The Hesperides & Noble Numbers Part 10

125. AN EPITAPH UPON A CHILD.

Virgins promis'd when I died That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb.

Having promis'd, pay your debts, Maids, and here strew violets.

127. THE HOUR-GLa.s.s.

That hour-gla.s.s which there you see With water fill'd, sirs, credit me, The humour was, as I have read, But lovers' tears incrystalled.

Which, as they drop by drop do pa.s.s From th' upper to the under-gla.s.s, Do in a trickling manner tell, By many a watery syllable, That lovers' tears in lifetime shed Do restless run when they are dead.

_Humour_, moisture.

128. HIS FAREWELL TO SACK.

Farewell thou thing, time past so known, so dear To me as blood to life and spirit; near, Nay, thou more near than kindred, friend, man, wife, Male to the female, soul to body; life To quick action, or the warm soft side Of the resigning, yet resisting bride.

The kiss of virgins, first fruits of the bed, Soft speech, smooth touch, the lips, the maidenhead: These and a thousand sweets could never be So near or dear as thou wast once to me.

O thou, the drink of G.o.ds and angels! wine That scatter'st spirit and l.u.s.t, whose purest shine More radiant than the summer's sunbeams shows; Each way ill.u.s.trious, brave, and like to those Comets we see by night, whose s.h.a.gg'd portents Foretell the coming of some dire events, Or some full flame which with a pride aspires, Throwing about his wild and active fires; 'Tis thou, above nectar, O divinest soul!

Eternal in thyself, that can'st control That which subverts whole nature, grief and care, Vexation of the mind, and d.a.m.n'd despair.

'Tis thou alone who, with thy mystic fan, Work'st more than wisdom, art, or nature can To rouse the sacred madness and awake The frost-bound blood and spirits, and to make Them frantic with thy raptures flashing through The soul like lightning, and as active too.

'Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee.

Horace, Anacreon, both had lost their fame, Had'st thou not fill'd them with thy fire and flame.

Phbean splendour! and thou, Thespian spring!

Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing Their true-pac'd numbers and their holy lays, Which makes them worthy cedar and the bays.

But why, why longer do I gaze upon Thee with the eye of admiration?

Since I must leave thee, and enforc'd must say To all thy witching beauties, Go, away.

But if thy whimpering looks do ask me why, Then know that nature bids thee go, not I.

'Tis her erroneous self has made a brain Uncapable of such a sovereign As is thy powerful self. Prithee not smile, Or smile more inly, lest thy looks beguile My vows denounc'd in zeal, which thus much show thee That I have sworn but by thy looks to know thee.

Let others drink thee freely, and desire Thee and their lips espous'd, while I admire And love thee, but not taste thee. Let my muse Fail of thy former helps, and only use Her inadult'rate strength: what's done by me Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.

_s.h.a.gg'd_, rough-haired.

_Mystic fan_, the "mystica vannus Iacchi" of Georgic, i. 166.

_Cedar_, _i.e._, cedar oil, used for the preservation of ma.n.u.scripts.

130. UPON MRS. ELIZABETH WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS.

Sweet Amarillis by a spring's Soft and soul-melting murmurings Slept, and thus sleeping, thither flew A robin-redbreast, who, at view, Not seeing her at all to stir, Brought leaves and moss to cover her; But while he perking there did pry About the arch of either eye, The lid began to let out day, At which poor robin flew away, And seeing her not dead, but all disleav'd, He chirp'd for joy to see himself deceiv'd.

132. TO MYRRHA, HARD-HEARTED.

Fold now thine arms and hang the head, Like to a lily withered; Next look thou like a sickly moon, Or like Jocasta in a swoon; Then weep and sigh and softly go, Like to a widow drown'd in woe, Or like a virgin full of ruth For the lost sweetheart of her youth; And all because, fair maid, thou art Insensible of all my smart, And of those evil days that be Now posting on to punish thee.

The G.o.ds are easy, and condemn All such as are not soft like them.

133. THE EYE.

Make me a heaven, and make me there Many a less and greater sphere: Make me the straight and oblique lines, The motions, lations and the signs.

Make me a chariot and a sun, And let them through a zodiac run; Next place me zones and tropics there, With all the seasons of the year.

Make me a sunset and a night, And then present the morning's light Cloth'd in her chamlets of delight.

To these make clouds to pour down rain, With weather foul, then fair again.

And when, wise artist, that thou hast With all that can be this heaven grac't, Ah! what is then this curious sky But only my Corinna's eye?

_Lations_, astral attractions.

_Chamlets_, _i.e._, camlets, stuffs made from camels' hair.

134. UPON THE MUCH-LAMENTED MR. J. WARR.

What wisdom, learning, wit or worth Youth or sweet nature could bring forth Rests here with him who was the fame, The volume of himself and name.

If, reader, then, thou wilt draw near And do an honour to thy tear, Weep then for him for whom laments Not one, but many monuments.

136. THE SUSPICION UPON HIS OVER-MUCH FAMILIARITY WITH A GENTLEWOMAN.

And must we part, because some say Loud is our love, and loose our play, And more than well becomes the day?

Alas for pity! and for us Most innocent, and injured thus!

Had we kept close, or played within, Suspicion now had been the sin, And shame had followed long ere this, T' have plagued what now unpunished is.

But we, as fearless of the sun, As faultless, will not wish undone What now is done, since _where no sin Unbolts the door, no shame comes in_.

Then, comely and most fragrant maid, Be you more wary than afraid Of these reports, because you see The fairest most suspected be.

The common forms have no one eye Or ear of burning jealousy To follow them: but chiefly where Love makes the cheek and chin a sphere To dance and play in, trust me, there Suspicion questions every hair.

Come, you are fair, and should be seen While you are in your sprightful green: And what though you had been embraced By me--were you for that unchaste?

No, no! no more than is yond' moon Which, shining in her perfect noon, In all that great and glorious light, Continues cold as is the night.

Then, beauteous maid, you may retire; And as for me, my chaste desire Shall move towards you, although I see Your face no more. So live you free From fame's black lips, as you from me.

137. SINGLE LIFE MOST SECURE.

Suspicion, discontent, and strife Come in for dowry with a wife.

138. THE CURSE. A SONG.

Go, perjured man; and if thou e'er return To see the small remainders in mine urn, When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust, And ask: where's now the colour, form and trust Of woman's beauty? and with hand more rude Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed: Know I have prayed to Fury that some wind May blow my ashes up, and strike thee blind.

139. THE WOUNDED CUPID. SONG.

Cupid, as he lay among Roses, by a bee was stung; Whereupon, in anger flying To his mother, said thus, crying: Help! oh help! your boy's a-dying.

And why, my pretty lad, said she?

Then, blubbering, replied he: A winged snake has bitten me, Which country people call a bee.

At which she smiled; then, with her hairs And kisses drying up his tears: Alas! said she, my wag, if this Such a pernicious torment is, Come tell me then, how great's the smart Of those thou woundest with thy dart!

140. TO DEWS. A SONG.

I burn, I burn; and beg of you To quench or cool me with your dew.

I fry in fire, and so consume, Although the pile be all perfume.