by Paul Keegan
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat
Would reach the brasen voyce of warr’s hoarce Bird;
Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour’d
Into loose extasies, that shee is plac’t
Above her selfe, Musicks Enthusiast.
Shame now and anger mixt a double staine
In the Musitians face; yet once againe
(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my Lute
Above her mocke, or bee for ever mute.
Or tune a song of victory to mee,
Or to thy selfe, sing thine owne Obsequie;
So said, his hands sprightly as fire hee flings,
And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.
The sweet-lip’t sisters musically frighted,
Singing their feares are fearfully delighted.
Trembling as when Appollo’s golden haires
Are fan’d and frizled, in the wanton ayres
Of his owne breath: which marryed to his lyre
Doth tune the Sphæares, and make Heavens selfe looke higher.
From this to that, from that to this hee flyes
Feeles Musicks pulse in all her Arteryes,
Caught in a net which there Appollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocall threads,
Following those little rills, hee sinkes into
A Sea of Helicon; his hand does goe
Those parts of sweetnesse which with Nectar drop,
Softer then that which pants in Hebe’s cup.
The humourous strings expound his learned touch,
By various Glosses; now they seeme to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingle
In shrill tongu’d accents: striving to bee single.
Every smooth turne, every delicious stroake
Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h’invoke
Sweetnesse by all her Names; thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The Lutes light Genius now does proudly rise,
Heav’d on the surges of swolne Rapsodyes.
Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curie the aire
With flash of high-borne fancyes: here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone:
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild aires
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares
Because those pretious mysteryes that dwell,
In musick’s ravish’t soule hee dare not tell,
But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary
Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry
Their Masters blest soule (snatcht out at his Eares
By a strong Extasy) through all the sphæares
Of Musicks heaven; and seat it there on high
In th’ Empyrœum of pure Harmony.
At length (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety attending on
His fingers fairest revolution
In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)
A full-mouth Diapason swallowes all.
This done, hee lists what shee would say to this,
And shee although her Breath’s late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throate,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Noate
Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule) shee tryes
To measure all those wild diversities
Of chatt’ring stringes, by the small size of one
Poore simple voyce, rais’d in a Naturall Tone;
Shee failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes.
Shee dyes; and leaves her life the Victors prise,
Falling upon his Lute; ô fit to have
(That liv’d so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave!
SIR JOHN SUCKLING [Loves Siege]
Tis now since I sate down before
That foolish Fort, a heart,
(Time strangely spent) a Year, and more,
And still I did my part:
Made my approaches, from her hand
Unto her lip did rise,
And did already understand
The language of her eyes;
Proceeded on with no lesse Art,
My Tongue was Engineer:
I thought to undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.
When this did nothing, I brought down
Great Canon-oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the Town,
And still it yeelded not.
I then resolv’d to starve the place
By cutting off all kisses,
Praysing and gazing on her face,
And all such little blisses.
To draw her out, and from her strength,
I drew all batteries in:
And brought my self to lie at length
As if no siege had been.
When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine owne,
The Enemy lay quiet too,
And smil’d at all was done.
I sent to know from whence, and where,
These hopes, and this relief?
A Spie inform’d, Honour was there,
And did command in chief.
March, march, (quoth I) the word straight give,
Lets lose no time, but leave her:
That Giant upon ayre will live,
And hold it out for ever.
To such a place our Camp remove
As will no siege abide;
I hate a fool that starves her Love
Onely to feed her pride.
JOHN HALL An Epicurean Ode
Since that this thing we call the world
By chance on Atomes is begot,
Which though in dayly motions hurld,
Yet weary not,
How doth it prove
Thou art so fair and I in Love?
Since that the soul doth onely lie
Immers’d in matter, chaind in sense,
How can Romira thou and I
With both dispence?
And thus ascend
In higher flights then wings can lend.
Since man’s but pasted up of Earth,
And ne’re was cradled in the skies,
What Terra Lemnia gave thee birth?
What Diamond eyes?
Or thou alone
To tell what others were, came down?
JAMES SHIRLEY Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham
Here lies the best and worst of Fate,
Two Kings delight, the peoples hate,
The Courtiers star, the Kingdoms eye,
A man to draw an Angel by.
Fears despiser, Villiers glory,
The Great mans volume, all times story.
JAMES SHIRLEY
The glories of our blood and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things,
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hand on Kings,
Scepter and Crown,
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made,
With the poor crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they pale Captives creep to death.
The Garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon Deaths purple Altar now,
See where the Victor-victim bleeds,
Your heads must come,
To the cold Tomb,
Onely the actions of the just
&
nbsp; Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
(1659)
1647 JOHN CLEVELAND Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford
Here lies Wise and Valiant Dust,
Huddled up ’twixt Fit and Just:
STRAFFORD, who was hurried hence
’Twixt Treason and Convenience.
He spent his Time here in a Mist;
A Papist, yet a Calvinist.
His Prince’s nearest Joy, and Grief.
He had, yet wanted all Reliefe.
The Prop and Ruine of the State;
The People’s violent Love, and Hate:
One in extreames lov’d and abhor’d.
Riddles lie here; or in a word,
Here lies Blood; and let it lie
Speechlesse still, and never crie.
1648 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE from the Spanish of Gongora A Great Favorit Beheaded
The bloudy trunck of him who did possesse
Above the rest a haplesse happy state,
This little Stone doth Seale, but not depresse,
And scarce can stop the rowling of his fate.
Brasse Tombes which justice hath deny’d t’ his fault,
The common pity to his vertues payes,
Adorning an Imaginary vault,
Which from our minds time strives in vaine to raze.
Ten yeares the world upon him falsly smild,
Sheathing in fawning lookes the deadly knife
Long aymed at his head: That so beguild
It more securely might bereave his Life;
Then threw him to a Scaffold from a Throne.
Much Doctrine lyes under this little Stone.
ROBERT HERRICK from Hesperides
The Argument of His Book
I sing of Brooks, of Blossomes, Birds, and Bowers:
Of April, May, of June, and July-Flowers.
I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes,
Of Bride-grooms, Brides, and of their Bridall-cakes.
I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse
By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse.
I sing of Dewes, of Raines, and piece by piece
Of Balme, of Oyle, of Spice, and Amber-Greece.
I sing of Times trans-shifting; and I write
How Roses first came Red, and Lillies White.
I write of Groves, of Twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairie-King.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
Upon Julia’s Voice
So smooth, so sweet, so silv’ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the Damn’d would make no noise,
But listen to thee, (walking in thy chamber)
Melting melodious words, to Lutes of Amber.
Delight in Disorder
A sweet disorder in the dresse
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse:
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring Lace, which here and there
Enthralls the Crimson Stomacher:
A Cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving Note)
In the tempestuous petticote:
A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye
I see a wilde civility:
Doe more bewitch me, then when Art
Is too precise in every part.
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying:
And this same flower that smiles to day,
To morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he’s a getting;
The sooner will his Race be run,
And neerer he’s to Setting.
That Age is best, which is the first,
When Youth and Blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, goe marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
The Comming of Good Luck
So Good-luck came, and on my roofe did light,
Like noyse-lesse Snow; or as the dew of night:
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are, by the Sun-beams, tickel’d by degrees.
To Meddowes
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill’d with flowers:
And ye the Walks have been
Where Maids have spent their houres.
You have beheld, how they
With Wicker Arks did come
To kisse, and beare away
The richer Couslips home.
Y’ave heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a Round:
Each Virgin, like a Spring,
With Hony-succles crown’d.
But now, we see, none here,
Whose silv’rie feet did tread,
And with dishevell’d Haire,
Adorn’d this smoother Mead.
Like Unthrifts, having spent,
Your stock, and needy grown,
Y’are left here to lament
Your poore estates, alone.
The Departure of the Good Dœmon
What can I do in Poetry,
Now the good Spirit’s gone from me?
Why nothing now, but lonely sit,
And over-read what I have writ.
Upon Prew His Maid
In this little Urne is laid
Prewdence Baldwin (once my maid)
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple Violet.
On Himselfe
Lost to the world; lost to my selfe; alone
Here now I rest under this Marble stone:
In depth of silence, heard, and seene of none.
ROBERT HERRICK The White Island: Or Place of the Blest
