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Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia's Pastorals) not to give

over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the
comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither
was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him.
Willy. For a song I do not pass

With Detraction's breath on thee.
'Mongst my friends, but what, alas!

It shall never rise so high
Should I have to do with them,

As to stain thy poesy.
That my music do contemn?

As that sun doth oft exhale
Roget. What's the wrong?

Vapours from each rotten vale,

Poesy so sometime drains
Willy. A slight offence,
Wherewithal I can dispense;

Gross conceits from muddy brains,

Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
But hereafter, for their sake,

'Twixt men's judgments and her light.
To myself I'll music make.

But so much her power may do,
Roget. What, because some clown offends,

That she can dissolve them too.
Wilt thou punish all thy friends ?

If thy verse do bravely tower,
Willy. Honest Roget, understand me,

As she makes wing, she gets power:
Those that love me may command me;

Yet the higher she doth soar,
But thou know'st I am but young,

She's affronted still the more,
And the pastoral I sung

Till she to the high'st hath past,
Is by some supposed to be

Then she rests with fame at last,
(By a strain) too high for me;

Let nought therefore thee affright,
So they kindly let me gain

But make forward in thy flight.
Not my labour for my pain.

For, if I could match thy rhyme,
Trust me, I do wonder why

To the very stars I'd climb;
They should me my own deny.

There begin again, and fly,
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit

Till I reach'd eternity.
On the wings of borrow'd wit.

But alas ! my Muse is slow,
I'll make my own feathers rear me

For thy place she flags too low;
Whither others' cannot bear me.

Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Yet I'll keep my skill in store,

Her short wings were clipt of late;
'Till I've seen some winters more.

And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Roget. But in earnest mean'st thou so?

Am myself put up a muing.
Then thou art not wise, I trow,

But, if I my cage can rid,
That's the ready way to blot

I'll fly where I never did.
All the credit thou hast got.

And, though for her sake I'm crost,
Rather in thy age's prime

Though my best hopes I have lost,
Get another start of time

And knew she would make my trouble
And make those that so fond be,

Ten times more than ten times double ;
Spite of their own dullness, see,

I should love and keep her too,
That the sacred Muses can

Spite of all the world could do.
Make a child in years a man.

For, though banish'd from my flocks,
Envy makes their tongues now run,

And confined within these rocks,
More than doubt of what is done.

Here I waste away the light,
See'st thou not in clearest days,

And consume the sullen night,
Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;

She doth for my comfort stay,
And the vapours that do breathe

And keeps many cares away.
From the earth's gross womb beneath,

Though I miss the flowery fields,
Seem they not with their black streams

With those sweets the spring-tide yields ;
To pollute the sun's bright beams;

Though I may not see those groves,
And yet vanish into air,

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel
Leaving it unblemish’d, fair :

Than the sweet-voiced philomel ;
So, my Willy, shall it be

Though of all those pleasures past

The dull loneness, the black shade, Nothing now remains at last

That these hanging vaults have made; But remembrance (poor relief)

The strange music of the waves, That more makes than mends my grief;

Beating on these hollow caves; She's my mind's companion still,

This black den which rocks emboss, Maugre envy's evil will;

Overgrown with eldest moss ; Whence she should be driven too,

The rude portals, which give light Were't in mortals' power to do.

More to terror than delight; She doth tell me where to borrow

This my chamber of Neglect, Comfort in the midst of sorrow;

Wall'd about with Disrespect : Makes the desolatest place

From all these, and this dull air, To her presence be a grace ;

A fit object for despair, And the blackest discontents

She hath taught me by her might Be her fairest ornaments.

To draw comfort and delight. In my former days of bliss

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Her divine skill taught me this,

I will cherish thee for this; That from every thing I saw

Poesy, thou sweet's content I could some invention draw,

That e'er heaven to mortals lent, And raise pleasure to her height

Though they as a trifle leave thee, Through the meanest object's sight.

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; By the murmur of a spring,

Though thou be to them a scorn, Or the least bough's rustling,

Who to nought but earth are born; By a daisy whose leaves spread

Let my life no longer be Shut when Titan goes to bed,

Than I am in love with thee. Or a shady bush or tree,

Though our wise ones call it madness, She could more infuse in me

Let me never taste of sadness, Than all Nature's beauties can

If I love not thy madd'st fits In some other wiser man.

Above all their greatest wits. By her help I also now

And though some too seeming holy Make this churlish place allow

Do account thy raptures folly, Some things that may sweeten gladness

Thou dost teach me to contemn In the very gall of sadness.

What make knaves and fools of them.

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WALLER-A.D. 1605-87.

Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd:
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose ;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose !
guch cheerful modesty, such humble state,
As when, den love, but with as doubtful fate
Inviting fruit on too supaedy reach, we see
All the rich flow'rs through his mi.
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.

Lia found,
Had but this copy (which the artist cook
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr’d,
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

PHEBUS AND DAPHNE. Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lov’d, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less am'rous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use ! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair, Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,

araj w mrow approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain: All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phæbus, thus acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST. Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made Choice of their deities, this sacred shade Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave The peace and glory which these alleys have; Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood, That it became a garden of a wood. Her presence has such more than human grace, That it can civilize the rudest place ; And beauty too, and order, can impart, Where Nature de'er intended it, nor art. The plants acknowledge this, and her admire, No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre. If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd, They round about her into arbours crowd; Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand, Like some well marshall’d and obsequious band. Amphion so made stones and timber leap Into fair figures from a confus'd heap: And in the symmetry of her parts is found A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame, That if together ye fed all one flame, It could not equalize the hundredth part Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart !Go, Boy, and carve this passion on the bark of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark Of noble Sydney's birth; when such benign, Such more than mortal-making stars did shine, That there they cannot but for ever prove The monument and pledge of humble love; His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief;
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis’d,
Where he endeavours to be priz’d.
For women (born to be control'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,


All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu’ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pity'd now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He strait resumes llo wwwvu vain,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing' with fear, outflies the wind.

We must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame:
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile;
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air. So Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread.
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent spaniards reft,
Ravish'd whole townsritain left.
As his last leich so long our hopes confin’d,

uu limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle:
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage;
And, with wise conduct, to his country shew'd
The ancient way of conquering abroad.

Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
To him that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes that fear'd him grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swell’d the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores her billows roll'd,
Th’approaching fate of their great ruler told.

The ocear

Design or Chance makes others wive,
But Nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she deny'd her little bed
To him, for whom Heav'n seem'd to frame
And measure out this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme
As if the world held none but them.

To bim the fairest nymphs do shew
Like moving mountains topp'd with snow;
And ev'ry man a Polypheme

thu Galatea seem:
A may presune her faith to prove;
He patter death that proffers love.

ALA deri! det kind Nature thus
Wwww ali the world had sever'd us;
4,14 many ti nuriyer ws two,
Awaluw ww. tur only you!

Fair! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me when I set
My blest eyes on Amoret ;
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains;
But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine;
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection,
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:

ON A BREDE OP DIVERS COLOURS. Twee iwenty wlender virgin-tugere twine The cunoue wely, where all this tuncies shine. Au mature them, so they thin shade have wrought, Bolt matbex bandw, and vamous as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He woon the female to his painted bodi Nu, not the bow, which no adorns the skies, Dupontoum in, or boasta so many dyes,






But 'tis sure some pow'r above,

Who already have of me
Which controls our wills in love!

All that's not idolatry;
If not love, a strong desire

Which, though not so fierce a flames
To create and spread that fire

Is longer like to be the same.
In my breast, solicits me,

Then smile on me, and I will prove
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

Wonder is shorter liv'd than love.
'Tis amazement more than love
Which her radiant eyes do move :
If less splendor wait on thine,

Yet they so benignly shine,

Sees not my love how time resumes
I would turn my dazzled sight

The glory which he lent these flow'rs;
To behold their milder light:

Though none should taste of their perfumes, But as hard 'tis to destroy

Yet must they live but some few hours.
That high flame as to enjoy;

Time what we forbear devours !
Which how eas'ly I may do,
Heavin (as eas’ly scal'd) does know !

Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,
Amoret! as sweet and good

Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
As the most delicious food,

Those beauties must at length have been
Which but tasted does impart

The spoil of age, which finds out faces
Life and gladness to the heart.

In the most retired places.
Sacharissa's beauty's wine,
Which to madness doth incline,

Should some malignant planet bring
Such a liquor as no brain

A barren drought or ceaseless show'r
That is mortal can sustain.

Upon the autumn or the spring,
Scarce can I to heav'n excuse

And spare us neither fruit nor flow'r,
The devotion which I use

Winter would not stay an hour.
Unto that adored dame;
For 'tis not unlike the same

Could the resolve of love's neglect
Which I thither ought to send;

Preserve you from the violation
So that if it could take end,

Of coming years, then more respect
"Twould to Heav'n itself be due,

Were due to so divine a fashion,
To succeed her and not you ;

Nor would I indulge my passion,

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