Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 30

See how the motion does dilate the flame!

Delighted Love his spoils does boast, And triumph in this game.

Fire, to no place confined, Is both our wonder and our fear; Moving the mind, As lightning hurled through the air.

2 High heaven the glory does increase Of all her shining lamps, this artful way; The sun in figures, such as these, Joys with the moon to play; To the sweet strains they advance, Which do result from their own spheres, As this nymph's dance Moves with the numbers which she hears.

WHILE I LISTEN TO THY VOICE.

1 While I listen to thy voice, Chloris! I feel my life decay; That powerful noise Calls my fleeting soul away.

Oh! suppress that magic sound, Which destroys without a wound.

2 Peace, Chloris! peace! or singing die, That together you and I To heaven may go; For all we know Of what the blessed do above, Is, that they sing, and that they love.

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

1 Go, lovely Rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

2 Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

3 Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

4 Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

SUNG BY MRS KNIGHT TO HER MAJESTY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

This happy day two lights are seen, A glorious saint, a matchless queen;[1]

Both named alike, both crown'd appear, The saint above, th'Infanta here.

May all those years which Catherine The martyr did for heaven resign, Be added to the line Of your bless'd life among us here!

For all the pains that she did feel, And all the torments of her wheel, May you as many pleasures share!

May heaven itself content With Catherine the Saint!

Without appearing old, An hundred times may you, With eyes as bright as now, This welcome day behold!

[1] 'Matchless queen': Queen Catherine was born on the day set apart in the calendar for the commemoration of the martyrdom of St.

Catherine.

SONG.

1 Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face?

Colours of this glorious kind Come not from any mortal place.

2 In heaven itself thou sure wert dress'd With that angel-like disguise: Thus deluded am I bless'd, And see my joy with closed eyes.

3 But, ah! this image is too kind To be other than a dream; Cruel Saccharissa's mind Never put on that sweet extreme!

4 Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine; Paint despised love in thy face, And make it to appear like mine.

5 Pale, wan, and meagre let it look, With a pity-moving shape, Such as wander by the brook Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

6 Then to that matchless nymph appear, In whose shape thou shinest so; Softly in her sleeping ear, With humble words, express my woe.

7 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride, Thus surprised she may fall; Sleep does disproportion hide, And, death resembling, equals all.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS.

SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.

Amaze us not with that majestic frown, But lay aside the greatness of your crown!

And for that look which does your people awe, When in your throne and robes you give them law, Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile, Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while He listens to Apollo's charming lyre, Or judges of the songs he does inspire.

Comedians on the stage show all their skill, And after do as Love and Fortune will. 10 We are less careful, hid in this disguise; In our own clothes more serious and more wise.

Modest at home, upon the stage more bold, We seem warm lovers, though our b.r.e.a.s.t.s be cold; A fault committed here deserves no scorn, If we act well the parts to which we're born.

PROLOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'[1]

Scarce should we have the boldness to pretend So long-renown'd a tragedy to mend, Had not already some deserved your praise With like attempt. Of all our elder plays This and _Philaster_ have the loudest fame; Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.

In both our English genius is express'd; 7 Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.

Above our neighbours our conceptions are; But faultless writing is th'effect of care.

Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste, Polished like marble, would like marble last.[2]

But as the present, so the last age writ; In both we find like negligence and wit.

Were we but less indulgent to our faults, And patience had to cultivate our thoughts, Our Muse would flourish, and a n.o.bler rage Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.