TO MY INGENIOUS FRIEND,

MR. BROME,

ON HIS VARIOUS AND EXCELLENT POEMS:

AN HUMBLE EGLOGUE.

WRITTEN THE 29TH OF MAY, 1660.

DAMON AND DORUS.

DAMON.

HAIL, happy day! Dorus, sit down :
Now let no sigh, nor let a frown
Lodge near thy heart, or on thy brow.
The king! the king's return'd! and now
Let's banish all sad thoughts, and sing,
"We have our laws, and have our king."

DORUS.

'Tis true, and I would sing; but, oh! These wars have shrunk my heart so low, "Twill not be rais'd.

DAMON.

What, not this day?
Why, 'tis the twenty-ninth of May !
Let rebels' spirits sink: let those
That, like the Goths and Vandals, rose
To ruin families, and bring

Contempt upon our church, our king,
And all that's dear to us, be sad:
But be not thou; let us be glad.
And, Dorus, to invite thee, look,
Here's a collection in this book
Of all those cheerful songs, that we
Have sung with mirth and merry glee:
As we have march'd to fight the cause
Of God's anointed, and our laws:

But yet be wise,

And don't believe that I

Did think your eyes

More bright than stars can be;
Or that your face angels' outvies
In their celestial liveries;

"Twas all but poetry.

I could have said as much by any she:

You are not beauteous of yourself, but are made so by me.

Though we, like fools,
Fathom the earth and sky,

And drain the schools
For names t' express you by:
Out-rant the loud 'st hyperboles
To dub you saints and deities,

By Cupid's heraldry.

We know you're flesh and blood as well as men,

Yet since my fate

Has drawn me to this sin,
Which I did hate,
I'll not my labour lose,
But will love on, as I begin,

To the purpose, now my hand is in,

Spite of those arts you use:

And let you know the world is not so bare, There's things enough to love, besides such toys as

ladies are.

I'll love good wine,

I'll love my book and Muse,

Nay, all the Nine;

I'll love my real friend,

I'll love my horse; and could I choose
One that would not my love abuse,

To her my heart should bend.

I will love those that laugh, and those that sing, I'll love my country, prince, and laws, and those that love the king.

THE INDIFFERENT.

MISTAKE me not, I am not of that mind
To hate all woman kind;
Nor can you so my patience vex,
To make my Muse blaspheme your sex,
Nor with my satires bite you:
Though there are some in your free state,
Some things in you, who 're candidate,
That he who is, or loves himself, must hate :
Yet I'll not therefore slight you.

For I'm a schismatic in love,

And what makes most abhor it,

In me does more affection move,
And I love the better for it.

again.

That I love every one:

If fair, I must; if brown she be, She's lovely, and for sympathy,

'Cause we're alike, I love her;
If tall, she's proper; and if short,
She's humble, and I love her for't.
Small's pretty, fat is pleasant, every sort
Some graceful good discover;

If young, she's pliaut to the sport ;
And if her visage carry

Gray hairs and wrinkles, yet I'll court,
And so turn antiquary.

Be her hair red, be her lips gray or blue,
Or any other hue,

Or has she but the ruins of a nose,
Or but eye-sockets. I'll love those;

Though scales, not skin, does clothe her,
Though from her langs the scent that comes
Does rout her teeth out of their gums,
I'll count all this for high encomiums,
Nor wil! I therefore loath her.
There are no rules for beauty, but
'Tis as our fancies make it:

Be you but kind, I'll think you fair,
And all for truth shall take it.

Though you are witty, what care I?

My danger is the more:

Nay, should you boast of honesty,
Woman gives all those names the lie:
In all you hardly can

Write after that fair copy, man,
And dabble in the steps we've gone before.
We you admire, as we do parrots all,
Not speaking well, but that they speak at all.
That lass mine arms desire t'enfold,
Born in the golden age,
Guarded with angels, but of gold;
She that's in such a shower enroll'd,
May tempt a Jove to be

Guilty of love's idolatry,

And make a pleasure of an hermitage; Tho' their teeth are not, if their necks wear pearl, A kitchen wench is consort for an earl.

""Tis money makes the man," you say, 'I shall make the woman too; When both are clad in like array, December rivals youthful May:

This rules the world, and this

Perfection of both sexes is;

This Flora made a goddess, so 'twill you: This makes us laugh, this makes us drink and sing: This makes the beggar trample o'er his king.

THE RESOLVE.

TELL me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid;

Nor of a rare seraphic voice,

That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,

And it must be a she:
The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,

Lilies their whiteness stain: What fool is he that shadows seeks, And may the substance gain! Then if thou'lt have me love a lass, Let it be one that's kind, Else I'm a servant to the glass, That's with Canary lin❜d.

THE COUNSEL.

WHY's my friend so melancholy?
Pr'ythee why so sad, why so sad?
Beauty's vain, and love's a folly,
Wealth and women make men mad.
To him that has a heart that's jolly,
Nothing's grievous, nothing's sad,
Come, cheer up, my lad.
Does thy mistress seem to fly thee?
Pr'ythee don't repine, don't repine:
If at first she does deny thee
Of her love, deny her thine;
She shows her coyness but to try thee,
And will triumph if thou pine.

Drown thy thoughts in wine.

Try again, and don't give over,
Ply her, she's thine own, she's thine own;.
Cowardice undoes a lover.

They are tyrants if you moan;

If nor thyself, nor love, can move her,
But she'll slight thee, and be gone :
Let her then alone.

If thy courtship can't invite her,

Nor to condescend, nor to bend, Thy only wisdom is to slight her, And her beauty discommend. Such a niceness will requite her; Yet, if thy love will not end,

Love thyself and friend.

THE WARY WOOER

FAITH, you're mistaken, I'll not love

That face that frowns on me:

Though it be handsome, 't shall not move
My centred soul, that's far above
The magic of a paint,

That on a devil writes a saint:
I hate your pictures and imagery,
I'm no love-sinon, nor will tamely now

Lie swaddled in the trenches of your brow.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

LADY, you'll wonder when you see With those bright twins of eyes, The ragged lines that crawl from me, And note the contrariety

That both in them and in their author lies.

I that came hither with a breast

Coated with mail about; Proof 'gainst your beauty, and the rest, And had no room for love to nest, Where reason lodg'd within, and love kept out.

My thoughts turn'd, like the needle, about, Touched by magnetic love: And fain would find some north-pole out, But waver'd 'twixt desire and doubt; Till now they're fix'd, and point to you above.

Lend me one ray, and do but shine

Upon my verse and me;

Your beauty can enrich a line,

And so you'll make 'em yours, not mine; Since there's no Helicon like love and thee.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

WHY dost thou frown, my dear, on me?
Come, change that angry face.
What though I kiss'd that prodigy,
And did her ugly limbs embrace?

'Twas only 'cause thou wert in place.
Had I suck'd poison from her breath,
One kiss could set me free:
Thy lip's an antidote 'gainst death;
Nor would I ever wish to be

Cur'd of a sickness but by thee.

The little birds for dirt repair

Down from the purer sky,
And shall not I kiss foul and fair?

Wilt thou give birds more pow'r than 1 ?
Fie! 'tis a scrupulous nicety.

When all the world I've ranged about,
All beauties else to spy,

And, at the last, can find none out
Equal to thee in beauty, I

Will make thee my sole deity.

But thou, I warrant thee, do'st suppose
This new design will slay me,
And ravel out my life with woes,
Till death, at last, mine eyes shall close;
That all may read, "Lo! here I lie
Tomb'd in thy heart, slain by thine eye."
But I, I vow, will be more wise,

And love with such discretion!
When I read coyness in thy eyes,
I'll robe mine with like cruelties,

And kill with prepossession.
Then I'll turn stone, and so will be
An endless monument to thee.

THE HARD HEART.

STILL SO hard-hearted? what may be
The sin thou hast committed;
That now the angry deity
Has to a rock congealed thee,

And thus thy hardness fitted ?
To make one act both sin and curse,
And plague thy hardness with a worse.

Till thee there never was but one

Was to a rock translated,
Poor Niobe, that weeping stone:
She rever did, thou ne'er dost, moan,
Nor is thy scorn abated.

The tears I send to thee are grown
Of that same nature, and turn stone.

Yet 1, dear rock, must worship thee,
Love works this superstition,
And justifies th' idolatry
That's shown to such a stone as thee,
Where it foreruns fruition.
Thou'rt so magnetic, that I can

No more leave thee than to be man.

THE CONTRARY.

NAY, pr'ythee do be coy, and slight me,
I must love, though thou abhor it;
This pretty niceness does invite me :
Scorn me, and I'll love thee for it.
That world of beauty that is in you,
I'll overcome like Alexander.
In amorous flames I can continue

Uusing'd, and prove a salamander.
Do not be won too soon, I pr'ythee,

But let me woo, whilst thou dost fly me. 'Tis my delight to dally with thee,

I'll court thee still if thou'lt deny me; For there's no happiness but loving,

Enjoyment makes our pleasures flat. Give me the heart that's always moving, And's not confin'd t' one you know what.

I've fresh supplies on all occasions,

Of thoughts, as various as your face is; No directory for evasions,

Nor will I court by common-places.