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The fruitful seed of Heaven did brooding lie, “When my new mind had no infusion known, And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry. Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own, It did all other threats surpass,
That ever since I vainly try When God to his own people said,
To wash away the inherent dye: (The men whom through long wanderings he had Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite;
But never will reduce the native white. That he would give them even a heaven of To all the ports of honour and of gain
I often steer my course in vain : They look'd up to that heaven in vain,
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again. That bounteous Heaven, which God did not Thou slack'nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be Upon the most unjust to shine and rain. The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy.
Whoever this world's happiness would see, “The Rachel, for which twice seven years and Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only heaven desire
Do from the world retire.
Myself a demi-votary to make.
Thus, with Saphira and her husband's fate, Given to another, who had store
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,) Of fairer and of richer wives before,
For all that I gave up I nothing gain, And not a Leah left thy recompense to be! And perish for the part which I retain. Go on; twice seven years more thy fortune try; Twice seven years more God in his bounty may “Teach me not then, 0 thou fallacious Muse! Give thee, to fling away
The Court, and better king, t' accuse: Into the Court's deceitful lottery;
The heaven under which I live is fair, But think how likely 'tis that thou
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear: With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou Should'st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Mak’st me sit still and sing, when I should plough Should'st even able be to live; Thou to whose share so little bread did fall,
Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortune's fatal end; In that miraculous year, when manna rain'd on
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, all.”
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend; Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile, To wait on his, 0 thou fallacious Muse!
I ought to be accurs'd, if I refuse That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
Kings have long hands, they say; and though And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
I be The melancholy Cowley said:
So distant, they may reach at length to me. "Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid
However, of all princes, thou The ills which thou thyself hast made?
Should'st not reproach rewards for being small Whei the cradle innocent I lay,
or slow; Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,
Thou who rewardest but with popular breath, And my abused soul didst bear
And that too after death!”
Thy golden Indies in the air;
My ravish'd freedom to regain;
Resolved to love.
No wholesome herb can near it thrive, I wonder what the grave and wise
Think of all us that love;
Whether our pretty fooleries Make all my art and labour fruitless now;
Their mirth or anger move; Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth They understand not breath that words doe want;
Our sighs to them are insignificant.
One of them saw me th' other day,
They drink and dance by their own light, Touch the dear hand which I admire,
They drink and revel all the night. My soul was melting strait away,
Nothing in Nature's sober found, And dropt before the fire.
But an eternal Health goes round. This silly wise man who pretends to know, Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Ask’t why I look'd so pale, and trembled so? Fill all the glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I;
Why, men of morals, tell me why.
Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compard to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, These are but trifles, I confess,
Nature's selfe's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see, The wisest king who from his sacred breast
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hindes with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year! The thirsty earth soaks ip the rain,
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; And drinks, and gapes fu drink again.
Phoebus is himself thy sire. The plants suck in the earth, and are
To thee of all things upon earth, With constant drinking fresh and fair.
Life is no longer than thy mirth, The sea itself, which one would think
Happy insect! happy thou, Should have but little need of drink,
Dost neither age nor winter know: Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, The busie sun (and one would guess
(Voluptuous, and wise withall, By's drunken fiery face no less)
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Richard Lovelace ward 1618 in Woolwich geboren, erhielt eine vortreffliche Erziehung und bezog 1634 die Universität Oxford, einer der schönsten und liebenswürdigsten Jünglinge seiner Zeit. Nachdem er hier zwei Jahre verweilt, und Magister artium geworden, nahm er Kriegsdienste und wurde wegen seiner Treue fiir Karl I. in den Kerker geworfen, aus dem er sich nur für schweres Geld befreite. Er diente darauf im französischen Heere, wo er ein Reginient befeliligte und bei Dünkirchen verwundet wurde. 1648 nach England zurückkehrend gerieth er von Neuem in Gefangenschaft, und ward erst nach der IIinrichtung Karls I. wieder losgelassen. Arm, elend und in tiefen Trübsinn versunken, irrte er nun in London umher, bis ihn der Tod 1658 von seinen Leiden erlöste.
Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst unter dem Titel: Lucasta, zu Ehren der Dame seines Herzens Lucy Sacheverell, 1650 und wurden 1659 durch seinen Bruder von Neuem herausgegeben. Sie sind meist lyrisch, leiden an den Geschmacksfehlern seiner Zeit, zeichnen sich aber durch Adel der Gesinnung, warmes , natürliches Gefühl, Anmuth und Eleganz vortheilhaft aus.
When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
And glories of my King;
He is, how great should be;
Know no such libertie.
Stone walls doe not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
That for an hermitage;
And in my soule am free;
Injoy such libertie.
M ar v ell.
Andrew Marvell ward am 15. November 1620 zu Kingston upon Hull, wo sein Vater dissentirender Prediger war, geboren. Er studirte in Cambridge, bereiste darauf einen grossen Theil von Europa and kehrte 1645 nach England zurück, wo er lange in Zurückgezogenheit lebte, dann Milton's Gehilfe im Staatsdienste und 1660 Deputirter für Hull im Parlamente wurde. Unter Karl I., der ihm sehr wohl wollte, schlug er, obwohl arm, jedes Amt und jede Gratification
Er starb, vielleicht vergiftet, plötzlich am 16. August 1678 in London.
Marvell erwarb sich zu seiner Zeit, durch satirische Pamphlete, in welchem er vorzüglich die Gegner des Parlamentes angriff, ausserordentlichen Ruf. Als Dichter zeichnet er sich durch Phantasie, Originalität, Wärme und echtes Gefühl sehr vortheilhaft aus. Seine Poesieen und Briefe nebst einer Nachricht über sein Leben von Cooke, erschienen gesammelt, London 1726, 2 Bde. in 12.
The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of O then let me in time compound,
And parly with those conquering eyes;
Ere they have try'd their force to wound, See with what simplicity
Ere with their glancing wheels, they drive This nymph begins her golden days!
In triumph over hearts that strive, In the green grass she loves to lye,
And them that yield but more despise. And there with her fair aspect tames
Let me be laid, The wilder flow’rs, and gives them names:
Where I may see the glorys from some shade. But only with the roses plays And them does tell
Mean time, whilst every verdant thing What colours best become them, and what smell.
Itself does at thy beauty charm,
Reform the errors of the spring : Who can foretell for what high cause,
Make that the tulips may have share This darling of the Gods was born!
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; Yet this is she whose chaster laws
And roses of their thorns disarm : The wanton Love shall one day fear,
But most procure,
That violets may a longer age endure.
But 0, young beauty of the woods,
Whom Nature courts with fruits and flow'rs,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
And ere we see,
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
What should we do but sing his praise,
The Nymph complaining for the Death
of her Fawn.
Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
Thenceforth I set myself to play
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Had it liv'd long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did : his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.
With sweetest milk, and sugar first,