23 Andrew Marvell

The Coronet

  • When for the Thorns with which I long, too
  • With many a piercing wound,
  • (long My Saviour’s head have crowned,
  • I seek with garlands to redress that Wrong:
  • Through every Garden, every mead,
  • I gather flowers (my fruits are only flow’rs),
  • Dismantling all the fragrant Towers
  • That once adorned my Shepherdess’s head.
  • And now when I have summed up all my store,
  • Thinking (so I felf deceive)
  • So rich a chaplet thence to weave
  • As never yet the King of Glory wore:
  • Alas, I find the serpent old
  • That, twining in his fpeckled breaft,
  • About the flowers disguised does fold,
  • With wreaths of fame and interest.
  • Ah, foolifh man, that wouldst debafe with them,
  • And mortal glory, Heaven’s Diadem!
  • But Thou who only couldst the serpent tame,
  • Either his flipp’ry knots at once untie;
  • And difentangle all his winding Snare;
  • Or fhatter too with him my curious frame,
  • And let thefe wither, fo that he may die,
  • Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care:
  • That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread,
  • May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head.
  • Bermudas

  • When for the remote Bermudas ride
  • In th’ Oceans bofome unefpy’d,
  • From a fmall Boat, that row’d along,
  • The liftning Winds receiv’d this Song.
  • What fhould we do but fing his Praife
  • That led us through the watry Maze,
  • Unto an Ifle fo long unknown,
  • And yet far kinder than our own?
  • Where he the huge Sea-Monfters wracks,
  • That lift the Deep upon their Backs,
  • He lands us on a graffy Stage;
  • He gave us this eternal Spring,
  • Which here enamells every thing;
  • And Fends the Fowl’s to us in care,
  • On daily Vifits through the Air.
  • He hangs in fhades the Orange bright,
  • Like golden Lamps in a green Night.
  • And does in the Pomgranates clofe,
  • Jewels more rich than Ormus fhow’s.
  • He makes the Figs our mouths to meet;
  • And throws the Melons at our feet.
  • But Apples plants of fuch a price,
  • No Tree could ever beat them twice.
  • With Cedars, chofen by his hand,
  • From Lebanon, he ftores the Land.
  • And makes the hollw Seas, that roar,
  • Proclaime the Ambergris on fhoar.
  • He caft (of which we rather boaft)
  • The Gofpels Pearl upon our Coaft.
  • And in thefe Rocks for us did frame
  • A Temple, where to found his Name.
  • Oh let our Voice his Praife exalt,
  • Till it arrive at Heavens Vault:
  • Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
  • Eccho beyond the Mexique Bay.
  • Thus Fund they in the English boat,
  • An holy and a chearful Note,
  • and all the way, to guide their Chime,
  • With falling Oars they kept the time.
  • A Dialogue Between
    the Soul and Body

  • SOUL
  • O who fhall, from this dungeon, raife
  • A Soul enflav’d so many wayes?
  • With bolts of bones, that fetter’d ftands
  • In Feet, and manacled in Hands;
  • Here blinded with an Eye, and there
  • Deaf with the drumming of an ear;
  • A soul hung up, as ’twere, in Chains
  • Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins;
  • Tortur’d, befides each other part,
  • In a vain Head, and double Heart.
  • BODY
  • O who fhall me deliver whole,
  • From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
  • Which, ftretcht upright, impales me fo;
  • That mine own Precipice I go;
  • And warms and moves this needlefs Frame:
  • (A Fever could but do the fame)
  • And, wanting where its fspite to try,
  • Has made me live to let me die.
  • A Body that could never reft,
  • Since this ill Spirit it pofsest.
  • SOUL
  • What Magick could me thus confine
  • Within another’s Grief to pine?
  • Where whatsoever it complain,
  • I feel, that cannot feel, the pain;
  • And all my care its felf employs;
  • That to preserve which me deftroys;
  • Constrain’d not only to endure
  • Difeafes, but, what’s worfe, the Cure;
  • And ready oft the Port to gain,
  • Am Shipwrackt into Health again.
  • BODY
  • But Phyfick yet could never reach
  • The Maladies Thou me dost teach;
  • Whom firft the Cramp of Hope does Tear,
  • And then the Palfie Shakes of fear;
  • The Pestilence of Love does heat:
  • Or Hatred’s hidden Ulcer eat.
  • Joy’s cheerful Madnefs does perplex:
  • Or Sorrow’s other Madnefs vex.
  • Which Knowledge forces me to know;
  • And Memory will not foregoe.
  • What but a Soul could have the wit
  • To build me up for Sin so fit?
  • So Architects do fquare and hew,
  • Green Trees that in the Foreft Grew.
  • The Nymph Complaining
    for the Death of Her Fawn

  • The wanton Troopers riding by
  • Have fhot my fawn, and it will die.
  • Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
  • To kill thee. Thou ne’er didft alive
  • Them any harm, alas, nor could
  • Thy death yet do them any good.
  • I’m sure I never wifh’d them ill,
  • Nor do I for all this, nor will;
  • But if my simple Pray’rs may yet
  • Prevail with Heaven to forget
  • Thy murder, I will Joyn my Tears
  • Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!
  • It cannot dye so. Heaven’s King
  • Keeps regifter of everything,
  • And nothing may we ufe in vain.
  • Ev’n beafts must be with juftice slain,
  • Else men are made their Deodands;
  • Though they fhould wafh their guilty hands
  • In this warm life-blood, which doth part
  • From thine, and wound me to the Heart,
  • Yet could they not be clean, their Stain
  • Is dy’d in such a Purple Grain.
  • There is not fuch another in
  • The world to offer for their sin.
  • Unconstant Sylvio, when yet
  • I had not found him counterfeit
  • One morning (I remember well)
  • Ty’d in this filver chain and bell,
  • Gave it to me; nay, and I know
  • What he said then; I’m sure I do.
  • Said he, “Look how your huntsman here
  • Hath taught a fawn to hunt his Dear.”
  • But Sylvio foon had me beguil’d,
  • This waxed tame, while he grew wild;
  • And quite regardlefs of my smart,
  • Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart.
  • Thenceforth I set myself to play
  • My folitary time away,
  • With this, and very well content
  • Could so mine idle life have fpent;
  • For it was full of sport, and light
  • Of foot and heart, and did invite
  • Me to its game; it feem’d to bless
  • Itself in me. How could I less
  • Than love it? Oh, I cannot be
  • Unkind t’ a Beaft that loveth me.
  • Had it liv’d long, I do not know
  • Whether it too might have done so
  • As Sylvio did; his Gifts might be
  • Perhaps as falfe or more than he.
  • But I am fure, for aught that I
  • Could in fo fhort a time efpie,
  • Thy Love was far more better then
  • The love of false and cruel men.
  • With fweeteft milk and fugar firft
  • I it at mine own fingers nurft;
  • And as it grew, fo every day
  • It wax’d more white and fweet than they.
  • It had so fweet a Breath! And oft
  • I blufht to fee its foot more foft
  • And white,(fhall I fay than my hand?)
  • NAY any Ladies of the land.
  • It is a wond’rous thing how fleet
  • ‘Twas on thofe little filver feet;
  • With what a pretty skipping grace,
  • It oft would challenge me the Race;
  • And when ‘thad left me far away,
  • ‘Twould ftay, and run again, and ftay,
  • For it was nimbler much than Hindes;
  • And trod, as on the four Winds.
  • I have a Garden of my own,
  • But so with Rofes over grown
  • And Lilies, that you would it guess
  • To be a little wilderness;
  • And all the spring time of the year
  • It only loved to be there.
  • Among the beds of Lilyes I
  • Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
  • Yet could not, till itself would rife,
  • Find it, although before mine Eyes;
  • For, in the flaxen lilies’ fhade,
  • It like a bank of lilies laid.
  • Upon the Rofes it would feed
  • Until its Lips ev’n feemed to bleed,
  • And then to me ‘twould boldly trip
  • And print thofe Rofes on my Lip.
  • But all its chief delight was ftill
  • On roses thus itself to fill,
  • And its pure virgin Limbs to fold
  • In whiteft sheets of Lilies cold.
  • Had it liv’d long it would have been
  • Lilies without, Rofes within.
  • O help, O help! I fee it faint,
  • And die as calmly as a Saint.
  • See how it weeps! The Tears do come,
  • Sad, slowly dropping like a Gumme.
  • So weeps the wounded Balfom,e, so
  • The holy frankincenfe doth flow,
  • The brotherless Heliades
  • Melt in such amber tears as thefe.
  • I in a golden vial will
  • Keep thefe two cryftal Tears, and fill
  • It till it do o’erflow with mine,
  • Then place it in Diana’s shrine.
  • Now my Fweet fawn is vanish’d to
  • Whither the Swans and Turtles go;
  • In fair Elizium to endure
  • With milk-white Lambs and Ermines pure.
  • O do not run too faft: for I
  • Will but befpeak thy grave, and dye.
  • Firft my unhappy statue shall
  • Be cut in marble, and withal
  • Let it be weeping too; but there
  • Th’ engraver sure his art may spare,
  • For I so truly thee bemoan
  • That I shall weep though I be Stone;
  • Until my Tears, ftill dropping, wear
  • My breaft, themfelves engraving there.
  • There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
  • Of pureft Alabaster made;
  • For I would have thine Image be
  • White as I can, though not as Thee.
  • To His Coy Mistress

  • Had we but World enough and time,
  • This coyness, lady, were no crime.
  • We would fit down, and think which way
  • To walk, and pass our long Love’s Day.
  • Thou by the Indian Ganges‘ fide
  • Should’ft rubies find; I by the Tide
  • Of Humber would complain. I would
  • Love you ten years before the flood,
  • And you fhould, if you pleafe, refufe
  • Till the Converfion of the Jews.
  • My vegetable love fshould grow
  • Vafter than Empires and more flow;
  • An hundred years fhould go to praise
  • Thine eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze;
  • Two hundred to adore each Breaft,
  • But thirty thoufand to the reft;
  • An Age at leaft to every part,
  • And the laft age fhould fhow your Heart.
  • For, Lady, you deserve this State,
  • Nor would I love at lower rate.
  • But at my back I always hear
  • Time’s wingèd Chariot hurrying near;
  • And yonder all before us lye
  • Deserts of vast Eternity.
  • Thy Beauty fhall no more be found;
  • Nor, in thy marble Vault, fhall sound
  • My echoing Song; then Worms fhall try
  • That long preferv’d Virginity,
  • And your quaint honour turn to duft,
  • And into ashes all my Lufst;
  • The Grave’s a fine and private place,
  • But none, I think, do there embrace.
  • Now therefore, while the youthful hew
  • Sits on thy kin like morning dew,
  • And while thy willing Soul tranfpires
  • At every pore with inftant Fires,
  • Now let us fport us while we may,
  • And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
  • Rather at once our time devour
  • Than languish in his flow-chapped pow’r.
  • Let us roll all our Strength and all
  • Our fweetness up into one Ball,
  • And tear our pleasures with rough ftrife
  • Through the iron gates of Life:
  • Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
  • Stand ftill, yet we will make him run.
  • The Definition of Love

  • My Love is of a birth as rare
  • As ’tis for object ftrange and high;
  • It was begotten by defpair
  • Upon Impoffibility.
  • Magnanimous Defpair alone
  • Could show me fo divine a thing
  • Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
  • But vainly flapp’d its Tinsel Wing.
  • And yet I quickly might arrive
  • Where my extended Soul is fixt,
  • But Fate does Iron wedges drive,
  • And always crowds itfelf betwixt.
  • For Fate with jealous eye does see
  • Two perfect Loves; nor lets them clofe:
  • Their union would her ruin be,
  • And her tyrannic pow’r depofe.
  • And therefore her Decrees of Steel
  • Us as the diftant poles have plac’d,
  • (Though Love’s whole World on us doth wheel)
  • Not by themfelves to be embrac’d;
  • Unlefs the giddy Heaven fall,
  • And earth fome new convulfion tear;
  • And, us to joyn, the world fhould all
  • Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.
  • As Lines fo Loves oblique may well
  • Themfelves in every Angle greet;
  • But ours so truly Paralel,
  • Though infinite, can never meet.
  • Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
  • But Fate fo enviously debars,
  • Is the Conjunction of the Mind,
  • And Oppofition of the Stars.
  • The Picture of Little T. C.
    in a Prospect of Flowers

  • See with what fimplicity
  • This Nimph begins her golden days!
  • In the green Grafs she loves to lie,
  • And there with her fair aApect tames
  • The Wilder flow’rs, and gives them names;
  • But only with the Rofes plays;
  • And them does tell
  • What Colour best becomes them, and what Smell.
  • Who can foretel for what high caufe
  • This Darling of the Gods was Born!
  • Yet this is she whofe chafter Laws
  • The wanton Love shall one day fear,
  • And, under her command fevere,
  • See his Bow broke and enfigns torn.
  • Happy, who can
  • Appease this virtuous Enemy of man!
  • O, then let me in time compound,
  • And parley with thofe conquering Eyes;
  • Ere they have tried their force to wound,
  • Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive
  • In triumph over Hearts that ftrive,
  • And them that yield but more defpise.
  • Let me be laid,
  • Where I may fee thy Glories from fome Shade.
  • Meantime, whilft every verdant thing
  • Itself does at thy Beauty charm,
  • Reform the errors of the Spring;
  • Make that the Tulips may have fhare
  • Of fsweetness, seeing they are fair;
  • And Rofes of their thorns difarm:
  • But moft procure
  • That Violets may a longer Age endure.
  • But, O young beauty of the woods,
  • Whom Nature courts with fruits and flow’rs,
  • Gather the flowers, but spare the Buds;
  • Lest Flora angry at thy crime,
  • To kill her Infants in their prime,
  • Do quickly make the Example Yours;
  • And, ere we fee,
  • Nip in the bloffom all our hopes and Thee.
  • The Mower Against Gardens

  • Luxurious man, to bring his Vice in ufe,
  • Did after him the World feduce:
  • And from the fields the Flow’rs and Plants allure,
  • Where nature was moft plain and pure.
  • He firft enclosed within the Gardens fquare
  • A dead and standing pool of air:
  • And a more lufcious earth for them did knead,
  • Which ftupified them while it fed.
  • The {ink grew then as double as his Mind;
  • The nutriment did change the kind.
  • With ftrange perfumes he did the Rofes taint,
  • And Flow’rs themfelves were taught to paint.
  • The Tulip, white, did for complexion seek,
  • And learn’d to interline its cheek:
  • Its onion root they then so high did hold;
  • That one was for a meadow fold.
  • Another world was fearch’d, through Oceans new,
  • To find the Marvel of Peru.
  • And yet thefe Rarities might be allow’d
  • To man, that fov’raign thing and proud;
  • Had he not dealt between the Bark and Tree,
  • Forbidden mixtures there to fee.
  • No Plant now knew the Stock from which it came;
  • He grafts upon the Wild the Tame:
  • That the uncertain and adulterate fruit
  • Might put the Palate in dispute.
  • His green Seraglio has its Eunuchs too;
  • Left any tyrant him out-doe.
  • And in the Cherry he does Nature vex,
  • To procreate without a Sex.
  • ‘Tis all enforc’d; the fountain and the Grot;
  • While the fweet Fields do lye forgot:
  • Where willing Nature does to all dispense
  • A wild and fragrant Innocence:
  • And Fauns and Fairies do the meadows till,
  • More by their presence than their skill.
  • Their Statues, polfh’d by fome ancient hand,
  • May to adorn the Gardens ftand:
  • But howfoe’er the Figures do excel,
  • The Gods themfelves with us do dwell.
  • Damon the Mower

  • Heark how the Mower Damon sung,
  • With love of Juliana ftung!
  • While ev’rything did seem to paint
  • The Scene more fit for his complaint.
  • Like her fair Eyes the day was fair;
  • But fcorching like his am’rous Care.
  • Sharp like his Sythe his Sorrow was,
  • And wither’d like his Hopes the Grafs.
  • Oh what unusual Heats are here,
  • Which thus our Sun-burn’d Meadows sear!
  • The Grafs-hopper its pipe gives ore;
  • And hamftring’d Frogs can dance no more.
  • But in the brook the green Frog wades;
  • And Grafshoppers seek out the fhades.
  • Only the Snake, that kept within,
  • Now glitters in its fecond skin.
  • ‘This heat the Sun could never raife,
  • Nor Dog ftar so inflame the dayes.
  • It from an higher Beauty grow’th,
  • Which burns the Dields and Mower both:
  • Which mads the Dog, and makes the Sun
  • Hotter than his own Phaëton.
  • Not July causeth thefe Extremes,
  • But Juliana’s scorching beams.
  • Tell me where I may pafs the Fires
  • Of the hot day, or hot desires.
  • To what cool Cave fhall I defcend,
  • Or to what gelid Fountain bend?
  • Alas! I look for Eafe in vain,
  • When Remedies themfelves complain.
  • No moifture but my tears do rest,
  • Nor cold but in her Icy Breaft.
  • How long wilt Thou, fair Shepherdefs,
  • Esfeem me, and my Prefents lesf?
  • To Thee the harmlefs Snake I bring,
  • Difarmed of its teeth and sting;
  • To thee Chameleons, changing-hue,
  • And Oak leaves tipt with hony due.
  • Yet Thou ungrateful hast not fought
  • Nor what they are, nor who them brought.
  • I am the Mower Damon, known
  • Through all the Meadows I have mown.
  • On me the morn her dew diftills
  • Before her darling Daffodils.
  • And, if at Noon my toil me hear,
  • The Sun himfelf licks off my Swear.
  • While, going home, the Ev’ning fweet
  • In cowslip-water bathes my feet.
  • What, though the piping Shepherd ftock
  • The plains with an unnum’red Flock,
  • This Sithe of mine discovers wide
  • More ground than all his Sheep do hide.
  • With this the golden fleece I fhear
  • Of all thefe Clofes ev’ry Year.
  • And though in Wooll more poor than they,
  • Yet am I richer far in Hay.
  • Nor am I fo deform’d to sight,
  • If in my scythe I lookèd right;
  • In which I fee my Picture done,
  • As in a cresfent Moon the Sun.
  • The deathlefs Fairyes take me oft
  • To lead them in their Danfes foft:
  • And, when I tune my felf to fing,
  • About me they contract their Ring.
  • How happy might I ftill have mow’d,
  • Had not Love here his Thiftles fowed!
  • But now I all the day complain,
  • Joyning my Labour to my Pain;
  • And with my scythe cut down the Grafs,
  • Yet ftill my Grief is where it was:
  • But, when the Iron blunter grows,
  • Sighing, I whet my Sythe and Woes.
  • While thus he threw his Elbow round,
  • Depopulating all the Ground,
  • And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut
  • Each stroke between the Earth and Root,
  • The edged Steele by carelefs chance
  • Did into his own Ankle glance;
  • And there among the Grafs fell down,
  • By his own Sythe, the Mower mown.
  • Alas!’ faid he, thefe hurts are flight
  • To thofe that die by Love’s defpite.
  • With Shepherd’s-purfe, and Clown’s-all-heal,
  • The Blood I ftaunch, and Wound I Feal.
  • Only for him no Cure is found,
  • Whom Juliana’s Eyes do wound.
  • ‘Tis death alone that this muft do:
  • For Death thou art a Mower too.’
  • The Mower to the
    Glowworms

  • Ye living Lamps, by whofe dear light
  • The Nightingale does fit so late,
  • And ftudying all the Summer-night,
  • Her matchlefs Songs does meditate;
  • Ye Country Comets, that portend
  • No War nor Princes funeral,
  • Shining unto no higher end
  • Than to prefage the Graffes fall;
  • Ye Glo-worms, whofe officious Flame
  • To wandring Mowers fhows the way,
  • That in the Night have lost their aim,
  • And after foolish fires do ftray;
  • Your courteous Lights in vain you waft
  • Since Juliana here is come,
  • For She my mind hath so displac’d
  • That I shall never find my home.
  • The Mower’s Song

  • My Mind was once the true furvey
  • Of all thefe Meadows fresh and gay,
  • And in the greennefs of the Grafs
  • Did fee its Hopes as in a Glafs;
  • When Juliana came, and She
  • What I do to the Grafs, does to my Thoughts and Me.
  • But thefe, while I with Sorrow pine,
  • Grew more luxuriant ftill and fine;
  • That not one Blade of Grafs you fpy’d
  • But had a Flower on either fide;
  • When Juliana came, and she
  • What I do to the Grafs, does to my Thoughts and Me.
  • Unthankful Meadows, could you fo
  • A fellowship fo true forgo,
  • And in your gawdy May-games meet,
  • While I lay trodden under feet?
  • When Juliana came, and She
  • What I do to the Grafs, does to my Thoughts and Me.
  • But what you in Compassion ought,
  • Shall now by my Revenge be wrought;
  • And Flow’rs, and Grafs, and I and all,
  • Will in one common Ruine fall.
  • For Juliana comes, and She
  • What I do to the Grafs, does to my Thoughts and Me.
  • And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
  • Companions of my thoughts more green,
  • Shall now the Heraldry become
  • With which I fhall adorn my Tomb;
  • For Juliana comes, and she
  • What I do to the Grafs, does to my Thoughts and Me.
  • The Garden

  • How vainly men themfelves amaze
  • To win the Palm, the Oak, or Bayes;
  • And their unceffant Labours fee
  • Crown’d from fome fingle Herb or Tree,
  • Whofe short and narrow verged Shade
  • Does prudently their Toyles upbraid;
  • While all Flow’rs and all Trees do close
  • To weave the Garlands of repofe.
  • Fair quiet, have I found thee here,
  • And Innocence, thy Sifter dear!
  • Miftaken long, I fought you then
  • In bufy Companies of Men;
  • Your facred 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 feen
  • So am’rous as this lovely green.
  • Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame,
  • Cut in thefe trees their miFtress’ name;
  • Little, Alas, they know or heed,
  • How far thefe beauties Hers exceed!
  • Fair trees! where s’eer your barkes I wound,
  • No Name fhall but your own be found.
  • When we have run our Paffion’s heat,
  • Love hither makes his beft retreat.
  • The Gods, that mortal Beauty chafe,
  • ftill in a Tree did end their race:
  • Apollo hunted Daphne fo,
  • Only that She might Laurel grow;
  • And Pan did after Syrinx fpeed,
  • Not as a Nymph, but for aRreed.
  • What wond’rous Life in this I lead!
  • Ripe Apples drop about my head;
  • The Luscious Clufters of the Vine
  • Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine;
  • The Nectaren and curious Peach,
  • Into my hands themfelves do reach;
  • Stumbling on Melons as I pafs,
  • Ensnar’d with Flow’rs, I fall on Grafs.
  • Mean while the Mind, from pleasure less,
  • Withdraws into its happinefs;
  • The Mind, that Ocean where each kind
  • Does ftreight its own refemblance find,
  • Yet it creates, tranfcending thefe,
  • Far other Worlds, and other Seas;
  • Annihilating all that’s made
  • To a green Thought in a green Shade.
  • Here at the Fountain’s sliding foot,
  • Or at Fome Fruit tree’s mofly root,
  • Casting the Bodyies Veft aside,
  • My Soul into the boughs does glide;
  • There like a Bird it fits and fings,
  • Then whets, and combs its filver Wings;
  • And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
  • Waves in its Plumes the various Light.
  • Such was that happy Garden-ftate,
  • While Man there walk’d without a Mate;
  • After a Place fo pure and fweet,
  • What other Help could yet be meet!
  • But ’twas beyond a Mortal’s share
  • To wander folitary there:
  • Two Paradises ’twere in one
  • To live in Paradife alone.
  • How well the skillful Gardner drew
  • Of flow’rs and herbs this Dial new,
  • Where from above the milder Sun
  • Does through a fragrant Zodiack run;
  • And as it works, th’ induftrious Bee
  • Computes its time as well as we.
  • How could such fweet and wholefome Hours
  • Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!
  • An Horatian Ode

  • The forward Youth that would appear
  • Muft now forfake his Mufes dear,
  • Nor in the Shadows fing
  • His Numbers languifhing.
  • ‘Tis time to leave the Books in duft,
  • And oyl th’ unufed Armou’s ruft:
  •  Removing from the Wall
  • The Corflet of the Hall.
  • So reftlefs Cromwel could not ceafe
  • In the inglorious Arts of Peace,
  • But thorough adventrous War
  • Urged his active Star.
  • And, like the three-fork’d Lightning, firft
  • Breaking the Clouds where it was nurft,
  • Did through his own Side
  • His fiery way divide.
  • For ’tis all one to Courage high,
  • The Emulous or Enemy;
  • And with fuch to inclofe
  • Is more than to oppofe.
  • Then burning through the Air he went,
  • And Pallaces and Temples rent:
  • And Cæfar’s head at last
  • Did through his Laurels blaft.
  • ‘Tis Madnefs to refift or blame
  • The force of angry Heavens flame:
  • And, if we would fpeak true,
  • Much to the Man is due.
  • Who, from his private Gardens where
  • He liv’d referved and auftere,
  • As if his higheft plot
  • To plant the Bergamot,
  • Could by induftrious Valour climbe
  • To ruin the great Work of Time,
  •  And caft the Kingdome old
  • Into another Mold.
  • Though Juftice againft Fate complain,
  • And plead the antient Rights in vain:
  • But thofe do hold or break
  • As Men are ftrong or weak.
  • Nature that hateth emptinefs,
  • Allows of penetration lefs:
  • And therefore muft make room
  • Where greater Spirits come.
  • What Field of all the Civil Wars,
  • Where his were not the deepeft Scars?
  • And Hampton fhows what part
  • He had of wifer Art.
  • Where, twining fubtle fears with hope,
  • He wove a Net of fuch a fcope,
  • That Charles himfelf might chafe
  • To Caresbrooks narrow cafe.
  • That thence the Royal Actor born
  • The Tragick Scaffold might adorn:
  • While round the armed Bands
  • Did clap their bloody hands.
  • He nothing common did or mean
  • Upon that memorable Scene:
  •  But with his keener Eye
  • The Ax’s edge did try;
  • Nor call’d the Gods with vulgar fpite
  • To vindicate his helplefs Right,
  • But bow’d his comely Head,
  • Down as upon a Bed.
  • This was that memorable Hour
  • Which firft affur’d the forced Pow’r.
  • So when they did defign
  • The Capitols firft Line,
  • A bleeding Head, where they begun,
  • Did fright the Architects to run;
  • And yet in that the State
  • Forefaw its happy Fate.
  • And now the Irifh are afham’d
  • Tofsee themfelves in one Year tam’d:
  • So much one Man can do
  • That does both act and know.
  • They can affirm his Praifes beft,
  • And have, though overcome, confeft
  • How good he is, how juft,
  • And fit for higheft Truft:
  • Nor yet grown ftiffer with Command,
  • But ftill in the Republick’s hand:
  • How fit he is to fway
  • That can fo well obey.
  • He to the Common Feet prefents
  • A Kingdome, for his firft years rents:
  • And, what he may, forbears
  • His Fame to make it theirs:
  • And has his Sword and Spoyls ungirt,
  • To lay them at the Publick’s skirt.
  • So when the Falcon high
  • Falls heavy from the Sky,
  • She, having kill’d, no more does fearch,
  • But on the next green Bow to perch;
  • Where, when he firft does lure,
  • The Falckner has her fure.
  • What may not then our Ifle prefume
  • While Victory his Creft does plume!
  • What may not others fear
  • If thus he crown each Year!
  • A Cæfar he ere long to Gaul,
  • To Italy an Hannibal,
  • And to all States not free
  • Shall Clymacterick be.
  • The Pict no fhelter now fhall find
  • Within his parti-colour’d Mind;
  • But from this Valour fad
  • Shrink underneath the Plad:
  • Happy if in the tufted brake
  • The Englifh Hunter him miftake;
  • Nor lay his Hounds in near
  • The Caledonian Deer.
  • But thou the Wars and Fortunes Son
  • March indefatigably on;
  • And for the laft effect
  • Still keep thy Sword erect:
  • Befides the force it has to fright
  • The Spirits of the fhady Night,
  • The fame Arts that did gain
  • A Pow’r muft it maintain.
  • Upon Appleton House

  • Within this fober Frame expect
  • Work of no For Architect;
  • That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
  • And Forrefts did to Paftures hew;
  • Who of his great Defign in pain
  • Did for a model vault his brain;
  • Whofe Columnes should so high be rais’d
  • To arch the Brows that on them gaz’d.
  • Why fhould of all things Man unrul’d
  • Such unproportion’d dwellings build?
  • The Beafts are by their Dens expreft,
  • And Birds contrive an equal Neft;
  • The low roof’d Tortoifes do dwell
  • In cafes fit of Tortoife-shell;
  • No Creature loves an empty fpace;
  • Their Bodies measure out their Place.
  • But He, fuperfluously fpread,
  • Demands more room alive than dead;
  • And in his hollow Palace goes
  • Where winds as he themfelves may losfe.
  • What need of all this Marble Crust
  • T’impark the wanton Mote of Duft,
  • That thinks by Breadth the World t’unite
  • Though the firft Builders fail’d in Height?
  • But all things are compofed here
  • Like Nature, orderly and near;
  • In which we the Dimenfions find
  • Of that more fober Age and Mind,
  • When larger fized Men did ftoop
  • To enter at a narrow loop;
  • As practifing, in doors so ftrait,
  • To ftrain themfelves through Heaven’s Gate.
  • And furely when the after Age
  • Shall hither come in Pilgrimage,
  • Thefe facred Places to adore,
  • By Vere and Fairfax trod before,
  • Men will dispute how their Extent
  • Within fuch dwarfifh Confines went;
  • And fome will fmile at this, as well
  • As Romulus his Bee-like cell.
  • Humility alone defigns
  • Thofe fhort but admirable Lines,
  • By which, ungirt and unconstrain’d,
  • Things greater are in lefs contain’d.
  • Let others vainly ftrive t’immure
  • The Circle in the Quadrature!
  • thefe holy mathematics can
  • In ev’ry Figure equal Man.
  • Yet thus the laden Houfe does sweat,
  • And fcarce indures the Mafter great,
  • But where he comes the fwelling Hall
  • Stirs, and the Square grows Spherical;
  • More by his Magnitude diftreft,
  • Then he is by its ftrainefs pret.
  • And too officiously it flights
  • That in itself which him delights.
  • So honour better Lownefs bears,
  • Than That unwonted Greatnefs wears;
  • Height with a certain Grace does bend,
  • But low things clownishly afcend.
  • And yet what needs there here excuse,
  • Where ev’ry Thing does anfwer Ufe?
  • Where neatnefs nothing can condemn,
  • Nor Pride invent what to contemn?
  • A stately Frontispiece of poor
  • Adorns without the open Door:
  • Nor less the Rooms within commends
  • Daily new Furniture of Friends.
  • The Houfe was built upon the Place
  • Only as for a Mark of Grace;
  • And for an Inn to entertain
  • Its Lord a while, but not remain.
  • Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may,
  • Or Billbrough, better hold than they;
  • But Nature here hath been so free
  • As if she said leave this to me.
  • Art would more neatly have defac’d
  • What fhe had laid so fweetly waste;
  • In fragrant Gardens, fhady Woods,
  • Deep Meadows, and transparent Floods.
  • While with slow Eyes we thefe furvey,
  • And on each pleafant footstep ftay,
  • We opportunly may relate
  • The Progrefs of this Houfes Fate.
  • A Nunnery firft gave it birth.
  • For Virgin Buildings oft brought forth.
  • And all that Neighbour-Ruine fhows
  • The Quarries whence this dwelling rofe.
  • Near to this gloomy Cloysters Gates
  • There dwelt the blooming Virgin Thwates,
  • Fair beyond Meafure, and an Heir
  • Which might Deformity make fair.
  • And oft She fpent the Summer Suns
  • Difcoursing with the Suttle Nunns.
  • Whence in thefe Words one to her weav’d,
  • (As ’twere by Chance) Thoughts long conceiv’d.
  • Within this holy leisure we
  • Live innocently as you fee.
  • Thefe Walls restrain the World without,
  • But hedge our Liberty about.
  • Thefe Bars inclose the wider Den
  • Of thofe wild Creatures, called Men.
  • The Cloyster outward fhuts its Gates,
  • And, from us, locks on them the Grates.
  • Here we, in fhining Armour white,
  • Like Virgin Amazons do fight.
  • And our chast Lamps we hourly trim,
  • Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim.
  • Our Orient Breaths perfumed are
  • With infense of incessant Pray’r.
  • And Holy-water of our Tears
  • moft ftrangly our Complexion clears.
  • Not Tears of Grief; but such as thofe
  • With which calm Pleafure overflows;
  • Or Pity, when we look on you
  • That live without this happy Vow.
  • How fhould we grieve that muft be feen
  • Each one a Spouse, and each a Queen;
  • And can in Heaven hence behold
  • Our brighter Robes and Crowns of Gold?
  • When we have prayed all our Beads,
  • Some One the holy Legend reads;
  • While all the rest with Needles paint
  • The Face and Graces of the Saint.
  • But what the Linnen can’t receive
  • They in their Lives do interweave.
  • This Work the Saints best reprefents;
  • That ferves for Altar’s Ornaments.
  • But much it to our work would add
  • If here your hand, your Face we had:
  • By it we would our Lady touch;
  • Yet thus She you resembles much.
  • Some of your Features, as we fow’d,
  • Through ev’ry Shrine should be beftow’d.
  • And in one Beauty we would take
  • Enough a thoufand Saints to make.
  • And (for I dare not quench the Fire
  • That me does for your good infpire)
  • ‘Twere Sacriledge a Man t’admit
  • To holy things, for Heaven fit.
  • I see the Angels in a Crown
  • On you the Lillies fhow’ring down:
  • And round about your Glory breaks,
  • That fomething more than humane fpeaks.
  • All Beauty, when at fuch a height,
  • Is fo already confecrate.
  • Fairfax I know; and long ere this
  • Have mark’d the Youth, and what he is.
  • But can he fuch a Rival seem
  • For whom you Heav’n should difesteem?
  • Ah, no! and ‘twould more Honour prove
  • He your Devoto were, than Love.
  • Here live beloved, and obey’d:
  • Each one your Sifter, each your Maid.
  • And, if our Rule feem strictly pend,
  • The Rule it self to you fhall bend.
  • Our Abbefs too, now far in Age,
  • Doth your fuccession near presage.
  • How foft the yoke on us would lye,
  • Might fuch fair Hands as yours it tye!
  • Your voice, the fweetest of the Quire,
  • Shall draw Heav’n nearer, raife us higher.
  • And your Example, if our Head,
  • Will foon us to perfection lead.
  • Thofe Virtues to us all so dear,
  • Will straight grow Sanctity when here:
  • And that, once fprung, increase so faft
  • Till Miracles it work at laft.
  • Nor is our Order yet fo nice,
  • Delight to banish as a Vice.
  • Here Pleasure Piety doth meet;
  • One perfecting the other Sweet.
  • So through the mortal fruit we boyl
  • The Sugars uncorrupting Oyl:
  • And that which perifht while we pull,
  • Is thus preferved clear and full.
  • For fuch indeed are all our Arts;
  • ftill handling Natures fineft Parts.
  • Flow’rs dress the Altars; for the Clothes,
  • The Sea-born Amber we compose;
  • Balms for the griv’d we draw; and pasts
  • We mold, as Baits for curious tasts.
  • What need is here of Man? unless
  • thefe as sweet Sins we should confess.
  • Each Night among us to your fide
  • Appoint a frefh and Virgin Bride;
  • Whom if our Lord at midnight find,
  • Yet Neither fhould be left behind.
  • Where you may lye as chaft in Bed,
  • As Pearls together billeted.
  • All Night embracing Arm in Arm,
  • Like Chryftal pure with Cotton warm.
  • But what is this to all the ftore
  • Of Joys you see, and may make more!
  • Try but a while, if you be wise:
  • The Tryal neither Costs, nor Tyes.
  • Now Fairfax seek her promis’d faith:
  • Religion that difpensed hath;
  • Which She hence forward does begin;
  • The Nuns fmooth Tongue has fuckt her in.
  • Oft, though he knew it was in vain,
  • Yet would he valiantly complain.
  • “Is this that Sanctity so great,
  • An Art by which you finly’r cheat
  • Hypocrite Witches, hence avant,
  • Who though in prison yet inchant!
  • Death only can such Theeves make faft,
  • As rob though in the Dungeon caft.
  • Were there but, when this Houfe was made,
  • One Stone that a just Hand had laid,
  • It must have fall’n upon her Head
  • Who firft Thee from thy Faith mifled.
  • And yet, how well foever ment,
  • With them ‘twould soon grow fraudulent
  • For like themfelves they alter all,
  • And vice infects the very Wall.
  • But fure thofe Buildings last not long,
  • Founded by Folly, kept by Wrong.
  • I know what Fruit their Gardens yield,
  • When they it think by Night conceal’d.
  • Fly from their Vices. ‘Tis thy ftate,
  • Not Thee, that they would confecrate.
  • Fly from their Ruine. How I fear
  • Though guiltlefs lest thou perifh there.
  • What fhould he do? He would refpect
  • Religion, but not Right neglect:
  • For firft Religion taught him Right,
  • And dazled not but clear’d his sight.
  • Sometimes resolv’d his Sword he draws,
  • But reverenceth then the Laws:
  • For Juftice ftill that Courage led;
  • Firft from a Judge, then Souldier bred.
  • Small Honour would be in the Storm.
  • The Court him grants the lawful Form;
  • Which licens’d either Peace or Force,
  • To hinder the unjust Divorce.
  • Yet ftill the Nuns his Right debar’d,
  • Standing upon their holy Guard.
  • Ill-counsell’d Women, do you know
  • Whom you resift, or what you do?
  • Is not this he whofe Offspring fierce
  • Shall fight through all the Univerfe;
  • And with fuccessive Valour try
  • France, Poland, either Germany;
  • Till one, as long since prophecy’d,
  • His Horse through conquer’d Britain ride?
  • Yet, against Fate, his Spouse they kept;
  • And the great Race would intercept.
  • Some to the Breach against their Foes
  • Their Wooden Saints in vain oppose
  • Another bolder stands at push
  • With their old Holy Water Brush.
  • While the difjointed Abbess threads
  • The gingling Chain fhot of her Beads.
  • But their lowd’ft Cannon were their Lungs;
  • And fharpest Weapons were their Tongues.
  • But, waving thefe aside like Flyes,
  • Young Fairfax through the Wall does rife.
  • Then th’ unfrequented Vault appear’d,
  • And superstitions vainly fear’d.
  • The Relicks false were set to view;
  • Only the Jewels there were true.
  • But truly bright and holy Thwaites
  • That weeping at the Altar waites.
  • But the glad Youth away her bears,
  • And to the Nuns bequeaths her Tears:
  • Who guiltily their Prize bemoan,
  • Like Gipsies that a Child hath ftoln.
  • Thenceforth (as when th’ Inchantment ends
  • The Caftle vanishes or rends)
  • The wasting Cloister with the rest
  • Was in one inftant dispossest.
  • At the demolifhing, this Seat
  • To Fairfax fell as by Escheat.
  • And what both Nuns and Founders will’d
  • ‘Tis likely better thus fulfill’d,
  • For if the Virgin prov’d not theirs,
  • The Cloyster yet remained hers.
  • Though many a Nun there made her Vow,
  • ‘Twas no Religious Houfe till now.
  • From that blest Bed the Heroe came,
  • Whom France and Poland yet does fame:
  • Who, when retired here to Peace,
  • His warlike Studies could not cease;
  • But laid thefe Gardens out in sport
  • In the just Figure of a Fort;
  • And with five Bastions it did fence,
  • As aiming one for ev’ry Senfe.
  • When in the East the Morning Ray
  • Hangs out the Colours of the Day,
  • The Bee through thefe known Allies hums,
  • Beating the Dian with its Drumms.
  • Then Flow’rs their drowsie Eylids raise,
  • Their Silken Ensigns each displayes,
  • And dries its Pan yet dank with Dew,
  • And fills its Flask with Odours new.
  • Thefe, as their Governour goes by,
  • In fragrant Vollyes they let fly;
  • And to salute their Governefs
  • Again as great a charge they press:
  • None for the Virgin Nymph; for She
  • Seems with the Flow’rs a Flow’r to be.
  • And think fo ftill! though not compare
  • With Breath fo fweet, or Cheek fo faire.
  • Well fhot ye Firemen! Oh how fweet,
  • And round your equal Fires do meet;
  • Whofe shrill report no Ear can tell,
  • But Ecchoes to the Eye and fmell.
  • See how the Flow’rs, as at Parade,
  • Under their Colours stand displaid:
  • Each Regiment in order grows,
  • That of the Tulip, Pinke, and Rose.
  • But when the vigilant Patroul
  • Of Stars walks round about the Pole,
  • Their Leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,
  • Seem to their Staves the Ensigns furl’d.
  • Then in some Flow’rs beloved Hut
  • Each Bee as Sentinel is shut;
  • And sleeps so too: but, if once stir’d,
  • She runs you through, nor askes the Word.
  • Oh Thou, that dear and happy Isle
  • The Garden of the World ere while,
  • Thou Paradise of four Seas,
  • Which Heaven planted us to pleafe,
  • But, to exclude the World, did guard
  • With watry if not flaming Sword;
  • What lucklefs Apple did we taft,
  • To make us Mortal, and The Waft.
  • Unhappy! shall we never more
  • That fweet Militia reftore,
  • When Gardens only had their Towrs,
  • And all the Garrifons were Flowrs,
  • When Rofes only Arms might bear,
  • And Men did rofie Garlands wear?
  • Tulips, in feveral Colours barr’d,
  • Were then the Switzers of our Guard.
  • The Gardiner had the Souldiers place,
  • And his more gentle Forts did trace.
  • The Nursery of all things green
  • Was then the only Magazeen.
  • The Winter Quarters were the Stoves,
  • Where he the tender Plants removes.
  • But War all this doth overgrow:
  • We Ord’nance Plant and Powder sow.
  • And yet their walks one on the Sod
  • Who, had it pleafed him and God,
  • Might once have made our Gardens fpring
  • Fresh as his own and flourifhing.
  • But he preferr’d to the Cinque Ports
  • thefe five imaginary Forts:
  • And, in thofe half-dry Trenches, fpann’d
  • Pow’r which the Ocean might command.
  • For he did, with his utmoft Skill,
  • Ambition weed, but Conscience till.
  • Conscience, that Heaven-nursed Plant,
  • Which moft our Earthly Gardens want.
  • A prickling leaf it bears, and such
  • As that which shrinks at ev’ry touch;
  • But Flowrs eternal, and divine,
  • That in the Crowns of Saints do shine.
  • The sight does from thefe Bastions ply,
  • Th’ invisible Artilery;
  • And at proud Cawood Castle seems
  • To point the Battery of its Beams.
  • As if it quarrell’d in the Seat
  • Th’ Ambition of its Prelate great.
  • But ore the Meads below it plays,
  • Or innocently feems to gaze.
  • And now to the Abbyss I pafs
  • Of that unfathomable Grafs,
  • Where Men like Grashoppers appear,
  • But Grafhoppers are Gyants there:
  • They, in there fqueking Laugh, contemn
  • Us as we walk more low then them:
  • And, from the Precipices tall
  • Of the green fpir’s, to us do call.
  • To fee Men through this Meadow Dive,
  • We wonder how they rife alive.
  • As, under Water, none does know
  • Whether he fall through it or go.
  • But, as the Marriners that sound,
  • And show upon their Lead the Ground,
  • They bring up Flow’rs so to be seen,
  • And prove they’ve at the Bottom been.
  • No Scene that turns with Engines strange
  • Does oftner then thefe Meadows change,
  • For when the Sun the Grafs hath vext,
  • The tawny Mowers enter next;
  • Who feem like Israelites to be,
  • Walking on foot through a green Sea.
  • To them the Grafsy Deeps divide,
  • And crowd a Lane to either Side.
  • With whistling Sithe, and Elbow ftrong,
  • thefe Massacre the Grafs along:
  • While one, unknowing, carves the Rail,
  • Whofe yet unfeather’d Quils her fail.
  • The Edge all bloody from its Breast
  • He draws, and does his stroke detest;
  • Fearing the Flesh untimely mow’d
  • To him a Fate as black forebode.
  • But bloody Thestylis, that waites
  • To bring the mowing Camp their Cates,
  • Greedy as Kites has trust it up,
  • And forthwith means on it to sup:
  • When on another quick She lights,
  • And cryes, he call’d us Israelites;
  • But now, to make his faying true,
  • Rails rain for Quails, for Manna Dew.
  • Unhappy Birds! what does it boot
  • To build below the Grafses Root;
  • When Lownefs is unsafe as Hight,
  • And Chance o’retakes what scapeth spight?
  • And now your Orphan Parents Call
  • Sounds your untimely Funeral.
  • Death-Trumpets creak in such a Note,
  • And ’tis the Sourdine in their Throat.
  • Or fooner hatch or higher build:
  • The Mower now commands the Field;
  • In whofe new Traverse feemeth wrought
  • A Camp of Battail newly fought:
  • Where, as the Meads with Hay, the Plain
  • Lyes quilted ore with Bodies slain:
  • The Women that with forks it filing,
  • Do reprefent the Pillaging.
  • And now the carelefs Victors play,
  • Dancing the Triumphs of the Hay;
  • Where every Mowers wholesome Heat
  • Smells like an Alexanders Sweat.
  • Their Females fragrant as the Mead
  • Which they in Fairy Circles tread:
  • When at their Dances End they kifs,
  • Their new-made Hay not fweeter is.
  • When after this ’tis pil’d in Cocks,
  • Like a calm Sea it fhews the Rocks:
  • We wondring in the River near
  • How Boats among them safely steer.
  • Or, like the Defert Memphis Sand,
  • Short Pyramids of Hay do ftand.
  • And fuch the Roman Camps do rife
  • In Hills for Soldiers Obsequies.
  • This Scene again withdrawing brings
  • A new and empty Face of things;
  • A levell’d space, as smooth and plain,
  • As Clothes for Lilly strecht to stain.
  • The World when firft created sure
  • Was such a Table rafe and pure.
  • Or rather such is the Toril
  • Ere the Bulls enter at Madril.
  • For to this naked equal Flat,
  • Which Levellers take Pattern at,
  • The Villagers in common chase
  • Their Cattle, which it clofer rase;
  • And what below the Sith increaft
  • Is pincht yet nearer by the Breaft.
  • Such, in the painted World, appear’d
  • Davenant with th’ Universal Heard.
  • They seem within the polifht Grafs
  • A landskip drawen in Looking-Glafs.
  • And fhrunk in the huge Pafture fhow
  • As spots, fo fhap’d, on Faces do.
  • Such Fleas, ere they approach the Eye,
  • In Multiplyiug Glasses lye.
  • They feed fo wide, fo slowly move,
  • As Constellations do above.
  • Then, to conclude thefe pleafant Acts,
  • Denton sets ope its Cataracts;
  • And makes the Meadow truly be
  • (What it but seem’d before) a Sea.
  • For, jealous of its Lords long stay,
  • It try’s t’invite him thus away.
  • The River in it self is drown’d,
  • And Ifl’s th’ aftonish Cattle round.
  • Let others tell the Paradox,
  • How Eels now bellow in the Ox;
  • How Horfes at their Tails do kick,
  • Turn’d as they hang to Leeches quick;
  • How Boats can over Bridges fail;
  • And Fifhes do the Stables fcale.
  • How Salmons trespafsing are found;
  • And Pikes are taken in the Pound.
  • But I, retiring from the Flood,
  • Take Sanctuary in the Wood;
  • And, while it lafts, my felf imbark
  • In this yet green, yet growing Ark;
  • Where the firft Carpenter might best
  • Fit Timber for his Keel have Prest.
  • And where all Creatures might have fhares,
  • Although in Armies, not in Paires.
  • The double Wood of ancient Stocks
  • Link’d in fo thick, an Union locks,
  • It like two Pedigrees appears,
  • On one hand Fairfax, th’ other Veres:
  • Of whom though many fell in War,
  • Yet more to Heaven shooting are:
  • And, as they Natures Cradle deckt,
  • Will in green Age her Hearse expect.
  • When firft the Eye this Forreft fees
  • It seems indeed as Wood not Trees:
  • As if their Neighbourhood so old
  • To one great Trunk them all did mold.
  • There the huge Bulk takes place, as ment
  • To thrust up a Fifth Element;
  • And stretches ftill fo clofely wedg’d
  • As if the Night within were hedg’d.
  • Dark all without it knits; within
  • It opens passable and thin;
  • And in as loose an order grows,
  • As the Corinthean Porticoes.
  • The Arching Boughs unite between
  • The Columnes of the Temple green;
  • And underneath the winged Quires
  • Echo about their tuned Fires.
  • The Nightingale does here make choice
  • To sing the Tryals of her Voice.
  • Low Shrubs she sits in, and adorns
  • With Musick high the squatted Thorns.
  • But higheft Oakes stoop down to hear,
  • And listning Elders prick the Ear.
  • The Thorn, left it should hurt her, draws
  • Within the Skin its fhrunken claws.
  • But I have for my Mufick found
  • A Sadder, yet more pleasing Sound:
  • The Stock-doves whofe fair necks are grac’d
  • With Nuptial Rings their Enfigns chast;
  • Yet always, for some Caufe unknown,
  • Sad pair unto the Elms they moan.
  • O why should fuch a Couple mourn,
  • That in fo equal Flames do burn!
  • Then as I carlefs on the Bed
  • Of gelid Straw-berryes do tread,
  • And through the Hazles thick efpy
  • The hatching Thraftle’s fhining Eye,
  • The Heron from the Afhes top,
  • The eldeft of its young lets drop,
  • As if it Stork-like did pretend
  • That Tribute to its Lord to send.
  • But moft the Hewel’s wonders are,
  • Who here has the Holt-felfters care.
  • He walks ftill upright from the Root,
  • Meas’ring the Timber with his Foot;
  • And all the way, to keep it clean,
  • Doth from the Bark the Wood-moths glean.
  • He, with his Beak, examines well
  • Which fit to stand and which to fell.
  • The good he numbers up, and hacks;
  • As if he mark’d them with the Ax.
  • But where he, tinkling with his Beak,
  • Does find the hollow Oak to speak,
  • That for his building he designs,
  • And through the tainted Side he mines.
  • Who could have thought the tallest Oak
  • Should fall by fuch a feeble Stroke!
  • Nor would it, had the Tree not fed
  • A Traitor-worm, within it bred.
  • (As firft our Flefh corrupt within
  • Tempts impotent and bashful Sin.)
  • And yet that Worm triumphs not long,
  • But serves to feed the Hewels young.
  • While the Oake feems to fall content,
  • Viewing the Treason’s Punishment.
  • Thus I, eafie Philosopher,
  • Among the Birds and Trees confer:
  • And little now to make me, wants
  • Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants.
  • Give me but Wings as they, and I
  • Streight floting on the Air fhall fly:
  • Or turn me but, and you fhall see
  • I was but an inverted Tree.
  • Already I begin to call
  • In their moft-learned Original:
  • And where I Language want,my Signs
  • The Bird upon the Bough divines;
  • And more attentive there doth sit
  • Then if She were with Lime-twigs knit.
  • No Leaf does tremble in the Wind
  • Which I returning cannot find.
  • Out of thefe fcatter’d Sibyls Leaves
  • Strange Prophecies my Phancy weaves:
  • And in one History consumes,
  • Like Mexique Paintings, all the Plumes.
  • What Rome, Greece, Palestine, ere faid
  • I in this light Mofaick read.
  • Thrice happy he who, not mistook,
  • Hath read in Natures mystick Book.
  • And fee how Chance’s better Wit
  • Could with a Mask my studies hit!
  • The Oak-Leaves me embroyder all,
  • Between which Caterpillars crawl:
  • And Ivy, with familiar trails,
  • Me licks, and clasps, and curles, and hales.
  • Under this antick Cope I move
  • Like fome great Prelate of the Grove,
  • Then, languishing with eafe, I tofs
  • On Pallets fwoln of Velvet Moss;
  • While the Wind, cooling through the Boughs,
  • Flatters with Air my panting Brows.
  • Thanks for my Rest ye Mossy Banks,
  • And unto you cool Zephyr’s Thanks,
  • Who, as my Hair, my Thoughts too shed,
  • And winnow from the Chaff my Head.
  • How fafe, methinks, and ftrong, behind
  • thefe Trees have I incamp’d my Mind;
  • Where Beauty, aiming at the Heart,
  • Bends in some Tree its ufelefs Dart;
  • And where the World no certain fhot
  • Can make, or me it toucheth not.
  • But I on it fecurely play,
  • And gaul its Horfemen all the Day.
  • Bind me ye Woodbines in your ‘twines,
  • Curle me about ye gadding Vines,
  • And Oh fo close your Circles lace,
  • That I may never leave this Place:
  • But, left your Fetters prove too weak,
  • Ere I your Silken Bondage break,
  • Do you, O Brambles, chain me too,
  • And courteous Briars nail me though.
  • Here in the Morning tye my Chain,
  • Where the two Woods have made a Lane;
  • While, like a Guard on either fide,
  • The Trees before their Lord divide;
  • This, like a long and equal Thread,
  • Betwixt two Labyrinths does lead.
  • But, where the Floods did lately drown,
  • There at the Ev’ning stake me down.
  • For now the Waves are fal’n and dry’d,
  • And now the Meadows frefher dy’d;
  • whofe Grafs, with moifter colour dasht,
  • Seems as green Silks but newly washt.
  • No Serpent new nor Crocodile
  • Remains behind our little Nile;
  • Unless it self you will miftake,
  • Among thefe Meads the only Snake.
  • See in what wanton harmlefs folds
  • It ev’ry where the Meadow holds;
  • And its yet muddy back doth lick,
  • Till as a Chryftal Mirrour slick;
  • Where all things gaze themfelves, and doubt
  • If they be in it or without.
  • And for his fhade which therein shines,
  • Narciffus like, the Sun too pines.
  • Oh what a Pleafure ’tis to hedge
  • My Temples here with heavy fedge;
  • Abandoning my lazy Side,
  • Stretcht as a Bank unto the Tide;
  • Or to suspend my fliding Foot
  • On the Osiers undermined Root,
  • And in its Branches tough to hang,
  • While at my Lines the Fishes twang!
  • But now away my Hooks, my Quills,
  • And Angles, idle Utensils.
  • The young Maria walks to night:
  • Hide trifling Youth thy Pleasures slight.
  • ‘Twere shame that fuch judicious Eyes
  • Should with fuch Toyes a Man furprize;
  • She that already is the Law
  • Of all her Sex, her Ages Aw.
  • See how loofe Nature, in respect
  • To her, it self doth recollect;
  • And every thing so whisht and fine,
  • Starts forth with to its Bonne Mine.
  • The Sun himself, of Her aware,
  • Seems to descend with greater Care,
  • And lest She see him go to Bed,
  • In blufhing Clouds conceales his Head.
  • So when the Shadows laid afleep
  • From underneath thefe Banks do creep,
  • And on the River as it flows
  • With Eben Shuts begin to close;
  • The modeft Halcyon comes in sight,
  • Flying betwixt the Day and Night;
  • And fuch an horror calm and dumb,
  • Admiring Nature does benum.
  • The vifcous Air, wheres’ere She fly,
  • Follows and fucks her Azure dy;
  • The gellying Stream compacts below,
  • If it might fix her fhadow so;
  • The ftupid Fishes hang, as plain
  • As Flies in Chryftal overt’ane,
  • And Men the silent Scene affist,
  • Charm’d with the saphir-winged Mift.
  • Maria fuch, and so doth hufh
  • The World, and through the Ev’ning rush.
  • No new-born Comet such a Train
  • Draws through the Skie, nor Star new-flain.
  • For ftreight thofe giddy Rockets fail,
  • Which from the putrid Earth exhale,
  • But by her Flames, in Heaven try’d,
  • Nature is wholly vitrifi’d.
  • ‘Tis She that to thefe Gardens gave
  • That wondrous Beauty which they have;
  • She ftreightnefs on the Woods beftows;
  • To Her the Meadow fweetness owes;
  • Nothing could make the River be
  • So Chryftal-pure but only She;
  • She yet more Pure, Sweet, Streight, and Fair,
  • Then Gardens, Woods, Meads, Rivers are.
  • Therefore what firft She on them fpent,
  • They gratefully again prefent.
  • The Meadow Carpets where to tread;
  • The Garden Flow’rs to Crown Her Head;
  • And for a Glafs the limpid Brook,
  • Where She may all her Beautyes look;
  • But, fince She would not have them feen,
  • The Wood about her draws a Skreen.
  • For She, to higher Beauties rais’d,
  • Disdains to be for lefser prais’d.
  • She counts her Beauty to converse
  • In all the Languages as hers;
  • Not yet in thofe her felf imployes
  • But for the Wifdome, not the Noyfe;
  • Nor yet that Wisdome would affect,
  • But as ’tis Heavens Dialect.
  • Bleft Nymph! that couldft fo foon prevent
  • Thofe Trains by Youth againft thee meant;
  • Tears (watry fhot that pierce the Mind;)
  • And Sighs (Loves Cannon charg’d with Wind;)
  • True Praise (That breaks through all defence;)
  • And feign’d complying Innocence;
  • But knowing where this Ambush lay,
  • She fcap’d the fafe, but rougheft Way.
  • This ’tis to have been from the firft
  • In a Domestick Heaven nurft,
  • Under the Discipline fevere
  • Of Fairfax, and the ftarry Vere;
  • Where not one object can come nigh
  • But pure, and fpotlefs as the Eye;
  • And Goodnefs doth it felf intail
  • On Females, if there want a Male.
  • Go now fond Sex that on your Face
  • Do all your useless Study place,
  • Nor once at Vice your Brows dare knit
  • Lest the smooth Forehead wrinkled sit
  • Yet your own Face fhall at you grin,
  • Thorough the Black-bag of your Skin;
  • When knowledge only could have fill’d
  • And Virtue all thofe Furows till’d.
  • Hence She with Graces more divine
  • Supplies beyond her Sex the Line;
  • And, like a fprig of Mifleto,
  • On the Fairfacian Oak does grow;
  • Whence, for fome univerfal good,
  • The Prieft shall cut the sacred Bud;
  • While her glad Parents moft rejoice,
  • And make their Destiny their Choice.
  • Mean time ye Fields, Springs, Bushes, Flow’rs,
  • Where yet She leads her ftudious Hours,
  • (Till Fate her worthily tranflates,
  • And find a Fairfax for our Thwaites)
  • Employ the means you have by Her,
  • And in your kind your felves preferr;
  • That, as all Virgins She preceds,
  • So you all Woods, Streams, Gardens, Meads.
  • For you Thefsalian Tempe’s Seat
  • Shall now be fcorn’d as obfolete;
  • Aranjuez, as lefs, disdain’d;
  • The Bel-Retiro as constrain’d;
  • But name not the Idalian Grove,
  • For ’twas the Seat of wanton Love;
  • Much less the Deads’ Elysian Fields,
  • Yet nor to them your Beauty yields.
  • ‘Tis not, what once it was, the World;
  • But a rude heap together hurl’d;
  • All negligently overthrown,
  • Gulfes, Deferts, Precipices, Stone.
  • Your lefser World contains the fame.
  • But in more decent Order tame;
  • You Heaven’s Center, Nature’s Lap.
  • And Paradice’s only Map.
  • But now the Salmon-Fishers moift
  • Their Leathern Boats begin to hoift;
  • And, like Antipodes in Shoes,
  • Have fhod their Heads in their Canoos.
  • How Tortoise like, but not fo flow,
  • Thefe rational Amphibii go?
  • Let’s in: for the dark Hemisphere
  • Does now like one of them appear.
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    Anthology of Medieval Literature Copyright © 2021 by Christian Beck is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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