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FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.
over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the
With Detraction's breath on thee.
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains,
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
'Twixt men's judgments and her light.
But so much her power may do,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing, she gets power:
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still the more,
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with fame at last,
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight.
For, if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fly,
Till I reach'd eternity.
But alas ! my Muse is slow,
For thy place she flags too low;
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late;
And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Am myself put up a muing.
But, if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did.
And, though for her sake I'm crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double ;
I should love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.
For, though banish'd from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,
With those sweets the spring-tide yields ;
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced philomel ;
Though of all those pleasures past
The dull loneness, the black shade, Nothing now remains at last
That these hanging vaults have made; But remembrance (poor relief)
The strange music of the waves, That more makes than mends my grief;
Beating on these hollow caves; She's my mind's companion still,
This black den which rocks emboss, Maugre envy's evil will;
Overgrown with eldest moss ; Whence she should be driven too,
The rude portals, which give light Were't in mortals' power to do.
More to terror than delight; She doth tell me where to borrow
This my chamber of Neglect, Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Wall'd about with Disrespect : Makes the desolatest place
From all these, and this dull air, To her presence be a grace ;
A fit object for despair, And the blackest discontents
She hath taught me by her might Be her fairest ornaments.
To draw comfort and delight. In my former days of bliss
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Her divine skill taught me this,
I will cherish thee for this; That from every thing I saw
Poesy, thou sweet's content I could some invention draw,
That e'er heaven to mortals lent, And raise pleasure to her height
Though they as a trifle leave thee, Through the meanest object's sight.
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; By the murmur of a spring,
Though thou be to them a scorn, Or the least bough's rustling,
Who to nought but earth are born; By a daisy whose leaves spread
Let my life no longer be Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Than I am in love with thee. Or a shady bush or tree,
Though our wise ones call it madness, She could more infuse in me
Let me never taste of sadness, Than all Nature's beauties can
If I love not thy madd'st fits In some other wiser man.
Above all their greatest wits. By her help I also now
And though some too seeming holy Make this churlish place allow
Do account thy raptures folly, Some things that may sweeten gladness
Thou dost teach me to contemn In the very gall of sadness.
What make knaves and fools of them.
ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
PHEBUS AND DAPHNE. Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lov’d, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less am'rous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use ! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry 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,
araj w mrow 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 Phæbus, thus acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.
AT PENSHURST. Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made Choice of their deities, this sacred shade Had held an altar to her pow'r 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 de'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 Into fair figures from a confus'd heap: And in the symmetry of her parts is found A pow'r 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 Sydney'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.
Unwisely we the wiser East
All to one female idol bend,
All this with indignation spoke,
So the tall stag, upon the brink
DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.
uu limits to his vaster mind;
Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
To bim the fairest nymphs do shew
thu Galatea seem:
ALA deri! det kind Nature thus
Joy salutes me when I set
If sweet Amoret complains,
All that of myself is mine,
If the soul had free election
ON A BREDE OP DIVERS COLOURS. Twee iwenty wlender virgin-tugere twine The cunoue wely, where all this tuncies shine. Au mature them, so they thin shade have wrought, Bolt matbex bandw, and vamous as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He woon the female to his painted bodi Nu, not the bow, which no adorns the skies, Dupontoum in, or boasta so many dyes,
But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry;
Which, though not so fierce a flames
Is longer like to be the same.
Then smile on me, and I will prove
Wonder is shorter liv'd than love.
TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.
Sees not my love how time resumes
The glory which he lent these flow'rs;
Though none should taste of their perfumes, But as hard 'tis to destroy
Yet must they live but some few hours.
Time what we forbear devours !
Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,
Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.
Should some malignant planet bring
A barren drought or ceaseless show'r
Upon the autumn or the spring,
And spare us neither fruit nor flow'r,
Winter would not stay an hour.
Could the resolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion,
Nor would I indulge my passion,