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COME, let's go on, where love and youth does
I've seen too much, if this be all.
Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty!


To show such stores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.
For Love to die an infant is lesser ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.
We 'ave both sat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do:
The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only sees, in love, is blind.
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,

But th' amour at last improv'd;
The Statue itself at last a woman grew,
And so at last, my dear, should you do too.

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther bliss,
Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
1 grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as strike:
I would not, salamander-like,
In scorching heats always to live desire,
But, like a martyr, pass to Heaven through fire.

Mark how the lusty Sun salutes the Spring,
And gently kisses every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does still new flowers beget.
The Sun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to see.


I TRY'D if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all;

I apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But stirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry, Mathematic doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie, Write the dispatches of a state.

I try'd devotion, sermons, frequent prayer, But those did worse than useless prove; For prayers are turu'd to sin, in those who are Out of charity, or in love.

I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire;
Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the desire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do, And mix'd with pleasant companies; My mirth did graceless and insipid grow,

And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd, 'Gainst this, some new desire to stir, And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd Some faint resemblances of her.

The physic made me worse, with which I strove This mortal ill t' expel;

As wholesome med'cines the disease improve

There where they work not well.


SHE loves, and she confesses too;
There's then, at last, no more to do?
The happy work's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won ;
The fruits of conquest now begin;
Iö, triumph! enter in.

What's this, ye gods! what can it be?
Remains there still an enemy?
Bold Honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;
Have I o'ercome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose?

Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms!
But I shall find out counter-charms,
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy!
Unlike to every other sprite,
Thou attempt'st not men to fright,
Nor appear'st but in the light.


THOUGH all thy gestures and discourses be
Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty;

Though from thy tongue ne'er slipp'd away
One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;
Yet such a sweetness, such a grace,
In all thy speech appear,

That what to th' eye a beauteous face,
That thy tongue is to th' ear:

So cunningly it wounds the heart,
It strikes such heat through every part,
That thou a tempter worse than Satan art.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have So much as of original sin,


Such charms thy beauty wears, as might
Desires in dying confess'd saints excite:
Thou, with strange adultery,
Dost in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do lust for thee,
And some enjoy thee when they sleep.
Ne'er before did woman live,
Who to such multitudes did give
The root and cause of sin, but only Eve.
Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,

That a fly's death 's a wound to thee;
Though savage and rock-hearted those
Appear, that weep not ev'n romance's woes;
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Whose rage was of so large extent;
The ills thou dost are whole thine own;
Thou'rt principal and instrument:
In all the deaths that come from you,
You do the treble office do

Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.
Thou lovely instrument of angry Fate,

Which God did for our faults create!
Thou pleasant, universal ill,
Which, sweet as health, yet like a plague dost


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And thou in pity didst apply

The kind and only remedy:

The cause absolves the crime; since me So mighty force did move, so mighty goodness thee.

Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny! Thou chaste committer of a rape! Thou voluntary destiny,

Which no man can, or would escape! So gentle, and so glad to spare, So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.


the. WHAT have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee,

Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?

Me thou 'ast robb'd; but what art thou
Thyself the richer now?

Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure!

He. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in


But noblest charity in thee. I'll the well-gotten pleasure Safe in my memory treasure:

What though the flower itself do waste, The essence from it drawn does long and

sweeter last.

The. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,
And nothing can restore 't again.
Art and labour to bestow,
Upon the carcase of it now,

Is but t' embalm a body dead; The figure may remain, the life and beauty's filed.

e. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone By Love, but Indiscretion.

To th' wise it all things does allow;
And cares not what we do, but how.

Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let in air, for ever shines and burns.
She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault

Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
For men, with Roman pride, above
The conquest do the triumph love;

Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,
Unless they through the streets their captive

lead enchain'd.

He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid, The bawd to his own wife is made; Beside, what boast is left for me, Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee? 'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you Who have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd me too.


She. Though public punishment we escape, the
Will rack and torture us within:
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does

When long 't has gnaw'd within,will break the
skin at last.

He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I sought,

That wounded balm is all my fault;

She. Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee now?

And yet I'm sure I love thee too!
I'm angry; but any wrath will prove
More innocent than did thy love.

Thou hast this day undone me quite; Yet wilt undo me more should'st thou not come at night.

VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER. AS soon hereafter will I wagers lay 'Gainst what an oracle shall say; Fool that I was, to venture to deny A tongue so us'd to victory!

A tongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
That never yet it spoke but gain'd an heart:
Though what you said had not been true,
If spoke by any else but you;
And Fate will change rather than you should lye.
Your speech will govern Destiny,
'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide,
Reason, methinks, was on my side;
But that's a guide, alas! we must resign,
When th' authority's divine.
She said, she said herself it would be so;
And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no:
Never so justly, sure, before,

Errour the name of blindness bore;
For whatso'er the question be,

There's no man that has eyes would bet for me.

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Kiss her, and as you part, you amorous waves,
(My happier rivals, and my fellow-slaves)
Point to your flowery banks, and to her shew
The good your bounties do;

Then tell her what your pride doth cost,
And how your use and beauty's lost,
When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost.
Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee,
Haste without stop to a devouring sea;
Where they will mix'd and undistinguish'd lie
With all the meanest things that die;
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,
Tell her there's yet one remedy to be had: [find
Show her how thou, though long since past, dost
Thyself yet still behind:

Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown
Secure of being again o'erthrown?
Since such an enemy needs not fear
Lest any else should quarter there,
Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down

the town.

It is enough; enough of time and pain
Hast thou consum'd in vain ;
Leave, wretched Cowley! leave
Thyself with shadows to deceive;
Think that already lost which thou must never


If e'er I clear my heart of this desire,

If e'er it home to its breast retire,

It ne'er shall wander more about,


THROW an apple up an hill,

Down the apple tumbles still;
Roll it down, it never stops
Till within the vale it drops:
So are all things prone to Love,
All below, and all above.

Marriage (say to her) will bring
About the self-same thing.

But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring. Metals grow within the mine,

Luscious grapes upon the vine }
Still the needle marks the pole;
Parts are equal to the whole:
'Tis a truth as clear, that Love
Quickens all, below, above,

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 o' the sea,

Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd

in tears.

Though thousand beauties call it out:

A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.

Down the mountain flows the stream,
Up ascends the lambent flame;
Smoke and vapour mount the skies;
All preserve their unities;
Nought below, and nought above,
Seems averse, but prone to Love.
Stop the meteor in its flight,
Or the orient rays of light;
Bid Dan Phoebus not to shine,
Bid the planets not incline;
"Tis as vain, below, above,
To impede the course of Love,
Salamanders live in fire,
Eagles to the skies aspire,
Diamonds in their quarries lie,
Rivers do the sea supply:

Man is born to live and die,
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly;
Fishes in the waters swim,
Doves are mild, and lions grim;
Nature thus, below, above,
Pushes all things on to Love.
Does the cedar love the mountain?
Or the thirsty deer the fountain?
Does the shepherd love his crook ?
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?

Resolve then on it, and by force or art

Free thy unlucky heart;
Since Fate does disapprove
Th' ambition of thy love,
And not one star in Heaven offers to take thy part. Seek the birds in spring to pair?

Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
Should you this deny, you'll prove
Nature is averse to Love,

Thus appears, below, above,
A propensity to Love.

As the wencher loves a lass,
As the toper loves his glass,
As the friar loves his cowl,
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,

Fly precipitate to Love.

The pox, the plague, and every small disease
May come as oft as ill-fate please;
But Death and Love are never found
To give a second wound:

We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd When young maidens courtship shunk.
When the Moon out-shines the Sun,

by these.

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man 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, #bich, sometimes (especially in songs and odes)

Ir a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it would be thought, that one mad-lent 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 piecos of English poesy could expect from a Frenchman or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word for word, into French or Italian prose. And 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

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