
With no such object, nor salute your rise
With no such wonder, as De Mornay's eyes.
Well does this prove
The errour of those antique books,
Which made you move
About the world: her charming looks
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.
LADY DOROTHY SIDNEY'S PICTURE.
SUCH was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame;
The matchless Sidney 3, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars plac'd:
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love; but with as doubtful fate,
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.
All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends 4 had jarr'd;
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught:
This glorious piece transcends what he could think;
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!
TO VAN DYCK.
RARE artisan, whose pencil moves
Not our delights alone, but loves!
From thy shop of beauty we
Slaves return, that enter'd free.
The heedless lover does not know
Whose eyes they are, that wound him so:
But, confounded with thy art,
Inquires her name, that has his heart.
Another, who did long refrain,
Feels his old wound bleed fresh again,
With dear remembrance of that face,
Where now he reads new hope of grace:
Nor scorn nor cruelty does find:
But gladly suffers a false wind
To blow the ashes of despair
From the reviving brand of care.
Fool! that forgets her stubborn look
This softness from thy finger took.
Strange! that thy hand should not inspire
The beauty only, but the fire:
Not the form alone, and grace,
But act, and power, of a face.
May'st thou yet thyself as well,
As all the world besides, excel !
So you th' unfeigned truth rehearse,
(That I may make it live in verse)
Why thou couldst not, at one assay,
That face to after-times convey,
Which this admires. Was it thy wit,
To make her oft before thee sit?
Confess, and we'll forgive thee this:
For who would not repeat that bliss?
And frequent sight of such a dame
Buy, with the hazard of his fame?
Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,
Though thy good hand had failed still;
When Nature's self so often errs?
She, for this many thousand years,
Seems to have practis'd with much care,
To frame the race of women fair;
Yet never could a perfect birth
Produce before, to grace the earth:
Which waxed old, ere it could see
Her, that amaz'd thy art, and thee.
But now 'tis done, O let me know
Where those immortal colours grow,
That could this deathless piece compose?
In lilies? or the fading rose?
No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher,
Than did Prometheus for his fire.
AT PENS-HURST.
HAD Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her power, that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have:
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place:
And beauty too, and order can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre:
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
3 Sir Philip Sidney. Pyrocles and Musidorus. Into fair figures, from a confus'd heap:
TO MY LORD OF And in the symmetry of her parts is found A power, like that of harmony in sound.
Ye lofty beeches, tell this matchless dame, That if together ye fed all one flame, It could not equalize the hundredth part Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart! Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark Of noble Sidney's birth; when such benign, Such more than mortal making stars did shine; That there they cannot but for ever prove The monument and pledge of humble love: His humble love, whose hope shall ne'er rise higher, Than for a pardon that he dares admire.
MY LORD OF LEICESTER.
Nor that thy trees at Pens-Hurst groan,
Oppressed with their timely load,
And seem to make their silent moan,
That their great lord is now abroad:
They, to delight his taste, or eye,
Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.
Not that thy harmless deer repine,
And think themselves unjustly slain
By any other hand than thine,
Whose arrows they would gladly stain: No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear That peace with France, which keeps thee there. All these are less than that great cause, Which now exacts your presence here; Wherein there meet the divers laws
Of public and domestic care.
For one bright nymph our youth contends,
And on your prudent choice depends.
Not the bright shield of Thetis' son 5,
(For which such stern debate did rise,
That the great Ajax Telamon
Refus'd to live without the prize)
Those achive peers did more engage,
Than she the gallants of our age.
That beam of beauty, which begun
To warm us so, when thou wert here,
Now scorches like the raging sun,
When Sirius does first appear.
O fix this flame; and let despair
Redeem the rest from endless care!
WHO CAN SLEEP WHEN SHE PLEASES.
No wonder sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Sacharissa's eyes.
As fair Astræa once from earth to heaven,
By strife and loud impiety was driven:
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs;
Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake,
To court the nymph, for whom those wretches wake.
More proud than Phœbus of his throne of gold
Is the soft god, those softer limbs to hold:
Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies
In dark'ning clouds, the power to close her eyes:
Eyes, which so far all other lights control;
They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul!
Let her free spirit, whose unconquer'd breast
Holds such deep quiet, and untroubled rest,
Know, that though Venus and her son should spare
Her rebel heart, and never teach her care;
Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep;
And, for another's joy, suspend her sleep.
OF THE MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED. ·
As when a sort of wolves infest the night,
With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light;
The noise may chase sweet slumber from her eyes,
But never reach the mistress of the skies:
So, with the news of Sacharissa's wrongs,
Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues:
Call Love to witness, that no painted fire
Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire:
While, unconcerned, she seems mov'd no more
With this new malice, than our loves before;
But, from the height of her great mind, looks down
On both our passions, without smile or frown.
So little care of what is done below
Hath the bright dame, whom Heaven affecteth so! Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads
Like glorious colours through the flowery meads,
When lavish nature, with her best attire,
Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire.
Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn,
With the same art, wherewith she paints the morn:
With the same art, wherewith she gildeth so
Those painted clouds, which form Thaumantias' bow.
OF HER PASSING THROUGH A CROWD OF people.
As in old Chaos (heaven with earth confus'd,
And stars with rocks together crush'd and bruis'd)
The Sun his light no further could extend
Than the next hill, which on his shoulders lean'd;
So in this throng bright Sacharissa far'd,
Oppress'd by those, who strove to be her guard:
As ships, though never so obsequious, fall
Foul in a tempest on their admiral.
A greater favour this disorder brought
Unto her servants, than their awful thought
Durst entertain, when, thus compell'd, they prest
The yielding marble of her snowy breast.
While Love insults, disguised in the cloud,
And welcome force of that unruly crowd.
So th' amorous tree, while yet the air is calm,
Just distance keeps from his desired Palm:
But when the wind her ravish'd branches throws
Into his arms, and mingles all their boughs;
Though loth be seems her tender leaves to press,
More loth he is that friendly storin should cease;
From whose rude bounty he the double use
At once receives, of pleasure and excuse.
THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues;
With numbers, such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:
All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.
FABULA PHŒBI ET DAPHNES.
ARCADIA juvenis Thyrsis, Phacbique sacerdos,
Ingenti frustra Sacharissæ ardebat amore.
Haud Deus ipse olim Daphni majora canebat;
Nec fuit asperior Daphne, nec pulchrior illâ :
Carminibus Phoebo dignis premit ille fugacem
Per rupes, per saxa, volans per florida vates
Pascua formosam nunc his componere nympham,
Nunc illis crudelem insanâ mente solebat.
Audiit illa procul miserum, cytharamque sonantem;
Audiit, at nullis respexit mota querelis!
Ne tamen omnino caneret desertus, ad alta
Sidera perculsi referunt nova carmina montes.
Sic, non quæsitis cumulatus laudibus, olim
Elapsâ reperit Daphne sua laurea Phœbus.
SAY, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.
In heaven itself thou sure wert drest
With that angel-like disguise:
Thus deluded am I blest,
And see my joy with closed eyes.
But ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream:
Cruel Sacharissa's mind
Never put on that sweet extreme!
Fair Dream! if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despis'd love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.
Pale, wan, and meagre, let it look,
With a pity-moving shape;
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.
Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so;
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words express my woe.
Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprised, she may fall:
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.
TO MRS. BRAUGHTON,
SERVANT TO SACHARISSA.
FAIR fellow-servant! may your gentle ear
Prove more propitious to my slighted care,
Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief
(Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief)
Receive these plaints: nor will her high disdain
Forbid my humble muse to court her train.
So, in those nations which the sun adore,
Some modest Persian, or some weak-ey'd Moor,
No higher dares advance his dazzled sight,
Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light
Of their ascending God adorns the east,
And, graced with his beams, out-shines the rest.
Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,
And whets those arrows which confound us so;
A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit,
(Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit:
The graces put not more exactly on
Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won:
Than Sacharissa by thy care is drest,
When all our youth prefers her to the rest.
You the soft season know, when best her mind May be to pity or to love inclin'd:
In some well-chosen hour supply his fear,
Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear
Of that stern goddess: you, her priest, declare
What offerings may propitiate the fair:
Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay,
Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they.
For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the cheerful morn does first disclose,
(The shady night removing with her beams)
Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems
But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels
All that is found in mines, or fishes' shells;
Her nobler part as far exceeding these,
None but immortal gifts her mind should please.
The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd
On Sparta's Queen, her lovely neck did load,
And snowy wrists: but when the town was burn'd,
Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd:
Her beauty too had perish'd, and her fame,
Had not the muse redeem'd them from the flame.
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One so destructive: to no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness; but the rock,
That cloven rock produc'd thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride
Of such stern beauty, plac'd those healing springs 8;
Which not more help, than that destruction brings.
Thy heart, no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compassion: now, my traiterous song
With thee conspires, to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!
This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the muse should bring
Damage to one, whom he had taught to sing;
Thus he advis'd me: "On yon aged tree
Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea;
That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce at least may with this passion find."
Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging main;
And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate, than from her cold neglect!
Yet there he'll pray, that the unkind may prove
Blest in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which Heaven has heap'd on her.
YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.
WHY came I so untimely forth
Into a world, which, wanting thee, Could entertain us with no worth,
Or shadow of felicity?
That time should me so far remove
From that which I was born to love!
Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight
That age which you may know so soon: The rosy morn resigns her light,
And milder glory, to the noon:
And then what wonders shall you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?
Hope waits upon the flowery prime ;
And summer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time
Of declination, or decay:
For, with a full hand, that does bring
All that was promis'd by the spring.
If sweet Amoret complains, I have sense of all her pains: But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine,
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain;
And, those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.
If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection;
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:
But 'tis sure some power above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not a love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.
'Tis amazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move:
If less splendour wait on thine,
Yet they so benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled sight
To behold their milder light.
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy:
Which how eas❜ly I may do,
Heaven (as eas❜ly scal'd) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and good
As the most delicious food,
Which, but tasted, does impart
Life and gladness to the heart.
Sacharissa's beauty's wine,
Which to madness doth incline:
Such a liquor, as no brain
That is mortal can sustain.
Scarce can I to Heaven excuse
The devotion, which I use
Unto that adored dame:
For 'tis not unlike the same,
Which I thither ought to send.
So that if it could take end,
"Twould to Heaven itself be due,
To succeed her, and not you:
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry:
Which, though not so fierce a flame,
Is longer like to be the same.
Then smile on me, and I will prove Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love.
FAIR! that you may truly know,
What you unto Thyrsis owe;
I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love, and you.
Joy salutes me, when I set
My blest eyes on Amoret:
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look.
ON THE FRIENDSHIP BETWIXT
SACHARISSA AND AMORET,
TELL me, lovely loving pair!
Why so kind, and so severe ?
Why so careless of our care,
Only to yourselves so dear?
By this cunning change of hearts,
You the power of Love control;
While the boy's deluded darts
Can arrive at neither soul.
For in vain to either breast
Still beguiled Love does come:
Where he finds a foreign guest;
Neither of your hearts at home.
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