Th' adorning thee with so much art Ask me not what my love shall do or be What after death the soul will do; 'Twill last, 1 'm sure, and that is all we know. The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move, But all that while a lifeless carcase prove; For 'tis the body of my love: But still continue; as, they say, Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do stray. THE TREE. I CHOSE the flourishing'st tree in all the park, With freshest boughs and fairest head; I cut my love into his gentle bark, They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree. How should I live myself, whose heart is found Deeply graven every where With the large history of many a wound, Larger than thy trunk can bear? With art as strange as Homer in the nut, Love in my heart has volumes put. What a few words from thy rich stock did take The leaves and beauties all, As a strong poison with one drop does make The nails and hairs to fall: Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this shade; And pardon me, thou gentle tree; I thought her name would thee have happy made, And blessed omens hop'd from thee: "Notes of my love, thrive here," said 1, " and grow; And with ye let my love do so." Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive ! Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?) Deform'dly hanging, the sad picture be HER UNBELIEF. 'Tis a strange kind of ignorance this in you, That your bright beams, as those of comets do, That truly you my idol might appear, Thou sitt'st, and dost not see, nor smell, nor hear, They see 't too well who at my fires repine; Must I, who with such restless care I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain: And raise me from the dead again! THE GAZERS. [call; COME, let's go on, where love and youth does To show such stores, and nothing grant, Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye; Unless it heal, as well as strike: I would not, salamander-like, HONOUR. SHE loves, and she confesses too; What's this, ye gods! what can it be? Noisy nothing! stalking shade! Sure I shall rid myself of the In scorching heats always to live desire, Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring, And gently kisses every thing! THE INCURABLE. I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found I apply'd receipts of business to my wound, As well might men who in a fever fry, As well might men who mad in darkness lie, I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer, I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care; I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do, Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd, The physic made me worse, with which I strove As wholesome, med'cines the disease improve Nor appear'st but in the light. THE INNOCENT ILL. THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses bé So cunningly it wounds the heart, It strikes such heat through every part, Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have Desires in dying confess'd saints excite: Ne'er before did woman live, [been Who to such multitudes did give Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too. Which God did for our faults create! Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dost kill! He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in me, But noblest charity in thee. What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and sweeter last. She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain, Is but t' embalm a borly dead; fled. He. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone By Love, but Indiscretion. To th' wise it all things does allow; Wilt make thy wicked boast of it; Nor think a perfect victory gain'd, lead enchain'd. He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, Beside, what boast is left for me, gagg'd me too. VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay And Fate will change rather than you should lye. There's no man that has eyes would bet for me. When they descend to human view) So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear, Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy. Than what I ow'd to thee before: Who would not venture for that debt to play, Which he were bound howe'er to pay? If Nature gave me power to write in verse, She gave it me thy praises to rehearse: Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit Has such a sovereigu right to it, That no man's Muse for public vent is free, She. Though public punishment we escape, the Till she has paid her customs first to thee. Will rack and torture us within: [sin Guilt and sin our bosom bears; And, though fair yet the fruit appears, That worm which now the core does waste, When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the skin at last. He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I songht, That wounded balm is all my fault; BATHING IN THE RIVER. THE fish around her crowded, as they do As she at first took me; Though every night the Sun himself set there. Why to mute fish should thou thyself discover, To ghosts, that have no use of it; Maids bury: and, for aught we know, That do as swiftly waste: I laugh'd the wanton play to view; And still old lovers yield the place to new. The good your bounties do; When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost. As in the ocean thou No privilege dost know Above th' impurest streams that thither flow. Tell her, kind Flood! when this has made her sad, Thyself yet still behind: But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. LOVE GIVEN OVER. Ir is enough; enough of time and pain Hast thou consum'd in vain; Thyself with shadows to deceive; THE FORCE OF LOVE. THROW an apple up an hill, Down the mountain flows the stream, To impede the course of Love. Salamanders live in fire, Eagles to the skies aspire, Metals grow within the mine, Man is born to live and die, Think that already lost which thou must never Fishes in the waters swim, gain. Three of thy lustiest and thy freshest years, (Toss'd in storms of hopes and fears) Like helpless ships that be Set on fire i' th' midst ở the sea, Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd Does the shepherd love his crook ? Th' ambition of thy love, Doves are mild, and lions grim: Or the willow court the brook? Thus by nature all things move, Like a running stream, to Love. Is the valiant hero bold? Does the miser doat on gold? And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part. | Seek the birds in spring to pair? If e'er I clear my heart of this desire, If e'er it home to its breast retire, A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire. The pox, the plague, and every small disease Breathes the rose-bud scented air? As the wencher loves a lass, We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shun by these. When the Moon out-shines the Suny Ir a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it would be thought, that one madman had translated another; as may appear, when he that understands not the original, reads the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, than which nothing seems more raving. And sure, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monstrare & sentio tantum) would but make it ten times more distracted than it is in prose. We must consider in Pindar the great difference of time betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in pictures, at least the colours of poetry; the no less difference betwixt the religions and customs of our countries; and a thousand particularities of places, persons, and manners, which do but confusedly appear to our eyes at so great a distance. And lastly (which were enough alone for my purpose) we must consider, that our ears are strangers to the music of his numbers, which, sometimes (especially in songs and odes) And almost without any thing else, makes an excellent poet; for though the grammarians and critics have laboured to reduce his verses into regular feet and measures (as they have also those of the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they are little better than prose to our ears. And I would gladly know what applause our best pieces of English poesy could expect from a Frenchman or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word for word, into French or Italian prose. when we have considered all this, we must needs confess, that, after all these losses sustained by Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or invention (not deserting still his subject) is not like to make him a richer man than he was in his own country. This is in some measure to be applied to all translations; and the not observing of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw are so much inferior to their originals. The like happens too in pictures, from the same root of exact imitation; which, being a vile and un |