TO MR. C. B.*

THY friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain,
Urged by this unexcusable occasion,

Thee and the saint of his affection Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain; And let the love I bear to both sustain

No blot nor maim by this division;

Strong is this love, which ties our hearts in one, And strong that love pursued with amorous pain: But though beside thyself I leave behind

Heaven's liberal and earth's thrice-fair sun,

Going to where starved† winter aye doth won; Yet love's hot fires, which martyr my sad mind, Do send forth scalding sighs which have the art To melt all ice, but that which walls her heart.

TO MR. S. B.

O THOU, which to search out the secret parts
Of the India, or rather paradise

Of knowledge, hast with courage and advice
Lately launched into the vast sea of arts,

*This and the following poem are probably addressed to Mr. Christopher Brook, and his brother Samuel. See Wal ton's life of Donne.

† Var. stern.

Disdain not in thy constant travelling
To do as other voyagers, and make

Some turns into less creeks, and wisely take Fresh water at the Heliconian spring.

I sing not Siren-like to tempt; for I

Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry, I, though I brought no fuel, had desire With these articulate blasts to blow the fire.

TO MR. B. B.

Is not thy sacred hunger of science

V

Yet satisfied? is not thy brain's rich hive Fulfilled with honey, which thou dost derive From the art's spirits and their quintessence? Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw From Cambridge, thy old nurse; and, as the rest, Here toughly chew and sturdily digest The immense vast volumes of our common law; And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,

Which is that that, which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done; And I, as giddy travellers must do,

Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tired must then ride post.

1 thou unto thy Muse be married,
Embrace her ever, ever multiply;
Be far from me that strange adultery
To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood;
My Muse* (for I had one) because I'm cold,
Divorced herself, the cause being in me;
That I can take no new in bigamy,
Not my will only, but power doth withhold;
Heuce comes it that these rhymes, which never had
Mother, want matter; and they only bave
A little form, the which their father gave:
They are profane, imperfect, oh! too bad
To be counted children of poetry,
Except confirmed and bishoped by thee.

TO MR. R. W.

le. as mine is, thy life a slumber be.

Seem, when thou read'st these lines, to dream of

me;

Never did Morpheus, nor his brother, wear Shapes so like those shapes, whom they would

appear,

Twit;

As this my letter is like me; for it
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, mind and

*All the Editions read nurse. The alteration to the text clearly the true reading, is suggested by the Rev. H. AKN n his edition.

It is my deed of gift of me to thee,
It is my will, myself the legacy.
So thy retirings I love, yea, envy,
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy,

That I rejoice that, unto where thou art,
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart,
As kindly as any enamoured patient

His picture to his absent love hath sent.

All news I think sooner reach thee than me; Havens are heavens, and ships winged angels be, The which both gospel and stern threatenings bring;

Guiana's harvest is nipt in the spring,

I fear; and with us (methinks) Fate deals so,
As with the Jew's guide God did; he did show
Him the rich land, but barred his entry in :
Our slowness is our punishment and sin.
Perchance, these Spanish businesses being done,
(Which, as the earth between the moon and on,
Eclipse the light which Guiana would give,)
Our discontinued hopes we shall retrieve:
But if (as all the all must) hopes smoke awaj
Is not almighty Virtue an India?

If men be worlds, there is in every one
Something to answer in some proportion
All the world's riches: and in good men this
Virtue our form's form, and our soul's soul is

Or that short roll of friends writ in my heart,
Which with thy name begins, since their depart,
Whether in the English provinces they be,
Or drink of Po, Sequan or Danuby,

There's none, that sometimes greets us not; and yet
Your Trent is Lethe, that past, us you forget.
You do not duties of societies,

If from the embrace of a loved wife you rise, View your fat beasts, stretched barns, and laboured fields,

Eat, play, ride, take all joys, which all day yields,
And then again to your embracements go;
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow
Upon your Muse; else both we shall repent,
I, that my love; she, that her gifts on you are spent.

TO MR. I. P.

BLEST are your North parts, for all this long time My sun is with you, cold and dark 's our clime. Heaven's sun, which stayed so long from us this

year,