But I'm afraid
Thou'lt die a maid
And so lead apes to[31] hell.
For why,[32] my dear, 'tis pity it should be so
Thou'rt better than[33]
To take a man
And keep thee from the foe.
Thou art so pretty and fine,
And wondrous handsome too;
Then be not coy,
Let's get a boy:
Alas! what should we do?
I see thy brow,
And well I know
What colour is below:
Then do not jest,
But smile the rest:
I'faith I know what I know.
[31] Qy. "in"?
[32] "For why" = because.
[33] An old form of "then." I restore it (old ed. reads "then") for
the sake of the rhyme.
From _Sportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment_, 1656.
A MAIDEN'S DENIAL.[34]
NAY pish! nay phew! nay, faith and will you? fie!
A gentleman and use me thus! I'll cry.
Nay, God's body, what means this? Nay, fie for shame,
Nay faith, away! Nay, fie, you are to blame.
Hark! somebody comes! hands off, I pray!
I'll pinch, I'll scratch, I'll spurn, I'll run away.
Nay, faith, you strive in vain, you shall not speed
You mar my ruff, you hurt my back, I bleed.
Look how the door stands ope, somebody sees!
Your buttons scratch, in faith you hurt my knees.
What will men say? Lord, what a coil is here!
You make me sweat; i' faith, here's goodly gear.
Nay, faith, let me entreat you, if you list;
You mar my clothes, you tear my smock, but, had I wist
So much before, I would have shut you out.
Is it a proper thing you go about?
I did not think you would have used me this,
But now I see I took my aim amiss.
A little thing would make me not be friends:
You've used me well! I hope you'll make amends.
Hold still, I'll wipe your face, you sweat amain:
You have got a goodly thing with all your pain.
Alas! how hot am I! what will you drink?
If you go sweating down what will men think?
Remember, sir, how you have used me now;
Doubtless ere long I will be meet with you.
If any man but you had used me so,
Would I have put it up? in faith, sir, no.
Nay, go not yet; stay here and sup with me,
And then at cards we better shall agree.
[34] This song was printed from a MS. in the Sloane Collection, by
Ritson, in _Antient Songs_, 1790. It is in _Egerton MS._ 923, fol. 65,
and _Ashmole MS._ 38, No. 272.
["Cf. _Oxford Drollery_ (3 stanzas), ii. 89, 'Nay pish, nay fie! you
venter to enter,' which is by Thomas Jordan, or before 1664. There
is much closer resemblance (beyond accidental coincidence) to 'Loves
Follies,' a four stanza song in _Merry Drollery_, 1661, 'Nay, out upon
this fooling, for shame!'"--_J. W. Ebsworth._]
From _Sloane MS._ 1792. fol. 6.
ON DREAMS.
YOU nimble dreams, with cobweb wings,
That fly from brain to brain,
And represent a world of things
With much ado and little pain:
You visit ladies in their beds,
And are most busy in their ease;
You put such fancies in their heads
That make them think of what you please.
How highly am I bound to you
(Safe messengers of secrecy)
That made my mistress think on me
Just in the place where I would be!
O that you would me once prefer
To be in place of one of you,
That I might go to visit her
And she might swear her dream were true!
From THOMAS CAMPION'S _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
SWEET, exclude me not, nor be divided
From him that ere long must bed thee;
All thy maiden doubts law hath decided;
Sure[35] we are and I must wed thee.
Presume then yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.
Tenants, to fulfil their landlords' pleasure,
Pay their rent before the quarter;
'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;
Put me not then off with laughter:
Consider then a little more,
Here's the way to all my store.
Why were doors in love's despite devised,
Are not laws enough restraining?
Women are most apt to be surprised,
Sleeping, or sleep wisely feigning.
Then grace me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.
[35] Affianced.
From THOMAS JORDAN'S _Poetical Varieties_,[36] 1637.
A DIALOGUE BETWIXT CASTADORUS AND ARABELLA IN BED.
_Arabella._
DEAR Castadorus, let me rise,
Aurora 'gins to jeer me:
She tells me I do wantonise.
_Castadorus._ I prithee, sweet, lie near me.
Let red Aurora blush, my dear,
And Phoebus laughing follow;
Thou only art Aurora here,
Let me be thy Apollo.
It is to envy at our bliss
That they do rise before us:
Is there such hurt in this or this?
_Arabella._ Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!
_Castadorus._ What, Arabella, can one night
Of wanton dalliance tire you?
I could be ever if I might:
One hour let me desire you.
_Arabella._ Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!
If you so roughly use me,
What can I say or think of you.
_Castadorus._ I prithee, Love, excuse me.
Thy beauty and my love defend
I should ungently move thee:
'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:
Is it not I that love thee?
_Arabella._ I do confess it is, but then--
Since you do so importune
That I should once lie down again--
Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.
Aurora and Apollo, too,
May visit silent fields;
By my consent they ne'er shall know
The bliss our pleasure yields.
[36] Mr. Ebsworth kindly pointed out to me that this dialogue belongs
to Jordan. I had taken it from _Wit and Drollery_, 1656. The earlier
text is more correct. There is an MS. copy of it in _Harleian MS._
3511 fol. 108.
From JOHN DOWLAND'S _Third Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603.
WHEN Phoebus first did Daphne love,
And no means might her favour move,
He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,
"Is I have vowed virginity."
Then in a rage he sware and said,
Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.
If maidens then shall chance be sped
Ere they can scarcely dress their head,
Yet pardon them, for they be loth
To make God Phoebus break his oath:
And better 'twere a child were born
Than that a God should be foresworn.
In Wit's Interpreter, 1655, and other
Miscellanies, a third stanza is given:--
"Yet silly they, when all is done,
Complain our wits their hearts have won,
When 'tis for fear that they should be
With Daphne turn'd into a tree:
And who would so herself abuse
To be a tree, if she could chuse?"
The younger Donne printed the verses among the _Poems by William, Earl
of Pembroke, and Benjamin Ruddier_, 1660, ascribing them to the Earl.
Donne's authority carries no weight.
From _Harl. MS._ 791, fol. 54.
WHY[37] should passion lead thee blind
'Cause thy mistress is unkind?
She's yet too young to shew delight
And is not plumed for Cupid's flight;
She cannot yet in height of pleasure
Pay her lover equal measure,
But like the rose new blown doth feed
The eye alone but bears no seed.
She is yet but in her spring,
Cold in love till Cupid bring
A hotter season with his fire,
Which soon will ripen her desire.
Autumn will shortly come and greet her,
Making her taste and colour sweeter:
Her ripeness then will soon be such
As she will fall even with a touch.
[37] This poem is ascribed by the younger Donne to William Herbert,
Earl of Pembroke. It was very popular, and is found in many MS.
collections. "Go, soul, the body's guest," is ascribed by Donne to
Pembroke. People must have been very credulous in the second half of
the seventeenth century. (See _Windsor Drollery_, 1672; _Add. MS._
10309, &c.).
From _Malone MS._ 16.
YES[38] I could love if I could find
A mistress fitting to my mind;
Whom neither pride nor gold could move
To buy her beauty, sell her love;
Were neat, yet cared not to be fine,
And loved me for myself, not mine;
Were rather comely than too fair,
White skinn'd and of a lovely hair;
Not ever-blushing, nor too bold;
Not ever-fond, nor yet too cold;
Not sullen-silent, nor all tongue;
Nor puling weak, nor manlike strong;
Modestly full of pleasing mirth,
Yet close as centre of the earth;
In whom you no passion see
But when she looks or speaks of me;
Who calls to bed with melting eyes;
As sweet and fresh as morn, doth rise:
If such a one you chance to find,
She is a mistress to my mind.
[38] There is a printed copy of this poem, widely different from the
MS. version, in the second book of _The Treasury of Music_, 1659.
After l. 6, the printed copy reads:--
"Not lady-proud nor city-coy,
But full of freedom, full of joy;
Not wise enough to rule a state,
Nor so much fool to be laugh'd at;
Nor childish young, nor beldam old;
Not fiery hot, nor icy cold;
Not richly proud, nor basely poor;
Not chaste, yet no reputed whore.
If such a one I chance to find,
I have a mistress to my mind."
Compare the song in Ben Jonson's _Poetaster_, ii. 1--
"If I freely may discover
What would please me in my lover," &c.
which probably suggested the present poem.
From _Ashmole MS._ 38, No. 196.
YOU that in the midst of night
Can acquaint mine eyes with light,
Also can command the day,
When you please, to go or stay;
Nothing can your powers resist
Whilst your shining eyes persist.
O do but smile! show more delight
In adding lustre to the night,
That your admirer now may say
Night's more clearer than the day.
From _The Banquet of Music_, 1688.
WHY is your faithful slave disdain'd?
By gentle arts my heart you gain'd,
O keep it by the same.
For ever shall my passion last,
If you will make me once possest
Of what I dare not name.
Though charming are your wit and face,
'Tis not alone to hear and gaze
That will suffice my flame.
Love's infancy on hopes may live,
But you to mine full grown must give
Of what I dare not name.
When I behold your lips, your eyes,
Those snowy breasts that fall and rise,
Fanning my raging flame;
That shape so made to be embraced;
What would I give I might but taste
Of what I dare not name?
In Courts I never wish to rise,
Both wealth and honour I despise,
And that vain breath call'd Fame;
By Love I hope no crowns to gain,
'Tis something more I would obtain--
'Tis that I dare not name.
From _The Marrow of Compliments_, 1655.
THE LOVER PITHILY PERSUADING HIS MISTRESS TO RELINQUISH HER VIRGIN
RESOLVES.
_Beauteous Mistress_,
THOUGH that no God may thee deserve,
Yet for thy own sake (whom I serve)
Abandon cold Virginity,
The Queen of Love's sole enemy.
Practise the gesture of a nun
When your flowery youth is done:
Pallas joys in single life
'Cause she cannot be a wife.
Love then, and be not tyrannous;
Heal the heart thou hast wounded thus.
Stain not thy youth with avarice;
Fair fools love to be counted nice.
The corn dies if it be not reapt,
Beauty is lost too strictly kept.
Come then (dearest) let's not tarry;
One day more and we will marry.
_Which he humbly begs, who is wholly
yours not to be disobliged_,
T. W.
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
'TIS[39] not how witty, nor how free,
Nor yet how beautiful she be,
But how much kind and true to me:
Freedom and wit none can confine,
And beauty like the sun doth shine,
But Kind and True are only thine.
Let others with attention sit
To listen and admire her wit;
That is a rock where I ne'er split.
Let others dote upon her eyes
And burn their hearts for sacrifice:
Beauty's a calm where danger lies.
Yet Kind and True have been long tried,
A[40] harbour where we may confide
And safely there at anchor ride:
From change of winds there we are free,
Nor need we fear storms' tyranny,
Nor pirate though a prince he be.
[39] This poem is also found in _The Academy of Compliments_ and other
collections.
[40] Old ed. "And."
From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
SWEET Philomel in groves and desarts haunting
Oft glads my heart and ears with her sweet chaunting,
But then her tunes delight me best,
When perched with prick against her breast
She sings "Fy, fy!" as if she suffered wrong,
Till, seeming pleased, "Sweet, sweet!" concludes her song.
Sweet Jinny sings and talks and sweetly smileth,
And with her wanton mirth my griefs beguileth,
But then methinks she pleaseth best
When, while my hands move love's request,
She cries "Fy, fy!" and, seeming loth, gainsays,
Till better pleased "Sweet, sweet!" content bewrays.
From _The Westminster Drollery_. (_The Second Part._) 1672.
THE VALENTINE.
AS youthful day put on his best
Attire to usher morn
And she to greet her glorious guest
Did her fair self adorn,
Up did I rise, and hid mine eyes
As I went through the street,
Lest I should one that I despise
Before a fairer meet.
And why
Was I,
Think you, so nice and fine?
Well did I wot
(Who wots it not?)
It was Saint Valentine.
In fields by Phoebus great with young
Of flowers and hopeful buds,
Resembling thoughts that freshly sprung
In lovers' lively bloods,
A damsel fair and fine I saw,
So fair and finely dight,
As put my heart almost in awe
To attempt a mate so bright:
But O
Why so?
Her purpose was like mine,
And readily
She said as I
"Good morrow, Valentine."
A fair of love we kept a while:
She for each word I said
Gave me two smiles, and for each smile
I her two kisses paid.
The violet, made haste to appear
To be her bosom-guest,
With first primrose that grew this year,
I purchased for[41] her breast:
To me
Gave she
Her golden lock for mine;
My ring of jet,
For her bracelet,
I gave my Valentine.
Subscribed with a line of love,
My name for her I wrote;
In silk for me her name she wove
Whereto this was her mot,[42]
"As shall this year thy truth appear,
I still, my dear, am thine";
"Your mate today, and love for aye,
If you so say," was mine.
While thus
On us
Each other's favours shine,
"No more have we
To change," quoth she,
"Now farewell, Valentine."
"Alas," said I, "let friends not seem
Between themselves so strange;
The jewels both we dear'st esteem
You know are yet to change."
She answers, "No," yet smiles as though
Her tongue her thought denies;
Who truth of maiden's mind will know
Must seek it in her eyes.
She blush'd,
I wish'd
Her heart as free as mine,
She sight[43] and sware
"In sooth you are
Too wanton, Valentine."
Yet I such further favour won
By suit and pleasing play,
She vow'd what now was left undone
Should finish'd be in May;
And though perplex'd with such delay
As more augments desire,
'Twixt present grief and promised joy,
I from my mate retire:
If she
To me
Preserve her vows divine
And constant troth,
She shall be both
My love and Valentine.
[41] Old ed. "from."
[42] Motto.
[43] Sighed.
From _Rawlinson MS. Poet._ 206.
ON A WATCH SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.[44]
GO and count her better hours,
They more happy are than ours.
The day that gives her any bliss
Make it again as long as 'tis;
The hour she smiles, O let that be
By thy art increased to three.
But if she frown on thee or me,
Know night is made by her not thee:
Be swift in such an hour and soon
Make it night though it be noon,
And stay her times who is the free
Fair sun that governs thee and me.
[44] Also in _Wit's Recreations_ (with slightly altered text).
From _Wit Restored_, 1658.
A SONG TO HIS MISTRESS.
I WILL not do a sacrifice
To thy face or to thy eyes,
Nor unto thy lily palm,
Nor thy breath, that wounding balm;
But the part to which my heart
In vows is seal'd
Is that mine of bliss divine
Which is conceal'd.
What's the golden fruit to me
If I may not pluck the tree?
Bare enjoying all the rest
Is but like a golden feast,
Which at need can never feed
Our love-sick wishes:
Let me eat substantial meat,
Not view the dishes.
From _Wit at a Venture: or Clio's Privy Garden_, 1674.
THE SURPRISING LOVER.
LOVE, in rambling once astray,
Was benighted in his way;
With cold and tiresome cares opprest,
He creeps in fair Lucina's breast
To shelter there and take his rest.
The nymph, not dreaming of her fate,
And of an unexpected guess[45]
Much less,
To come so late,
Slep[t] on: the youth, recov'ring heat,
Prepares his arms to try a feat.
The deed scarce done, the nymph awakes
And in the act the youngster takes,
Strangely surprised, yet well contented too
That she enjoyed so sweet a bed-fellow.
Then, viewing well her guess all o'er,
She liked his presence more and more;
Telling him, rather than he should begone,
She'd nurse and keep him as her own;
And if he'd vow ne'er to depart,
She'd find him lodging next her heart.
[45] Old form of "guest."
From _The New Academy of Compliments_, 1671.
PISH,[46] modest sipper, to't again!
My sweetest joy,
The wine's not coy
As women are.
My dearest puling, prithee then,
Prithee, my fair,
Once more bedew those lips of thine,
Mend thy draught and mend the wine.
Since it hath tasted of thy lip
(Too quickly cloy'd),
How overjoy'd
It cheerfully
Invites thee to another sip.
Methinks I see
The wine perfumed by thee, my fair:
Bacchus himself is dabbling there.
Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;
Bathe that cherry
In the sherry,
The jocund wine
Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye
As more divine;
Though thou take none to drink to me,
Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.
Nay, my fair, off with't, off with it clean!
Well, I perceive
Why this you leave;
My love reveals
And makes me guess what 'tis you mean:
Because at meals
My lips are kept from kissing thee,
Thou needs wilt kiss the glass to me.
[46] There is an inferior version of this poem in _Wit's Interpreter_.
From _Choice Drollery_, 1656.
AGAINST FRUITION.
THERE is not half so warm a fire
In the fruition as desire.
When I have got the fruit of pain
Possession makes me poor again:
Expected forms and shapes unknown
Whet and make sharp tentation.
Sense is too niggardly for bliss,
And pays me dully with what is;
But fancy's liberal and gives all
That can within her vastness fall.
Veil therefore still, while I divine
The treasure of this hidden mine,
And make imagination tell
What wonders doth in beauty dwell.
From _The Bristol Drollery_, 1674.
TO A YOUNG LADY IN A GARDEN.
_The Rose's Speech._
FAIREST, if you roses seek,
Take the nearest like your cheek.
I, the damask, would presume
To tender you my sweet perfume;
I am young, like you, a bud,
Peeping thorough my green hood,
Blushing only 'cause I see
Fresher roses grow on thee.
Crop me then and let me lie
In the sun-shine of thine eye
Till full-blown; then let me grow
In thy bosom, next thy snow,
That I may find, when my leaves fall,
In that sweet place a funeral.
Then, Celia, be you like the rose,
Who its season wisely chose;
Do not keep your maiden flower
Beyond its time, its full ripe hour.
Like the rose, you need not offer;
But when a worthy hand doth proffer,
Refuse not, Celia: on my life
You'll wear as fresh when you're a wife.
Let not your beauties untouch'd die,
Or wither'd and neglected lie;
Rather let them thrive i' th' light
Of his am'rous eager sight,
That when at last they fall and spread
It may be sweetly on his bed.
From _The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence_, 1658.
LOSE NO TIME.
LOSE no time nor youth but be
Kind to men, as they to thee;
The fair lilies that now grow
In thy cheeks, and purely show,
The cherry and the rose that blow,
If too long they hang and waste,
Winter comes that all will blast.
Thou art ripe, full ripe for men;
In thy sweets be gather'd then.
From _Westminster Drollery_ (_Second Part_), 1672.
ONE AND HIS MISTRESS A-DYING.
SHALL we die
Both thou and I,
And leave the world behind us?
Come, I say,
And let's away,
For nobody here doth mind us.
Why do we gape?
We cannot scape
The doom that is assign'd us;
When we are in grave,
Altho' we rave,
There is nobody needs to bind us.
The clerk shall sing,
The sexton ring,
And old wives they shall wind us;
The priest shall lay
Our bones in clay,
And nobody there shall find us.
Farewell wits,
And folly's fits,
And griefs that often pined us!
When we are dead
We'll take no heed
What nobody says behind us.
Merry nights,
And false delights,
Adieu! ye did but blind us:
We must to mould,
Both young and old,
Till nobody's left behind us.
From JOHN COTGRAVE'S _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655.
A HEALTH TO HIS MISTRESS.
TO her whose beauty doth excel
Story, we toss these cups and sell
Sobriety a sacrifice
To the bright lustre of her eyes.
Each soul that sips here is divine:
Her beauty deifies the wine.
From _Harl. MS._ 6917. fol. 48.
A POEM OF SIR WALTER RAWLEIGH'S.[47]
NATURE that wash'd her hands in milk
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk
At Love's request to try them,
If she a mistress could compose
To please Love's fancy out of those.
Her eyes he would should be of light;
A violet breath, and lips of jelly;
Her hair not black, nor over-bright;
And of the softest down her belly:
As for her inside he 'ld have it
Only of wantonness and wit.
At Love's entreaty such a one
Nature made, but with her beauty
She hath framed a heart of stone;
So as Love, by ill destiny,
Must die for her whom Nature gave him,
Because her darling would not save him.
But Time, which Nature doth despise,
And rudely gives her love the lie,
Makes Hope a fool, and Sorrow wise,
His hands do[th] neither wash nor dry;
But being made of steel and rust,
Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.
The light, the belly, lips, and breath,
He dims, discolours,[48] and destroys;
With those he feeds, but fills not, Death,
Which sometimes were the food of joys:
Yea Time doth dull each lively wit,
And dries all wantonness with it.
Oh cruel Time, which takes in trust,
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
[47] This is the heading in the MS. Archdeacon Hannah, in his valuable
edition of Raleigh's poems, makes no mention of this MS. poem. The
last stanza, with a couple of lines tacked on, was printed in
Raleigh's _Remains_, where it is stated to have been "found in his
bible in the Gatehouse at Westminster." The whole poem is very much in
Raleigh's manner; and I congratulate myself upon its discovery.
[48] MS. "discovers."
From _Add. MS._ 2218, fol. 32 (compared with a copy in _Wit and
Drollery_, 1661).
CUPID'S HOLIDAY.
LADIES, whose marble hearts despise,
Love's soft impressions; whose chaste eyes
Ne'er shot glance but might beseem
Diana and her maiden team
Of icy virgins; hence, away!
Disturb not our licentious play,
For now 'tis Cupid's Holiday.
Go, glory in the empty name
Of virgin; let your idle flame
Consume itself, while we enjoy
Those pleasures which fair Venus' boy
Grants to those whose mingled thighs
Are trophies of his victories,[49]
From whence new pleasures still arise.
Those only are admitted here
Whose looser thoughts ne'er knew a fear
Of man's embraces; whose fair face
Can give enjoyment such a grace
As wipes away the hated name
Of lust, and calls their amorous flame
A virtue free from fear or shame.
With them we'll number kisses till
We pose arithmetic, and fill
Our hearts with pleasure[50] till it swells
Beyond those bounds where blushing dwells:
Then will we ourselves entomb
In those joys which fill the womb,
Till sleep possesseth Cupid's room.
At waking no repentance shall
With our past sweetness mingle gall;
We'll kiss again till we restore
Our strength again to venture more:
Then we'll renew again our play,
Admitting of no long delay
Till we end our holiday.
W. MUNSEY.[51]
[49] This line is omitted in the MS.
[50] Both the MS. and printed copy read "pleasures."
[51] I have at present no information about "W. Munsey," whose name is
attached to this (not very valuable) poem in the MS. In Rawlinson MS.
117, fol. 151, a copy of "I saw fair Chloris walk alone" (which has
been attributed, without evidence, by some to Carew, and by others to
Herrick) is subscribed "Munsey." The well-known poem, "In the nonage
of a winter's day," usually ascribed to Carew, is signed in _Rawlinson
MS. Poet._, 210, "W. Munsey."
From _Harl. MS._ 7332, fol. 47.
IN summer-time, when birds do sing,
And country maids are making hay,
As I went forth myself alone
To view the meadows fresh and gay,
The country maidens I espied
With fine lawn aprons as white as snow,
And crimson ribands about their arms,
Which made a pretty country show.
The young men fell a-prating,
And took the maidens from hay-making
To go and tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
Up and down the green meadow.
The next day being holiday,
And country maids they would be seen,
Each took his sweet-heart by the hand
And went to dance upon the green:
The country maids incontinent[52]
Unto the green assembled were,
Adorned with beauty's ornament,[53]
Their cheeks like roses and lilies fair:
The young men fell a-skipping,
The maidens nimbly fell a-tripping,
They could not dance, but tumble, tumble, [tumble]
Up and down[54] the green meadow.