And, since the self-deluding sight,
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like wat'ry lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh,
Within the scales of either eye;
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair
appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears;
And all the jewels which we prize,
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have thro' every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green;
And yet from all those flowers I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day,
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen, in tears more wise,
Dissolv'd those captivating eyes,
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet,
To fetter her Redeemer's feet.
Not full sails hasting loaden home,
Nor the chaste lady's pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shews so fair,
As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drench'd in these waves, does lose its fire.
Yea, oft the thund'rer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes.
The incense was to heaven dear,

Not as a perfume, but a tear!
And stars shew lovely in the night,

But as they seem the tears of light.

Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice,

And practise so your noblest use;

1

For others too can see, or sleep;

But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,

And at each tear, in distance stop:

Now, like two fountains, trickle down :
Now like two floods o'er-run, and drown.
Thus let your streams o'erflow your springs,
Till eyesand tears be the same things;
And each the other's difference bears;

These weeping eyes, those seeing tears."

The following fanciful and ingenious "Dialogue between Soul and Body" is well known as the original of several quaint and witty imitations.

Body.

But physick yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear;
And then the palsy, shakes of fear.
The pestilence of love does heat:
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat.
Joy's cheerful madness does perplex;
Or sorrow's other madness vex;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And memory will not forego.

What but a soul could have the wit

To build me up for sin so fit?
So architects do square and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew."

Johnson says that Milton was the first Englishman who wrote Latin verses with facility and purity. Marvell may justly claim the secondary honour of latinity, for he is little inferior in this accomplishment to Milton. The Carmina on the Dew Drop in our last, may be given in proof with the following:

HORTUS.

"QUISNAM adeo, mortale genus! præcordia versat?
Heu palmæ, laurique furor, vel simplicis herbæ !
Arbor ut indomitos ornet vix una labores;
Tempora nec foliis præcingat tota malignis ;
Dum simul implexi, tranquillæ ad serta quietis,
Omnigeni coëunt flores, integraque sylva.

Alma quies, teneo te! et te, germana quietis,
Simplicitas! vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes,
Quæsivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra.
Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longè
Celârunt plantæ virides, et concolor umbra.

O! mihi si vestros liceat violâsse recessus,
Erranti, lasso, et vitæ melioris anhelo,
Municipem servate novum; votoque potitum,
Frondosæ cives optate in florea regna.

Me quoque, vos Musæ, et te, conscie, testor, Apollo,

Non armenta juvant hominum, circive boatus,

Mugitusve fori; sed me penetralia veris,

Horroresque trahunt muti, et consortia sola,

Virgineæ quem non suspendit gratia formæ ? Quam, candore nives vincentem, ostrumque rubore, Vestra tamen viridis superet (me judice) virtus? Nec foliis certare comæ, nec brachia ramis, Nec possint tremulos voces æquare susurros.

Ah quoties sævos vidi (quis credat ?) amantes,
Sculpentes dominæ potiori in cortice nomen!
Nec puduit truncis inscribere vulnera sacris.
Ast ego, si vestras unquam temeravero stirpes,
Nulla Neæra, Chloe, Faustina, Corynna, legetur ;
In proprio sed quæque libro signabitur arbos.
O charæ platanus, cyparissus, populus, ulnus!

Hic amor, exutis, crepidatus inambulat, alis.
Enerves arcus,
et stridula tela reponens,
Invertitque faces, nec se cupit usque timeri;
Aut exporrectus jacet, indormitque pharetræ
Non auditurus, quanquam Cytherea vocârit,
Nequitias referunt, nec somnia vana, priores.

Lætantur Superi, defervescente tyranno,
Et licet experti toties Nymphasque Deasque,
Arbore nunc melius potiuntur quisque cupita.
Jupiter annosam, neglectâ conjuge, quercum
Deperit; haud aliâ doluit sic Pellice Juno.
Lemniacum temerant vestigia nulla cubile,
Nec Veneris mavors meminit, si fraxinus absit.
Formosa pressit Daphnes vestigia Phoebus
Ut fieret laurus; sed nîl quæsiverat ultra.
Capripes et peteret quód Pan Syringa fugacem,
Hoc erat, ut calamum posset reperire sonorum.

Nec tu, Opifex horti, grato sine carmine abibis;
Qui brevibus plantis, et læto flore, notâsti
Crescentes horas, atque intervalla diei.
Sol ibi candidior fragrantia signa pererrat;
Proque truci Tauro, stricto pro forcipe Cancri,
Securis violæque rosæque allabitur umbris.
Sedula quin et apis, mellito intenta labori,
Horologo, sua pensa, thymo, signare videtur.
Temporis O suaves lapsus! O otia sana;

O herbis dignæ numerari, et floribus, hore!

The following is Marvell's translation of this Latin poem:

THE GARDEN.

"How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:
And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flow'rs, and trees, do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The Gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a Nymph, but for a reed.

What wond'rous life in this I lead !
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.
The nectarine, and curious peach,
hands themselves do reach.

Into my

Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.