And bind thy selfe, thy fellow-seruant's thrall:
Loue one too much, thou art a slaue to all.
Consider when thou follow'st seeming good,
And drown'st thy selfe too deepe in flesh and blood,
Thou, making sute to dwell with woes and feares,
Art sworne their souldier in the vale of teares:
The bread of sorrow shall be thy repast,
Expect not Eden in a thorny waste,

And since he takes the throne of Loue exil'd,
In all our letters he shall Loue be stil'd :
But if true Loue vouchsafe againe his sight,
No word of mine shall preiudice his right:
So kings by caution with their rebels treate,
As with free states, when they are growne too
great.

If common drunkards onely can expresse

Here onely losses and afflictions dwell.
These thou bewayl'st with a repining voyce,

Yet knew'st before that mortal was thy choyse.
Admirers of false pleasures must sustaine
The waight and sharpenesse of insuing paine.

AGAINST ABUSED LOUE.

SHALL I stand still, and see the world on fire,
While wanton writers ioyne in one desire,
To blow the coales of loue, and make them burne,
Till they consume, or to the chaos turne
This beauteous frame, by them so foully rent,
That wise men feare, lest they those flames preuent,
Which for the latest day th' Almightic keepes
In orbes of fire, or in the hellish deepes?
Best wits, while they, possest with fury, thinke
They taste the Muses' sober well, and drinke
Of Phoebus' goblet, (now a starry signe)
Mistake the cup, and write in heat of wine.
Then let my cold hand here some water cast,
And drown their warmth with drops of sweeter

taste.

Mine angry lines shall whip the purblind page,
And some will reade them in a chaster age;
But since true loue is most diuine, I know,
How can I fight with louc, and call it so.
Is it not loue? It was not now: (O strange!)
Time and ill custome, workers of all change,
Haue made it loue: men oft impose not names
By Adam's rule, but what their passion frames.
And since our childhood taught vs to approue
Our fathers' words, we yeeld and call it loue.
Examples of past times our deeds should sway;
But we must speake the language of to day:
Vse hath no bounds; it may prophane once more
The name of God, which first an idoll bore.
How many titles, fit for meaner groomes,
Are knighted now, and marshal'd in high roomes!
And many, which once good and great were
thought,

Posterity to vice and basenesse brought,
As it hath this of loue, and we must bow,
As states vsurping tyrants' raignes allow,
And after ages reckon by their yecres:
Such force possession, though iniurious, beares:
Or as a wrongfull title, or foule crime,
Made lawfull by a statute for the time,
With reu'rend estimation blindes our cies,
And is call'd just, in spight of all the wise.
Then, heau'nly Loue, this loathed name forsake,
And some of thy more glorious titles take :
Sunne of the soule, cleare beauty, liuing fire,
Celestial light, which dost pure hearts inspire,
While Lust, thy bastard brother, shal be knowne
By Loue's wrong'd name, that louers may him

owne.

So oft with hereticks such tearmes we vse,
As they can brooke, not such as we would chuse:

How can I write of Lone, who neuer felt
His dreadfull arrow, nor did euer melt
My heart away before a female flame,
Like waxen statues, which the witches frame?
I must confesse, if I knew one that had
Bene poyson'd with this deadly draught, and mad,
And afterward in Bedlem well reclayı'd
To perfect sence, and in his wits not maym'd:
I would the feruour of my Muse restraine,
And let this subiect for his taske remaine:
But aged wand'rers sooner will declare
Their Eleusinian rites, than louers dare
Renounce the Deuil's pompe, and Christians die:
So much preuailes a painted idol's eye.
Then since of them, like lewes, we can conuert
Scarce oré in many yeeres, their just desert,
By selfe confession, neuer can appeare ;
But on presumptions wee proceed, and there
The judge's innocence most credit winnes:
True men trie theeues, and saints describe foule
sinnes.

This monster Loue by day, and Lust by night,
Is full of burning fire, but voyde of light,
Left here on Earth to keepe poore mortals out
Of errour, who of hell-fire else would doubt.
Such is that wandring nightly flame, which leades
Th' vuwary passenger, vntill he treades
His last step on the steepe and craggy walles
Of some high mountaine, whence he headlong
falles:

A vapour first extracted from the stewes,
(Which with new fewell still the lampe renewes)
And with a pandar's sulph'rous breath inflam'd,
Became a meteor, for destruction fram'd,
Like some prodigious comet which foretells
Disasters to the realme on which it dwells.
And now hath this false light preuail'd so farre,
That most obserue, it is a fixed starre,
Yea as their load-starre, by whose beames impure
They guide their ships, in courses not secure,
Bewitcht and daz'led with the glaring sight
Of this proud fiend, attir'd in angels' light,
Who still delights his darksome smoke to turne
To rayes, which seeme t'enlighten, not to burne:
He leades them to the tree, and they beleeue
The fruit is sweete, so he deluded Eue.
But when they once haue tasted of the feasts,
They quench that sparke, which seuers men from

beasts,

And feele effects of our first parents' fall,
Depriu'd of reason, and to sence made thrall.
Thus is the miserable louer bound
With fancies, and in fond affection drown'd.
In him no faculty of man is seene,
But when he sighs a sonnet to his queene:
This makes him more than man, a poet fit
For such false poets, as make passion wit.
Who lookes within an emptie caske, may see,
Where once a soule was, and againe may be,
Which by this difference from a corse is knowne:
One is in pow'r to haue life, both haue none:

For louers' slipp'ry soules (as they confesse,
Without extending racke, or straining presse)
By transmigration to their mistresse flow:
Pithagoras instructs his schollers so,

Who did for penance lustfull minds cor.fine
To leade a second life in goates and swine.
Then lone is death, and driues the soule to dwell
In this betraying harbour, which like Hell
Gioes nener backe her bootie, and containes
A thousand firebrands, whips, and restlesse paines:

And, which is worse, so bitter are those wheeles,
That many hells at once the louer feeles,
And hath his heart dissected into parts,
That it may meete with other double harts.

This lone stands neuer sure, it wants a ground,
It makes no ordred course, it finds no bound,
It aymes at nothing, it no comfort tastes,
But while the pleasure and the passion lasts.
Yet there are flames, which two hearts one can
make;

Not for th' affections, but the obiect's sake.
That burning glasse, where beames disperst incline
Vnto a point, and shoot forth in a line:
This noble lone hath axeltree and poles
Wherein it moues, ami gets eternall goales:
These reuolutions, like the heau’nly spheres,
Make all the periods equall as the yeeres:
And when this time of motion finisht is,

It ends with that great yeere of endlesse blisse.

A DESCRIPTION OF LOUE.

Love is a region full of fires,
And burning with extreme desires,
An obiect scekes, of which possest,
The wheeles are fixt, the motions rest,
The flames in ashes lie opprest:
This meteor, striuing high to rise,
(The fewell spent) falles downe and dies.
Bluth sweeter and more pure delights
Are drawne from faire alluring sights,
When rauisht minds attempt to praise
Commanding eyes, like heau'nly rayes;
Whose force the gentle heart obayes:
Than where the end of this pretence
Descends to base inferiour sense.
"Why then should loners" (most will say)
Expect so much th' enioying day?"
Lone is like youth, he thirsts for age,
He scornes to be his mother's page:
But when proceeding times asswage
The former heate, he will complaine,
And wish those pleasant houres againe.

We know that Hope and Loue are twinnes;
Hope gone, fruition now beginnes:
But what is this? Vnconstant, fraile,
In nothing sure, but sure to faile:
Which, if we lose it, we bewaile;
And when we hane it, still we beare
The worst of passions, daily feare.
When Loue thus in his center ends,
Desire and Hope, his inward friends,
Are shaken off: while Doubt and Griefe,
The weakest giuers of reliefe,
Stand in his councell as the chiefe:

A SHEPHERDESSE, who long had kept her flocks
On stony Charnwood's dry and barren rocks,
In heate of summer to the vales declin'd,
To seeke fresh pasture for her lambes halfe pin'd.
She (while her charge was feeding) spent the houres
To gaze on sliding brookes and smiling flowres.
Thus hauing largely stray'd, she lifts her sight,
And viewes a palace full of glorious light.
She finds the entrance open, and as bold
As countrey maids, that would the court behold,
She makes an offer, yet againe she stayes,
And dares not dally with those sunny rayes.
Here lay a nymph, of beauty most diuine,
Whose happy presence caus'd the house to shine,
Who much conuerst with mortals, and could know
No honour truly high, that scornes the low:
For she had oft been present, though vnseene,
Among the shepherds' daughters ou the greene,
Where eu'ry homebred swaine desires to proue
His oaten pipe and feet before his loue,
And crownes the eu'ning, when the daics are long,
With some piaine dance, or with a rurall song.
Nor were the women nice to hold this sport,
And please their louers in a modest sort.
There that sweet nymph had seene this countrey

dame

For singing crown'd, whence grew a world of fame
Among the sheepecotes, which in her reioyce,
And know no better pleasure than her voyce.
The glitt'ring ladies, gather'd in a ring,
Intreate the silly shepherdesse to sing:
She blusht and sung, while they with words of
praise,

Contend her songs aboue their worth to raise.
Thus being chear'd with many courteous signes,
She takes her leaue, for now the Sunne declines,
And hauing driuen home her flocks againe,
She meets her loue, a simple shepherd swaine;
Yet in the plaines he had a poet's name:
For he could roundelayes and carols frame,
Which, when his mistresse sung along the downes,
Was thought celestiall musick by the clownes.
Of him she begs, that he would raise his mind
To paint this lady, whom she found so kind :
"You oft," saith she, "haue in our homely bow'rs
Discours'd of demi-gods and greater pow'rs:
For you with Hesiode sleeping learnt to know
The race dinine from Heau'n to Earth below."
My dear," said he, "the nymph whom thou

hast seene,

Most happy is of all that liue betweene
This globe and Cynthia, and in high estate,
Of wealth and beauty hath an equall mate,
Whose lone hath drawne vncessant teares in floods,
From nymphs, that haunt the waters and the

woods.

Oft Iris to the ground hath bent her bow
To steale a kisse, and then away to goe:
Yet all in vaine, he no affection knowes
But to this goddesse, whom at first he chose:
Him she enioyes in mutuall bonds of loue:
Two hearts are taught in one small point to moue.
Her father, high in honour and descent,
Commands the Syluans on the northside Trent.
He at this time, for pleasure and retreate,
Comes downe from Beluoir, his ascending seate,
To which great Pan had lately honour done:
For there he lay, so did his hopefull sonne.
But when this lord by his accesse desires
To grace our dales, he to a house retires,
Whose walles are water'd with our siluer brookes,
And makes the shepherds proud to view his lookes.
There in that blessed house you also saw
His lady, whose admired vertues draw
All hearts to loue her, and all tongues inuite
To praise that ayre where she vouchsafes her light.
And for thy further ioy thine eyes were blest,
To see another lady, in whose brest
True wisdome hath with bounty equall place,
As modesty with beauty in her face.
She found me singing Florae's natiue dowres,
And made me sing before the heau'nly pow'rs:
For which great fauour, till my voice be done,
I sing of her, and her thrice-noble sonne."

First, England, crown'd with roses of the spritig,
An off'ring, like to Abel's gift, will bring:
And vowes that she for thee alone will keepe
Her fattest lambes, and fleeces of her sheepe.
Next, Scotland triumphs, that she bore and bred
This ile's delight, and, wearing on her head
A wreath of lillies gather'd in the field,
Presents the min'rals which her mountaines yeeld.
Last, Ireland, like Terpsichore attir'd
With neuer-fading lawrell, and inspir'd
By true Apollo's heat, a Pæan sings,
And kindles zealous flames with siluer strings.
This day a sacrifice of praise requires,
Our brests are altars, and our ioyes are fires.
That sacred head, so soft, so strangely blest
From bloody plots, was now (O feare!) deprest
Beneath the water, and those sunlike beames
Were threat'ned to be quencht in narrow streames.
Ah! who dare thinke, or can endure to heare,
Of those sad dangers, which then seem'd so neare?
What Pan would haue preseru'd our flocks' increase
From wolues? What Hermes could with words of

ΟΝ ΤΗΣ

ANNIUERSARY DAY OF HIS MAIESTIE'S
REIGNE OUER ENGLAND,
MARCH THE 24.

WRITTEN AT THE BEGINNING OF HIS TWENTIETA

YEERE.

THE world to morrow celebrates with mirth
The joyfull peace betweene the Heau'n and Earth:
To day let Britaine praise that rising light,
Whose titles her diuided parts vnite.
The time since safety triumph'd ouer feare,
Is now extended to the twenti'th yeere.
Thou happy yeere, with perfect number blest,
O slide as smooth and gentle as the rest :
That when the Sunne, dispersing from his head
The clouds of winter on his beauty spred,
Shall see his equinoctiall point againe,
And melt his dusky maske to fruitfull raine,
He may be loth our climate to forsake,
And thence a patterne of such glory take,
That he would leaue the zodiake, and desire
To dwell foreuer with our northerne fire.

A THANKSGIUING

JOR THE DELIUERANCE OF OUR SOUERAIGNE, KING
JAMES, FRAOM A DANGEROUS ACCIDENT,
JANUARY 8.

O GRACIOUS Maker! on whose smiles or frownes
Depends the fate of scepters and of crownes:
Whose hand not onely holds the hearts of kings,
But all their steps are shadow'd with thy wings,
To thee immortall thanks three sisters giue,
For sauing him, by whose deare life they liue.

TO HIS LATE MAIESTY,

CONCERNING THE TRUE FORME OF ENGLISH POETRY.

GREAT king, the sou'raigne ruler of this land,
By whose graue care our hopes securely stand:
Since you, descending from that spacious reach,
Vouchsafe to be our master, and to teach
Your English poets to direct their lines,
To mixe their colours, and expresse their signes :
Forgiue my boldnesse, that I here present
The life of Muses yeelding true content

In ponder'd numbers, which with ease I try'd,
When your iudicious rules haue been my guide.

He makes sweet musick, who in serious lines,
Light dancing tunes, and heauy prose declines :
When verses like a milky torrent flow,
They equall temper in the poet show.
He paints true formes, who with a modest heart
Giues lustre to his worke, yet couers art.
Vneuen swelling is no way to fame,
But solid ioyning of the perfect frame :
So that no curious finger there can find

The former chinkes, or nailes that fastly bind.
Yet most would haue the knots of stitches seene,
And holes, where men may thrust their hands be-
On halting feet the ragged poem goes [tween.
With accents, neither fitting verse nor prose:
The stile mine eare with more contentment fills
In lawyers' pleadings, or phisicians' bills.
For though in termes of art their skill they close,
And ioy in darksome words as well as those:
They yet haue perfect sense more pure and cleare
Than enuious Muses, which sad garlands weare
Of dusky clouds, their strange conceits to hide
From humane eyes and (lest they should be spi'd
By some sharpe Oedipus) the English tongue
For this their poore ambition suffers wrong.

: