Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

103. SIR RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. (Manual, p. 169.)

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

When love with unconfinéd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my gates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like, confinéd I

With shriller note shall sing

The mercy, sweetness, majesty,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlargéd winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,

Minds innocent and quiet, take

That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

104. THOMAS CAREW. 1589-1639. (Manual, pp. 170

1

and 86.)

SONG.

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,

And in your fragrant bosom dies.

105. WILLIAM BROWNE. 1590-1645. (Manual, p. 171.)

EVENING.

As in an evening when the gentle air
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair,

I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear

My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear.
When he hath played (as well he can) some strain
That likes me, straight I ask the same again,
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o'er
With some sweet relish was forgot before:
I would have been content if he would play,
In that one strain to pass the night away;
But fearing much to do his patience wrong,
Unwillingly have asked some other song:

So in this differing key though I could well
A many hours but as few minutes tell,
Yet lest mine own delight might injure you
(Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.

106. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 1605-1654. (Manual, p. 171.)

CUPIO DISSOLVI.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be

Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joyed to retreat
From the false favors of the great,

And treachery of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul t' enthrone
Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fear,

To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear.

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?

And when thou shalt my soul refine,

That it thereby may purer shine,

Shall I grieve for the dross?

107. EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687. (Manual, p. 171.)

Go, lovely rose!

SONG.

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

ON A GIRDle.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,.
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

108. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1605-1668. (Manual, p. 172.)

From "Gondibert.”

CHARACTER OF BIRTHA.

To Astragon, heaven for succession gave
One only pledge, and Birtha was her name;
Whose mother slept, where flowers grew on her grave,
And she succeeded her in face and fame.

She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone
With untaught looks and an unpractised heart;

Her nets, the most prepared could never shun;
For nature spread them in the scorn of art.

She never had in busy cities been,

Ne'er warmed with hopes, nor e'er allayed with fears;

Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin;

And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears.

But here her father's precepts gave her skill,

Which with incessant business filled the hours;
In Spring, she gathered blossoms for the still;
In Autumn, berries; and in Summer, flowers.

And as kind nature with calm diligence
Her own free virtue silently employs,

Whilst she, unheard, does ripening growth dispense,
So were her virtues busy without noise.

Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends,
The busy household waits no less on her;
By secret law, each to her beauty bends;
Though all her lowly mind to that prefer.

109. SIR JOHN DENHAM. 1615-1668. (Manual, p. 173.)

From "Cooper's Hill."

THE THAMES.

My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays.
Thames the most loved of all the Ocean's sons,

By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity;

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold:
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay;

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil;

But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;

First loves to do, then loves the good he does.

Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,

But free and common as the sea or wind;
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying tours

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,

ΙΟ