SPECULUM AMANTIS.
[Greek: to rhodon akmazei baion chronon; ên de parelthê,
zêtôn heurêseis ou rhodon, alla baton.]
_Incert._
_The season of the rose is brief, make haste to
pluck your posies;
Another day you'll chance to find bare thorns
where bloomed the roses._
SPECULUM AMANTIS:
LOVE-POEMS
FROM RARE SONG-BOOKS AND MISCELLANIES
OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
EDITED BY
A. H. BULLEN.
LONDON:
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
1889.
NOTE.--_Five Hundred Copies only printed, each
numbered as issued._
_No._ 133
WARNING AND WELCOME.
Grave moralist, with eyes a-squint,
And pucker'd mouth, pack hence! away!
Your heart is hard as any flint:
Avaunt! Love's feast is spread to-day.
And you, coy maiden, come not nigh,
Lest wanton rhyme assail your ears:
Wait till your chaste zone you untie
And Hymen put to flight your fears.
But, ho! all ye whose brisker veins
Glow with Dan Cupid's genial fire,
Post hitherwards, 'tis worth your pains,
And harken to our tuneful quire.
PREFACE.
In sending out this little anthology of seventeenth-century
love-verses, I must say a few words by way of explanation or apology.
Some eighteen months ago I published a collection of "Lyrics from
the Song-books of the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo), and recently
I issued a second collection, "More Lyrics from the Song-books of
the Elizabethan Age" (J. C. Nimmo). Those volumes were addressed to
all classes of readers. They may lie on a drawing-room table without
offence. Philemon may give them to his Amanda on her birthday with the
full assurance that he will run no risk of bringing a blush to the
fair nymph's cheek. I was careful to exclude from those collections
any poems that passed the bounds of conventional propriety. In the
seventeenth century those bounds were not so well defined as in the
present age. John Attey, in 1622, dedicated his "First Book of Airs"
to "The Right Honourable John, Earl of Bridgewater, Viscount Brackley,
and Baron of Ellesmere; and the truly Noble and Virtuous Lady, Frances,
Countess of Bridgewater." Among Attey's songs are the audacious verses,
"My days, my months, my years," which I have given in the present
collection (page 15). A noble and virtuous lady now-a-days would be
justly incensed if she found such a lyric in a song-book of which she
had accepted the dedication; but we may be sure that John Attey's
patroness did not withdraw her favour from the composer, or express
herself shocked at his temerity. Manners have changed, and "My days, my
months, my years" is no longer a song for the drawing-room; but snugly
stowed away with its fellows on a top shelf in the library it can do no
harm.
In the present volume I have gathered together from the song-books
the songs that could find no place in the former collections, and I
have included several poems from rare miscellanies of the seventeenth
century.
Although some of the poems here collected will be familiar to
students, I am confident that a considerable portion of the anthology
is unknown. Sir Walter Raleigh is a prominent figure in English
literature. The late Archdeacon Hannah's edition of Raleigh's poems
is a valuable piece of work; and Sir Egerton Brydges, in collecting
what he supposed to be Raleigh's poems, showed commendable industry,
but scant judgment. I therefore count myself fortunate in having
discovered the characteristic poem, "Nature that wash'd her hands in
milk" (page 76), which escaped the researches of previous enquirers.
The last stanza of that poem, "Oh cruel time, which takes in trust,"
with a couple of lines tacked on, was published in Raleigh's _Remains_,
where it is said to have been "found in his bible in the Gatehouse at
Westminster." Every reader has that stanza by heart, but the complete
poem--as given in the Harleian MS.--is printed for the first time.
Aurelian Townsend is a poet about whom I have often felt curiosity. He
was the friend of Carew, and Suckling introduces him into _The Session
of the Poets_. From one of the _Malone MSS._, in the Bodleian Library,
I have recovered the charming verses "To the Lady May;" and I can lay
my hand on other poems of Townsend which have never seen the light.[1]
The poems by Henry Ramsay (page 118), of whom I know nothing, of Bishop
Andrewes (page 121), and of J. Paulin (page 127), are not hackneyed;
and I might refer to many others.
[1] Some time ago I was at the pains to transcribe from a unique MS.
a long poem of Thomas Nashe. It is smoothly written, but very gross.
There must be other poems of Nashe in MS.
The finest of all Cartwright's poems is here--the magnificent "Song
of Dalliance"--beginning, "Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us." It is
ascribed to Cartwright in the unique miscellany (preserved in the
Bodleian), _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656, but is not
printed in his Works. Cartwright had a great reputation among his
contemporaries. "My son, Cartwright," said Ben Jonson, "writes all like
a man." "Cartwright was the utmost man could come to" in the opinion
of that excellent prelate, Bishop Fell. All the wits of the age paid
tributes to his memory. Anthony-à-Wood and Lloyd rush into raptures
about him. After reading the various panegyrics on his poems it is a
sad disappointment to turn to the poems themselves. But if Cartwright
wrote other poems equal to "Hark, my Flora!"--not for publication (for
he was "the most florid and seraphical preacher in the University," and
seraphical preachers should not publish Songs of Dalliance), but to be
circulated in manuscript among his friends--then the esteem in which
his poetical abilities were held would be intelligible.
Among the rare miscellanies from which I have quoted are _Wits
Interpreter_, 1655, 1671; _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650; _The
Marrow of Compliments_, 1655; _Sportive Wit_, 1656; _The Mysteries of
Love and Eloquence_ (edited by Milton's nephew, Edward Phillips), 1658;
_Wit and Drollery_, 1661; _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671; _The
Windsor Drollery_, 1672; and _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674. Many poems
are from MSS. preserved in the Bodleian Library and the British Museum.
The Rev. J. W. Ebsworth, with his usual kindness, has helped me when
my knowledge or memory has been at fault. No man has so intimate a
knowledge as Mr. Ebsworth of the floating literature of the second half
of the seventeenth century.
Though not a few of the poems in the present volume could not be
included in anthologies intended for general circulation, I must yet
be allowed to state that I have reprinted nothing that is offensively
gross. There is a great deal of dirt--nasty worthless trash--in the
miscellanies of the Restoration, and with this garbage I have not
chosen to meddle.
DALKEITH, N.B.,
_August, 1888_.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
PAGE
After long service and a thousand vows (_Bristol Drollery_) 19
As Chloe o'er the meadow past (_Sir Charles Sedley_) 122
As I traversed to and fro (_Academy of Compliments_) 36
As youthful day put on his best (_Westminster Drollery_) 63
Away, away! call back what you have said (_Corkine_) 88
Be thou joyful, I am jolly (_Windsor Drollery_) 87
Beauty, since you so much desire (_Campion_) 6
Black eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie (_Howell_) 32
Chloris, forbear awhile (_Sportive Wit_) 93
Chloris, when I to thee present (_Westminster Drollery_) 41
Chloris saw me sigh and tremble (_Vinculum Societatis_) 7
Come, be my Valentine (_Bishop Andrewes_) 121
Come, my Clarinda, we'll consume (_Paulin_) 128
Come, Phillis, let's to yonder grove (_Bristol Drollery_) 7
Constant wives are comforts to men's lives (_Add. MS. 22601_)3
Cupid is an idle toy (_Folly in Print_) 4
Cupid, thou art a sluggish boy (_Mysteries of Love and
Eloquence_) 42
Dear Castadorus, let me rise (_Jordan_) 53
Dear, I must do (_Folly in Print_) 25
Do not ask me, charming Phillis (_New Academy of
Compliments_) 43
Do not rack my bleeding heart (_Ramsay_) 118
Down in a garden sat my dearest love (_Wit's Interpreter_) 9
Dunces in love, how long shall we (_Rawlinson MS.,
Poet. 117_) 10
Fair Chloris in a gentle slumber lay (_Songs and Poems of
Love and Drollery_) 94
Fairest, if you roses seek (_Bristol Drollery_) 72
Fairest thing that shines below (_New Academy of
Compliments_) 109
Gaze not on thy beauty's pride (_Carew_) 84
Go and count her better hours (_Rawlinson MS. Poet. 206_) 67
Go, fickle man, and teach the moon to range (_Hammond_) 124
Hark, my Flora! Love doth call us (_Cartwright_) 10
He or she that hopes to gain (_Harl. MS. 6918_) 120
He that hath no mistress must not wear a favour (_Corkine_) 44
He that intends to woo a maid (_Academy of Compliments_) 14
Her dainty palm I gently prest (_Marrow of Compliments_) 45
I dream'd we both were in a bed (_Herrick_) 40
I have followed thee a year at least (_New Academy of
Compliments_) 107
I pray thee, sweet John, away (_Greaves_) 46
I swear by muscadel (_Duke of Newcastle_) 47
I walk'd abroad not long ago (_Wither_) 101
I will not do a sacrifice (_Wit Restored_) 67
If any hath the heart to kill (_Campion_) 99
If my lady bid begin (_Academy of Compliments_) 1
If shadows be the picture's excellence (_Rawlinson MS.
Poet. 199_) 30
In summer time when birds do sing (_Harl. MS. 7322_) 79
In summer time when grass was mown (_Harl. MS. 791_) 82
Know, falsest man, as my love was (_Hammond_) 125
Know, Sylvia, that your curious twist (_Songs and Poems
of Love and Drollery_) 106
Ladies, whose marble hearts despise (_Munsey_) 78
Ladies, you that seem so nice (_Henry Lawes' Airs
and Dialogues_) 98
Lady, on your eyes I gazed (_Wit's Recreations_) 115
Let common beauties have the power (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 2
Like to the wealthy island thou shalt lie (_New Academy
of Compliments_) 13
Lose no time nor youth, but be (_Mysteries of Love and
Eloquence_) 73
Love in rambling once astray (_Wit at a Venture_) 68
Maids they are grown so coy of late (_Marrow of
Compliments_) 97
Methought the other night (_Jones_) 34
My days, my months, my years (_Attey_) 15
My love hath vowed he will forsake me (_Campion_) 95
My love in her attire doth show her wit (_Davison's
Poetical Rhapsody_) 12
My mistress sings no other song (_Jones_) 16
Naked love did to thine eye (_Sherburne_) 113
Nature, that wash'd her hands in milk (_Sir Walter
Rawleigh_) 76
Nay pish! nay phew! nay faith and will you? fie!
(_Sportive Wit_) 49
Nay, Silvia, now you're cruel grown (_Rawlinson MS.
Poet. 94_) 21
No, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain (_Songs and Poems of
Love and Drollery_) 39
O how oftentimes have I (_Harl. MS. 7332_) 111
Once I must confess I loved (_Wit Restored_) 83
Once and no more: so said my life (_Wit's Interpreter_) 29
Phillis, for shame, let us improve (_Westminster
Drollery_) 105
Pish, modest sipper, to't again (_New Academy of
Compliments_) 69
Poor Celia once was very fair (_Flatman_) 90
Pretty nymph, why always blushing (_Wit's Cabinet_) 110
Shall we die (_Westminster Drollery_) 74
Sighs, blow out those flames in me (_Rawlinson MS.
Poet. 199_) 119
Silvia, now your scorn give over (_Vinculum Societatis_) 96
Sleepy, my dear? Yes, yes, I see (_Wit's Interpreter_) 17
Sol shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright
(_Bristol Drollery_) 18
Some men desire spouses (_Weelkes_) 104
Still to affect, still to admire (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 3
Sweet, exclude me not, nor be divided (_Campion_) 52
Sweet Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well
(_New Academy of Compliments_) 48
Sweet Philomel, in groves and desarts haunting (_Jones_) 62
Take Time, my dear, ere Time takes wing (_Melpomene_) 102
There is not half so warm a fire (_Choice Drollery_) 71
Thine's fair, facetious, all that can (_Wit's Interpreter_) 28
Though that no god may thee deserve (_Marrow of
Compliments_) 60
'Tis not, dear Love, that amber twist (_Wit Restored_) 113
'Tis not how witty nor how free (_Wit's Interpreter_) 61
'Tis true your beauty, which before (_Wit's Recreations_) 86
To bed ye two in one united go (_Baron_) 117
To her whose beauty doth excel (_Wits Interpreter_) 75
Two lovers sat lamenting (_Corkine_) 91
Under the willow-shades they were (_Davenant_) 89
Underneath this myrtle shade (_Windsor Drollery_) 26
What though Flora frowns on me (_Tixall Poetry_) 108
When doth Love set forth desire? (_Academy of
Compliments_) 100
When first Amyntas sued for a kiss (_D'Urfey_) 103
When I do love I wish to taste the fruit (_Harl. MS. 6917_) 5
When Phoebus first did Daphne love (_John Dowland_) 55
Why is your faithful slave disdain'd (_Banquet of Music_) 59
Why, Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she. (_Oxford
Drollery_) 23
Why should passion lead thee blind (_Harl. MS. 791_) 56
Would you be a man of fashion (_Tixall Poetry_) 116
Would you know earth's highest pleasure (_Tixall Poetry_) 116
Yes, I could love if I could find (_Malone MS. 16_) 57
You nimble dreams with cobweb wings (_Sloane MS. 1792_) 51
You that in the midst of night (_Ashmole MS. 38_) 58
Your smiles are not as other women's be (_Townsend_) 126
SPECULUM AMANTIS.
From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.
IF[2] my lady bid begin,
Shall I say "No: 'tis a sin"?
If she bid me kiss and play,
Shall I shrink, cold fool, away?
If she clap my cheeks and spy
Little Cupids in my eye,
Gripe my hand and stroke my hair,
Shall I like a faint heart fear?
No, no, no: let those that lie
In dismal prison, and would die,
Despair and fear; let those that cry
They are forsaken and would fly,
Quit their fortunes; mine are free:
Hope makes me hardy, so does she.
[2] Also found in Dr. John Wilson's _Cheerful Airs_, 1660, and other
collections.
From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 38.
LET common beauties have the power
To make one love-sick for an hour,
Perhaps for one whole day or two;
But so to captivate a heart
As it should never, never part,
None hath that art
But only you.
Let meaner beauties have the skill,
By tempering hopes with fears, to kill
And by degrees a heart undo;
But with a sweet, yet tyrant, eye
At once to bid one look and die,
None hath that power
But only you.
Fair wonder, to those charming eyes
A heart I fain would sacrifice,
Had I but e'er a one in store;
But having lost mine long before,
Well may I sigh, wish, and adore,
But for my life
Can die no more.
From _Harl. MS._ 6917.
A MOTION TO PLEASURE.
STILL to affect, still to admire,
Yet never satisfy desire
With touch of hand, or lip, or that
Which pleaseth best (I name not what),--
Like Tantalus I pining die,
Taking Love's dainties at the eye.
Nature made nothing but for use,
And, fairest, 'twere a gross abuse
To her best work if you it hold
Unused, like misers' ill-got gold,
Or keep it in a virgin scorn,
Like rich robes that are seldom worn.
From _Add. MS._ 22601.
CONSTANT wives are comforts to men's lives,
Drawing a happy yoke without debate;
A playfellow that far off all grief drives;
A steward, early that provides and late:
Faithful and chaste, sober, mild, loving, trusty,
Nurse to weak age and pleasure to the lusty.
From _Folly in Print, or a Book of Rhymes_, 1667.
OF LOVE.
CUPID[3] is an idle toy,
Never was there such a boy:
If there were, let any show
Or his quiver or his bow,
Or the wound by him he got
By a broken arrow shot.
_Money, Money, Money_ makes men bow;
That's the only Cupid now.
Whilst the world continued good,
And men loved for flesh and blood,
Men about them wore a dart
Which did win a woman's heart;
And the women, great and small,
With a certain thing they call
_Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me_, caught the men:
This was th' only Cupid then.
[3] These verses are printed (with some slight alterations) in _Wit's
Interpreter_, 1655. For "_Kiss Me_" (l. 15) _Wit's Interpreter_ gives a
word to rhyme with "_Money_" (l. 7).
From _Harl. MS._ 6917, fol. 87.
WHEN[4] I do love I wish to taste the fruit,
And to attain to what my hopes aspire;
Refusal's better than a lingering suit,
Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:
And in most desperate case doth he remain
That's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.
Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;
Hope promises, enjoying is content;
Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;
Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:
Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,
But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.
[4] "There was probably a close connection here with the Song on
Love, beginning, 'When I do love, I would not wish to speed,'
printed in _Parnassus Biceps_, 1656, p. 82, and reprinted by
Robert Jamieson, in _Popular Ballads_, ii. 311."--_J. W. Ebsworth._
From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Fourth Book of Airs_ (circ. 1617).
BEAUTY,[5] since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupid's fire,
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet never harbour'd in your breast,
Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:
What fool would seek love's flame so low?
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
Think not when Cupid most you scorn
Men judge that you of ice were born;
For, though you cast love at your heel,
His fury yet sometime you feel:
And whereabouts if you would know,
I tell you still not in your toe:
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
[5] This jocular song must have been written long before the date of
publication, for a quotation from it occurs in _Eastward Ho_, 1605.
(In Campion and Rosseter's _Book of Airs_, 1601, there is a song
beginning, "Mistress, since you so much desire"; but Gertrude, in
_Eastward Ho_, iii. 2--"But a little higher," &c.--was evidently
quoting from the present song).
From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.
COME, Phillis, let's to yonder grove,
That I may tell thee how I love;
And how I've suffer'd every day
Since thou hast stol'n my heart away;
How many nights I've lain awake
And sigh'd away for Phillis' sake.
This, Phillis, this shall be our talk
Whilst hand in hand we gently walk;
Then down we'll sit in yonder shade
A myrtle has for lovers made;
And when I've called thee duck and dear,
And wooed thee with a sigh or tear,
If love, or pity on thy swain,
Move Phillis' heart to cure my pain,
Then like two billing turtles we
Will do what none but Love shall see.
From _Vinculum Societatis, or the Tie of Good Company_, 1687.
CHLORIS saw me sigh and tremble,
And then ask'd why I did so;
Love like mine can ill dissemble:--
Chloris 'tis for love of you,
For those pretty tempting graces
Of your smiling lips and eyes,
For those pressing close embraces
When your snowy breasts do rise;
For those joys of which the trial
Only can instruct your heart
What you lose by your denial,
When Love draws his pleasing dart;
For those kisses in perfection
Which a wanton soul like mine,
Form'd by Cupid's own direction,
Could infuse too into thine;
For those shapes, my lovely Chloris,
And a thousand charming things,
For which monarchs might implore you
To beget a race of kings;
And for which I fain would whisper,
But my heart is still afraid,--
Yet 'tis that young ladies wish for
Every night they go to bed.
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
DOWN[6] in a garden sat my dearest love,
Her skin more soft than down of swan,
More tender-hearted than the turtle dove
And far more kind than bleeding pelican.
I courted her; she rose and blushing said,
"Why was I born to live and die a maid?"
With that I plucked a pretty marigold,
Whose dewy leaves shut up when day is done:
"Sweeting," I said, "arise, look and behold,
A pretty riddle I'll to thee unfold:
These leaves shut in as close as cloistered nun,
Yet will they open when they see the sun."
"What mean you by this riddle, sir?" she said;
"I pray expound it." Then I thus begun:
"Are not men made for maids and maids for men?"
With that she changed her colour and grew wan.
"Since that this riddle you so well unfold,
Be you the sun, I'll be the marigold."
[6] In the 1671 edition of _Wit's Interpreter_ this poem is headed
"Love's Riddle Resolved." It is found in several miscellanies of the
time.
["Amplified and spun out, it became a ballad printed for the assigns
of Thomas Symcocke, in _Roxburghe Collection_, l. 242, a probably
unique exemplar, entitled 'The Maid's Comfort.'"--_J. W. Ebsworth._]
_Rawlinson Poetry MS._, 117, fol. 144.
DUNCES in love, how long shall we
Be poring on our A. B. C.?
For such are kisses, which torment
Rather than give my self-content;
Letters from which you scarce will prove
The wisest scholars can spell love.
What though the lily of your hand
Or coral lip I may command?
It is but like him up to th' chin
Whose mouth can touch but take not in.
From _Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment_, 1656.
HARK,[7] my Flora! Love doth call us
To that strife that must befall us.
He has robb'd his mother's myrtles
And hath pull'd her downy turtles.
See, our genial posts are crown'd,
And our beds like billows rise;
Softer[8] combat's nowhere found,
And who loses wins the prize.
Let not dark nor shadows fright thee;
Thy limbs of lustre they will light thee.
Fear not any can surprise us,
Love himself doth now disguise us.
From thy waist the girdle throw:
Night and darkness both dwell here:
Words or actions who can know,
Where there's neither eye nor ear?
Shew thy bosom and then hide it;
License touching and then chide it;
Give a grant and then forbear it,
Offer something and forswear it;
Ask where all our shame is gone;
Call us wicked wanton men;
Do as turtles, kiss and groan;
Say[9] "We ne'er shall meet again."
I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;
Drink thy tears, yet still embrace thee;
Easy riches is no treasure;
She that's willing spoils the pleasure.
Love bids learn the wrestlers'[10] fight;
Pull and struggle whilst[11] ye twine;
Let me use my force to-night,
The next conquest shall be thine.
[7] The poem is headed "Cartwright's Song of Dalliance. Never printed
before." It was printed in the same year, without the author's name,
in _Parnassus Biceps_, where it is headed, "Love's Courtship."
Unquestionably the finest of Cartwright's poems.
[8] _Parnassus Biceps_ reads,--
"Softer lists are nowhere found,
And the strife itself's the prize."
[9] _Parnassus Biceps_,--
"Say thou ne'er shalt joy again."
[10] This is the reading in _Parnassus Biceps_--_Sportive Wit_,
"restless."
[11] _Parnassus Biceps_, "when we twine."
From DAVISON'S _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602.
MADRIGAL.
MY love in her attire doth shew her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on;
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.
From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.
LIKE to the wealthy island thou shalt lie,
And like the sea about it I;
Thou like fair Albion to the sailors' sight,
Spreading her beauteous bosom all in white;
Like the kind Ocean I will be,
With loving arms for ever clasping thee;
But I'll embrace thee gentlier far than so
As their fresh banks soft rivers do;
Nor shall the proudest planet boast a power
Of making my full love to ebb an hour:
It never dry or low can prove
Whilst my unwasted fountain feeds my love.
Such heat and vigour shall our kisses bear
As if like doves w' engender'd there;
No bound nor rule my pleasures shall endure,
In love there's none too much an epicure.
Nought shall my hands or lips control;
I'll kiss thee through, I'll kiss thy very soul.
Yet nothing but the night our sport shall know,
Night that's both blind and silent too.
Alpheus found not a more secret trace
His loved Sicanian fountain to embrace,
Creeping so far beneath the sea,
Than I will do to enjoy and feast on thee.
Men out of wisdom, women out of pride,
The pleasant thefts of love do hide.
That may secure thee, but thou hast yet from me
A more infallible security;
For there's no danger I should tell
The joys which are to me unspeakable.
From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.
HE that intends to woo a maid
With youthful heat, must shun the shade.
When Flora's gardens are i' th' prime
Let him and her pluck _May_ and _Time_:[12]
There, where the sun doth shine, birds sing,
Let them two both kiss and fling,
Till summer's fairest carpet spread
Yields them a green and pleasant bed:
If lovers there would strive together,
Chastity would not weigh one feather.
[12] Compare Morley's song, "Thyrsis and Milla," in _More Lyrics_,
pp. 116-7.
From JOHN ATTEY'S _First Book of Airs_, 1622.
MY days, my months, my years
I spend about a moment's gain,
A joy that in th' enjoying ends,
A fury quickly slain;
A frail delight, like that wasp's life
Which now both frisks and flies,
And in a moment's wanton strife
It faints, it pants, it dies.
And when I charge, my lance in rest,
I triumph in delight,
And when I have the ring transpierced
I languish in despite;
Or like one in a lukewarm bath,
Light-wounded in a vein,
Spurts out the spirits of his life
And fainteth without pain.
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Airs_, 1601.
MY mistress sings no other song,
But still complains I did her wrong;
Believe her not, it was not so,
I did but kiss her and let her go.
And now she swears I did,--but what?
Nay, nay, I must not tell you that.
And yet I will, it is so sweet
As teehee tahha when lovers meet.
But women's words they are heedless,
To tell you more it is needless;
I ran and caught her by the arm,
And then I kissed her,--this was no harm.
But she, alas! is angry still,
Which sheweth but a woman's will:
She bites the lip and cries "Fie, fie!"
And, kissing sweetly, away she doth fly.
Yet sure her looks bewrays content,
And cunningly her brawls[13] are meant,
As lovers use to play and sport
When time and leisure is too-too short.
[13] Old ed. "brales."
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
TO HIS MISTRESS DESIROUS TO GO TO BED.
SLEEPY, my dear? yes, yes, I see
Morpheus is fallen in love with thee;
Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries
To draw the curtains of thine eyes,
And fans them with his wing asleep;
Makes drowsy love to play bopeep.
How prettily his feathers blow
Those fleshy shuttings to and fro!
O how he makes me Tantalise
With those fair apples of thine eyes!
Equivocates and cheats me still,
Opening and shutting at his will,
Now both, now one! the doting god
Plays with thine eyes at even or odd.
My stammering tongue doubts which it might
Bid thee, good-morrow or good-night.
So thy eyes twinkle brighter far
Than the bright trembling evening star;
So a wax taper, burnt within
The socket, plays at out and in.
Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,
Meaning there all night to lie:
Cupid and he play Whoop, All-Hid!
The eye, their bed and coverlid.
Fairest, let me thy night-clothes air;
Come, I'll unlace thy stomacher.
Make me thy maiden chamber-man,
Or let me be thy warming-pan.
O that I might but lay my head
At thy bed's feet ith' trundle-bed.
From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.
SOL shines not th[o]rough all the year so bright,
As my dear Julia did the other night.
Cynthia came mask'd in an eclipse to see
What gave the world a greater light than she;
But angry soon she disappear'd and fled
Into her inner rooms, and so to bed.
I envied not Endymion's joys that night:
Far greater had I with her lustre-light.
From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.
AFTER long service and a thousand vows,
To her glad lover she more kindness shows.
Oft had Amyntas with her tresses play'd
When the sun's vigour, drove 'em to a shade;
And many a time had given her a green gown,
And oft he kissed her when he had her down;
With sighs and motions he to her made known
What fain he would have done: then with a frown
She would forbid him, till the minute came
That she no longer could conceal her flame.
The am'rous shepherd, forward to espy
Love's yielding motions triumph in her eye,
With eager transport straight himself addrest
To taste the pleasures of so rich a feast:
When with resistance, and a seeming flight,
As 'twere t' increase her lover's appetite,
Unto a place where flowers thicker grew
Out of his arms as swift as air she flew:
Daphne ne'er run so light and fast as she
When from the god[14] she fled and turn'd t' a tree.
The youth pursued; nor needs he run amain,
Since she intended to be overta'en.
He dropp'd no apple nor no golden ball
To stay her flight, for she herself did fall,
Where 'mongst the flowers like Flora's self she lay
To gain more breath that she might lose't in play.
She pluck'd a flower, and at Amyntas threw
When he addressed to crop a flower too.
Then a faint strife she seemed to renew;
She smiled, she frown'd, she would and would not do.
At length o'ercome she suffers with a sigh
Her ravish'd lover use his victory,
And gave him leave to punish her delay
With double vigour in the am'rous play;
But then, alas! soon ended the delight;
For too much love had hastened[15] its flight,
And _every_ ravish'd sense too soon awake,
Rapt up in bliss it did but now partake:
Which left the lovers in a state to prove
Long were the pains but short the joys of love.
[14] Old ed. "Gods."
[15] Old ed. "had had hastn'ed."
From _MS. Rawlinson Poet._ 94. fol. 192.
THE[16] RESOLUTION.
NAY, Silvia, now you're cruel grown;
I'll swear you most unjustly frown.
I only asked (in vain) to taste
What you denied with mighty haste;
I asked--but I'm ashamed to tell
What 'twas you took so wondrous ill--
A kiss. But with a coy disdain
You view'd my sighings and my pain;
'Twas but a civil small request,
Yet with proud looks and hand on breast,
You cried "I'm not so eager to be kiss'd,"
Put case[17] that I had loosed your gown,
And then by force had laid you down,
And with unruly hands had teased you,--
Too justly then I had displeased you.
Or had I (big with wanton joys)
Engaged you for a brace of boys,
Then basely left you full of nature,--
This would have been provoking matter.
But I, poor harmless civil I,
Begg'd for the meanest coolest joy,
And saw denial in your eye;
For with a squeamish glance you cried
"I hate the nauseous bliss."
"'Tis well," said I; "since I'm denied,
For rocks of diamonds I'll not kiss."
[16] There are some verses in Thomas Flatman's _Songs and Poems_,
1674, which suggested, or were suggested by, the present poem. They
run thus:--
THE SLIGHT.
I did but crave that I might kiss,
If not her lip, at least her hand,
The coolest lover's frequent bliss;
And rude is she that will withstand
That inoffensive liberty:
She (would you think it?) in a fume
Turn'd her about and left the room:
"Not she!" she vowed, "not she!"
"Well, Charissa," then said I,
"If it must thus for ever be,
I can renounce my slavery
And, since you will not, can be free."
Many a time she made me die,
Yet (would you think it?) I loved the more:
But I'll not take 't as heretofore,
Not I, I'll vow, not I.
"The Resolution" is far the better poem.
[17] Quite in Mr. Browning's vein this expression, "Put case that."
From CAPTAIN WM. HICKS' _Oxford Drollery_, 1671.
A[18] NEW SONG, TO THE NEW JIG-TUNE.
WHY Nanny, quoth he. Why, Janny, quoth she,
Your will, sir?
I love thee, quoth he. If you love me, quoth she,
Do so still, sir.
I'd gi' thee, quoth he. Would you gi' me, quoth she?
But what, sir?
Why, some money, quoth he, O some money, quoth she?
Let me ha't, sir.
I'd ha' thee, quoth he. Would you ha' me, quoth she?
But where, sir?
To my chamber, quoth he. To your chamber, quoth she?
Why there, sir?
I'd kiss thee, quoth he. Would you kiss me, quoth she?
But when, sir?
Why now, quoth he. Neither now, quoth she,
Nor then, sir.
I'd hug thee, quoth he. Would you hug me, quoth she?
How much, sir?
Why a little, quoth he. 'Tis a little, quoth she;
Not a touch, sir.
I am sickish, quoth he. Are you sickish, quoth she?
But why, sir?
'Cause you slight me, quoth he. Do I slight you, quoth she?
'Tis a lie, sir.
I'm dying, quoth he. O dying, quoth she?
Are you sure on't?
'Tis certain, quoth he. Is't certain, quoth she?
There's no cure on't.
Then farewell, quoth he. Ay, and farewell, quoth she,
My true Love.
I am going, quoth he. So am I too, quoth she,
To a new love.
[18] _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672, has a similar copy of verses:--
I'd have you, quoth he?
Would you have me? quoth she;
O where, sir?
In my chamber, quoth he.
In your chamber? quoth she;
Why there, sir?
To kiss you, quoth he.
To kiss me? quoth she;
O why, sir?
'Cause I love it, quoth he.
Do you love it? quoth she;
So do I, sir.
Compare another copy of verses, "O Amis! quoth he. Well, Thomas! quoth
she," in the _Academy of Compliments_, 1671, p. 270.
From _Folly in Print_, 1667.
A SONG IN DIALOGUE.
_Strephon._
DEAR, I must do.
_Phillis._ O I dare not.
_Strephon._ 'Twill not hurt you.
_Phillis._ No, I care not.
_Strephon._ Then I prithee, sweet, tell me the reason.
_Phillis._ Will you marry?
_Strephon._ Yes, to-morrow.
_Phillis._ Till then tarry.
_Strephon._ I would borrow.
_Phillis._ Fruit is best when gathered in season.
From _The Windsor Drollery_, 1672.
(_After Anacreon._)[19]
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait:
Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up,
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have:
All are stoics in the grave.
[19] A delightful rendering of the fourth ode of Anacreon. I have
found a MS. copy of it in _Rawlinson MS. Poet._, 214, where it is
ascribed (how truly I know not) to "Mr. Tho. Head." It occurs in
several later miscellanies; and in the variorum translation of
Anacreon published at Oxford in 1683. Here is Stanley's rendering
of the same ode: it is good, but far inferior to the version in the
_Drollery_:--
On this verdant lotus laid,
Underneath the myrtle's shade,
Let us drink our sorrows dead,
While Love plays the Ganymed.
Life like to a wheel runs round,
And, ere long, we underground
(Ta'en by Death asunder) must
Moulder in forgotten Dust.
Why then graves should we bedew,
Why the ground with odours strew?
Better whilst alive prepare
Flowers and unguents for our hair.
Come, my fair one, come away;
All our cares behind us lay;
That these pleasures we may know
Ere we come to those below.
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
ON HIS BLACK MISTRESS.
THINE'S fair, facetious,[20] all that can
Delight the airy part of man:
My love is black, thou sayst, her eye
Hath something of severity.
Therefore I love: her spring will last
When all thy flowers are dead and blast
She's wisely framed, with art is made;
Your best night-pieces have most shade.
And, 'cause reserved, think'st thou not mine
Yields not as great a warmth as thine?
Her heat is inward, and she may
More pleasant be another way:
They're slow to yield, but, when they do,
You have both soul and body too.
The quicker eye and nimble tongue
Leaves footsteps for suspicion;
But in her looks and language lies
A very charm for Argus' eyes.
Now pray then tell me, and withal
Pray be not too-too partial,
Doth not one feature[21] now in mine
Appear more lovely than all thine?
No airy objects will me[22] move,
It is the sober black I love:
I love't so well that I protest
I love the blackest parts the best.
[20] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "factious."
[21] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "fortune."
[22] So ed. 1671.--Ed. 1655, "we."
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
TWO KISSES.
ONCE and no more: so said my life,
When in my arms inchained
She unto mine her lips did move,
And so my heart she gained.
Thus done, she saith, "Away I must
For fear of being missed;
Your heart's made over but in trust;"
And so again she kissed.
From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 199.
ON MRS. BEATA POOLE WITH BLACK EYES.
IF shadows be the picture's excellence
And make it seem more lively to the sense;
If stars in the bright day do lose their light
And shine more glorious in the masque of night,
Why should you think, fair creature, that you lack
Perfection 'cause your eyes and hair be black?
Or that your beauty that so far exceeds
The new-sprung lilies in their maidenheads,
That cherry colour of your cheek and lips,
Should by the darkness suffer an eclipse?
Or is it fit that nature should have made
So bright a sun to shine without a shade?
It seems that nature, when she first did fancy
Your rare composure, studied necromancy;
And when to you those gifts she did impart,
She studied altogether the black art.
She drew the magic circle of your eyes,
And made the chain where, in your hair, she ties
Rebellious hearts. Those blue veins that appear,
Twining Meander-like to either sphere,
Mysterious figures are; and when you list,
Your voice commandeth like an exorcist.
O if in magic you have skill so far,
Vouchsafe to make me your familiar!
Nor hath kind nature her black here reveal'd
On outward parts alone: some lie conceal'd.
As by the spring-head we may often know
The nature of the streams that run below,
So your black hair and eyes do give direction
To make me think the rest of like perfection,--
The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,
That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,
That world-dividing gulf where whoso venters
With swelling sails and ravish'd senses enters
Into a world of bliss. Pardon, I pray,
If my rude muse doth seem here to display
Secrets unknown, or hath her bounds o'erpast
In praising sweetness which I ne'er shall taste.
Starved men know there [i]s food, and blind men may,
Though hid from them, yet know there is a day.
A rover in the mark his arrows sticks
Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.
And if I could direct my shaft aright,
The black mark would I hit and miss the white.
From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.
BLACK EYES AND ENTICING FROWNS.[23]
_To Lucina._
BLACK eyes, in your dark orbs doth lie
My ill or happy destiny.
If with clear looks you me behold,
You give me treasures full of gold;
If you dart forth disdainful rays,
To your own dye you turn my days.
That lamp which all the stars doth blind
To modest Cynthia is less kind,
Though you do wear, to make you bright,
No other dress than that of night.
He glitters only in the day;
You in the dark your beams display.
The cunning thief, that lurks for prize,
At some dark corner watching lies;
So that heart-robbing God doth stand
In those black gems, with shaft in hand,
To rifle me of what I hold
More precious far than Indian gold.
Ye pow'rful necromantic eyes,
Who in your circles strictly pries
Will find that Cupid with his dart
In you doth practise the black art;
And by those spells I am possest,
Tries his conclusions in my breast.
Though from those objects frowns arise,
Some kind of frowns become black eyes,
As pointed diamonds being set
Cast greater lustre out of jet.
Those pieces we esteem most rare,
Which in night-shadows postured are.
Darkness in churches congregates the sight;
Devotion strays in open daring light.
[23] "This poem was written by James Howell. It is printed among his
Poems, 1664, p. 68. Also in Poems collected by P. F. [= P. Fisher],
1663. See my Note in _Choyce Drollery_, reprint, 1876, p. 298."--_J.
W. Ebsworth._
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
METHOUGHT[24] the other night
I saw a pretty sight
That pleased me much;
A fair and comely maid,
Not squeamish nor afraid
To let me touch,
Our lips most sweetly kissing,
Each other never missing;
Her smiling looks did show content
And that she did but what she meant.
And as her lips did move
The echo still was love,
"Love, love me, sweet!"
Then with a maiden blush,
Instead of crying "Push!"[25]
Our lips did meet:
With music sweetly sounding,
With pleasures all abounding,
We kept the burthen of the song,
Which was that love should take no wrong.
And yet, as maidens use,
She seemed to refuse
The name of love,
Until I did protest
That I did love her best,
And so will prove:
With that, as both amazed,
Each at the other gazed,
My eyes did see, my hands did feel,
Her eyes of fire, her breast of steel.
O when I felt her breast
Where love did rest,
My love was such
I could have been content
My best blood to have spent
In that sweet touch:
But now comes that which vext us,
There was a bar betwixt us,
A bar that barred me from that part
Where nature did contend with art.
If ever love had power
To send one happy hour,
Then show thy might,
And take such bars away
Which are the only stay
Of love's delight.
All this was but a dreaming,
Although another meaning.
Dreams may prove true as thoughts are free;
I will love you, you may love me.
[24] Old ed. "My thought." The first two stanzas of this poem (which
becomes somewhat enigmatical towards the end) are also found in _The
Westminster Drollery_.
[25] Old ed. "pish;" but "push" (required for the rhyme), the reading
in _The Westminster Drollery_, is an old form of "pish."
From _The Academy of Compliments_, 1650.
AS I traversed to and fro,
And in the fields was walking,
I chanced to hear two sisters
That secretly were talking.
The younger to the elder said,
Prithee why do'st not marry?
In faith, quoth she, I'll tell to thee
I mean not long to tarry.
When I was fifteen years of age
Then I had suitors many,
But I, a wanton peevish wench,
Would not sport with any;
Till at the last, I sleeping fast,
Cupid came to woo me,
And like a lad that was stark mad
He swore he would come to me.
And then he lay down by my side
And spread his arms upon me,
And I being 'twixt sleep and wake
Did strive to thrust him from me,
But he with all the power he had
Did lie the harder on me.
And then he did so play with me
As I was play'd with never;
The wanton boy so pleased me,
I would have slept for ever.
And then methought the world turn'd round
And Phoebus fell a-skipping,
And all the nymphs and goddesses
About us two were tripping.
Then seemed Neptune as he had pour'd
His Ocean streams upon us,
But Boreas with his blust'ring blasts
Did strive to keep him from us.
Limping Vulcan he came
As if he had been jealous,
Venus follow'd after him
And swore she'd blow the bellows.
Mars called Cupid Jack-an-apes,
And swore he would him smother:
Quoth Cupid, Said I so to thee
When thou lay'st with my mother?
Juno, then, and Jupiter
Came marching with Apollo;
Pan came in with Mercury,
And then began the hollo;
Cupid ran and hid himself,
And so of joys bereft me:
For suddenly I did awake,
And all these fancies left me.
From _Songs and Poems of Love and Drollery_. By T. W.[26] 1654.
TO SYLVIA FROWNING.
NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,
Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate,
Shall make my sadder verse complain
Or my well kindled fame abate:
Such goblins fright Love from a coward heart,
But one resolved like mine can make them start.
Contract thy brow, and let thine eye
Dart thunderbolts of anger still;
Storm me with all th' artillery,
With which Love's rebels use to kill:
I'll not retreat till I or conqueror be
Or martyr of thy cruelty and thee.
Shoot, Sylvia, then, and spare not till
Thy magazine of anger's spent:
If I survive and love thee still,
I know thou then must needs relent:
Patience in suffering oft-times hath o'ercome
A tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.
But if I fall unto[27] thy hate
And stubborn scorn a sacrifice,
I shall be happy in that fate
Whilst with me all my torment dies:
Thus shall my constancy for thy disdain
Either begin my bliss or end my pain.
[26] _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 211, contains very many, if not all, of
the poems in this collection. On the fly-leaf of the MS. is a note,
"Charles Williams his booke written with Thomas."
[27] Old ed. "into."
From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.
I[28] DREAM'D we both were in a bed
Of roses almost smothered;
But when I heard thy sweet breath say
"Faults done by night will blush by day,"
I kiss'd thee panting, and I call
The night to record that was all.
But ah, if empty dreams so please,
Love give me more such nights as these.
[28] These dainty verses are by Robert Herrick.
From _The Westminster Drollery_, 1671.
CHLORIS, when I to thee present
The cause of all my discontent;
And show that all the wealth that can
Flow from this little world of man
Is nought but constancy and love,
Why will you other objects prove?
O do not cozen your desires
With common and mechanic fires:
That picture which you see in gold
In every shop is to be sold:
And diamonds of richest price
Men only value with their eyes.
But look upon my loyal heart
That knows to value every part,
And loves thy hidden virtue more
Than outward shape, which fools adore:
In that you'll all the treasures find
That can content a noble mind.
From _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_, 1658.
CUPID CONTEMNED.
CUPID, thou art a sluggish boy
And dost neglect thy calling;
Thy bow and arrows are a toy;
Thy monarchy is falling.
Unless thou dost recall thy self
And take thy tools about thee,
Thou wilt be scorn'd by every elf,
And all the world will flout thee.
Rouse up thy spirit like a god,
And play the archer finely,
Let none escape thy shaft or rod
'Gainst thee have spoke unkindly:
So mayst thou chance to plague that heart
That cruelly hath made me smart.
From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.
DO[29] not ask me, charming Phillis,
Why I lead you here alone
By this bank of pinks and lilies
And of roses newly blown.
'Tis not to behold the beauty
Of those flowers that crown the spring,
'Tis to--but I know my duty
And dare never name the thing.
'Tis at worst but her denying:
Why should I thus fearful be?
Every minute, gently flying,
Smiles and says "Make use of me."
What the sun does to those roses
While the beams play sweetly in,
I would--but my fear opposes
And I dare not name the thing.
Yet I die if I conceal it:
Ask my eyes, or ask your own,
And if neither dare reveal it,
Think what lovers think alone.
On this bank of pinks and lilies,
Might I speak what I would do,
I would--with my lovely Phillis--
I would--I would--ah, would you?
[29] These verses are found in many later Miscellanies. [It was
variously entitled "The Fearful Lover," "Pinks and Lilies; or, Phillis
at a Non-plus." An answer to it begins, "Forbid me not t'enquire, Why
you meet me here alone."--_J. W. Ebsworth._]
From WILLIAM CORKINE'S _Airs_, 1610.
HE that hath no mistress must not wear a favour,
He that wooes a mistress must serve before he have her;
He that hath no bedfellow must [learn to] lie alone,
And he that hath no lady must be content with Joan:
And so must I, for why, alas! my love and I am parted:
False Cupid, I will have thee whipped and have thy mother carted!
From _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655.
HER dainty palm I gently prest
And with her lip I play'd;
My cheek upon her panting breast
And on her neck I laid:
And yet we had no sense of wanton lust,
Nor did we then mistrust.
With pleasant toil we breathless grew,
And kiss'd in warmer blood;
Upon her lips the honey-dew
Like drops on roses' stood:
And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,
Whose sweets were such to me.
But kissing and embracing we
So long together lay,
Her touches all inflamed me
And I began to stray;
My hands presumed too far, they were too bold,
My tongue unwisely told.
From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs_, 1604.
"I PRAY thee, sweet John, away!
I cannot tell how to love thee!"
"Pish, phew, in faith all this will not move me."
"O me, I dare not before our marriage-day:
If this will not move thee, gentle John,
Come quickly kiss me and let me be gone.
(Down a down!)
"Nay, will ye, faith? this is more than needs,
This fooling I cannot abide;
Leave off! or in faith I must chide.
See now, faith, here are proper deeds:
Have done, have done then! I now bewail my hap,
Repentance follows with an after-clap.
Ay me, my joys are murdered with a frown,
And sorrow pulls untimely pleasure down."
(Down a down!)
From DR. JOHN WILSON'S _Cheerful Airs or Ballads_, 1660.
I SWEAR[30] by muscadel
That I do love thee well
And more than I can tell;
By the white claret and sack
I do love thy Black, black, black.
So lovely and so fair,
O'ershadowed with thy hair,
So nimble just like air:
All these set me on love's wrack
For thy sweeter Black, black, black.
No goddess 'mongst them all
So slender and so tall,
And graceful too withal:
Which makes my sinews to crack
For thy dainty Black, black, black.
Thy kind and loving eye,
When first I did espy,
Our loves it did descry,
Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"
Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."
[30] "This was written by Willm. Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and
sung in his 'Variety' (printed 1649), at the Black Friars
Theatre."--_J. W. Ebsworth._
From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.