Lucasta

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I.
Lucasta.
TELL me, ALEXIS, what this parting is,
That so like dying is, but is not it?

Alexis.
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,
'Till kind HOW DOE YOU call's us from the fit.

Chorus.
If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine:
Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right for one, where we can better live.

II.
Lu. But ah, this ling'ring, murdring farewel!
Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures the ill.
Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover,
Still to be dying, still for to recover.

Cho. Soldiers suspected of their courage goe,
That ensignes and their breasts untorne show:
Love nee're his standard, when his hoste he sets,
Creates alone fresh-bleeding bannerets.

III.
Alex. But part we, when thy figure I retaine
Still in my heart, still strongly in mine eye?
Lu. Shadowes no longer than the sun remaine,
But his beams, that made 'em, fly, they fly.
Cho. Vaine dreames of love! that only so much blisse
Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse;
And deale a larger measure in our paine
By showing joy, then hiding it againe.

IV.
Alex. No, whilst light raigns, LUCASTA still rules here,
And all the night shines wholy in this sphere.
Lu. I know no morne but my ALEXIS ray,
To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.

Chorus.
Alex. So in each other if the pitying sun
Thus keep us fixt, nere may his course be run!
Lu. And oh! if night us undivided make;
Let us sleepe still, and sleeping never wake!

The close.
Cruel ADIEUS may well adjourne awhile
The sessions of a looke, a kisse, or smile,
And leave behinde an angry grieving blush;
But time nor fate can part us joyned thus.

<22.1> i.e. the poet himself.

<22.2> "John Gamble, apprentice to Ambrose Beyland, a noted
musician, was afterwards musician at one of the playhouses;
from thence removed to be a cornet in the King's Chapel.
After that he became one in Charles the Second's band of violins,
and composed for the theatres. He published AYRES AND DIALOGUES
TO THE THEORBO AND BASS VIOL, fol. Lond., 1659."--Hawkins.

SONNET.
SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I.
When I by thy faire shape did sweare,
And mingled with each vowe a teare,
I lov'd, I lov'd thee best,
I swore as I profest.
For all the while you lasted warme and pure,
My oathes too did endure.
But once turn'd faithlesse to thy selfe and old,
They then with thee incessantly<23.1> grew cold.

II.
I swore my selfe thy sacrifice
By th' ebon bowes<23.2> that guard thine eyes,
Which now are alter'd white,
And by the glorious light
Of both those stars, which of<23.3> their spheres bereft,
Only the gellie's left.
Then changed thus, no more I'm bound to you,
Then swearing to a saint that proves untrue.

<23.1> i.e. at once, immediately.

<23.2> Her eyebrows.

<23.3> Original reads OF WHICH.

LUCASTA WEEPING.
SONG.
SET BY MR. JOHN LANEERE.

I.
Lucasta wept, and still the bright
Inamour'd god of day,
With his soft handkercher of light,
Kist the wet pearles away.

II.
But when her teares his heate or'ecame,
In cloudes he quensht his beames,
And griev'd, wept out his eye of flame,
So drowned her sad streames.

III.<24.1>
At this she smiled, when straight the sun
Cleer'd by her kinde desires;
And by her eyes reflexion
Fast kindl'd there his fires.

<24.1> This stanza is not found in the printed copy of LUCASTA,
1649, but it occurs in a MS. of this poem written, with many
compositions by Lovelace and other poets, in a copy of Crashaw's
POEMS, 1648, 12mo, a portion of which having been formed of the
printer's proof-sheets, some of the pages are printed only on one
side, the reverse being covered with MSS. poems, among the rest
with epigrams by MR. THOMAS FULLER (about fifty in number). There
can be little doubt, from the character of the majority of these
little poems, that by "Mr. Thomas Fuller" we may understand the
church-historian.

TO LUCASTA. FROM PRISON
AN EPODE.<25.1>

I.
Long in thy shackels, liberty
I ask not from these walls, but thee;
Left for awhile anothers bride,
To fancy all the world beside.

II.
Yet e're I doe begin to love,
See, how I all my objects prove;
Then my free soule to that confine,
'Twere possible I might call mine.

III.
First I would be in love with PEACE,
And her rich swelling breasts increase;
But how, alas! how may that be,
Despising earth, she will love me?

IV.
Faine would I be in love with WAR,
As my deare just avenging star;
But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere,
Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.

V.
Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane,
Faire thorough-shot RELIGION;
But he lives only that kills thee,
And who so bindes thy hands, is free.

VI.
I would love a PARLIAMENT
As a maine prop from Heav'n sent;
But ah! who's he, that would be wedded
To th' fairest body that's beheaded?

VII.
Next would I court my LIBERTY,
And then my birth-right, PROPERTY;
But can that be, when it is knowne,
There's nothing you can call your owne?

VIII.
A REFORMATION I would have,
As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve;
That is, a cleansing of each wheele
Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.

IX.
But not a reformation so,
As to reforme were to ore'throw,
Like watches by unskilfull men
Disjoynted, and set ill againe.

X.
The PUBLICK FAITH<25.2> I would adore,
But she is banke-rupt of her store:
Nor how to trust her can I see,
For she that couzens all, must me.

XI.
Since then none of these can be
Fit objects for my love and me;
What then remaines, but th' only spring
Of all our loves and joyes, the King?

XII.
He who, being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to ecclipse his right,
Blinded we stand in our owne light.

XIII.
And now an universall mist
Of error is spread or'e each breast,
With such a fury edg'd as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.

XIV.
Oh, from thy glorious starry waine
Dispense on me one sacred beame,
To light me where I soone may see
How to serve you, and you trust me!

<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement
in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return
from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be
little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the
fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be
assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.

<25.2> "The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin,
A nephew that dares COZEN any sin;
A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother,
Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other;
Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss,
ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS."
Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.

LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.<26.1>

I.
Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey,
That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.<26.3>

II.
O what a glorious transmigration
From this to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made! heere<26.4> from a winged stone
Transform'd into a bird of paradice!

III.
Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie
With th' arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet,
And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye
With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.

IV.
Sometime they wing her side,<26.5> strive to drown
The day's eyes piercing beames, whose am'rous heat
Sollicites still, 'till with this shield of downe
From her brave face his glowing fires are beat.

V.
But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw,
A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast,
In which her fresh aspect when as she saw,
And then her foe<26.6> retired to the west.

VI.
Deare engine, that oth' sun got'st me the day,
'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat!
No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play
But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.

VII.
My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine
In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse,
And but unto our selves to all remaine
Invisible, thou feature of this face!

VIII.
So said, her sad swaine over-heard and cried:
Yee Gods! for faith unstaind this a reward!
Feathers and glasse t'outweigh my vertue tryed!
Ah! show their empty strength! the gods accord.

IX.
Now fall'n the brittle favourite lyes and burst!
Amas'd LUCASTA weepes, repents and flies
To her ALEXIS, vowes her selfe acurst,
If hence she dresse her selfe but in his eyes.

<26.1> This adaptation of the fan to the purposes of a mirror,
now so common, was, as we here are told, familiar to the ladies
of Lovelace's time. Mr. Fairholt, in his COSTUME IN ENGLAND,
1846, p. 496, describes many various forms which were given at
different periods to this article of use and ornament; but the
present passage in LUCASTA appears to have escaped his notice.

<26.2> Ostrich. Lyly, in his EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c 4,
has ESTRIDGE. The fan here described was composed of
ostrich-feathers set with precious stones.

<26.3> In allusion to the digestive powers of this bird.

<26.4> Original reads NEERE.

<26.5> The poet means that Lucasta, when she did not require
her fan for immediate use, wore it suspended at her side or
from her girdle.

<26.6> The sun.

LUCASTA, TAKING THE WATERS AT TUNBRIDGE.<27.1>

I.
Yee happy floods! that now must passe
The sacred conduicts of her wombe,
Smooth and transparent as your face,
When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.

II.
Be proud! and if your waters be
Foul'd with a counterfeyted teare,
Or some false sigh hath stained yee,
Haste, and be purified there.

III.
And when her rosie gates y'have trac'd,
Continue yet some Orient wet,
'Till, turn'd into a gemme, y'are plac'd
Like diamonds with rubies set.

IV.
Yee drops, that dew th' Arabian bowers,
Tell me, did you e're smell or view
On any leafe of all your flowers
Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?

V.
But as through th' Organs of her breath
You trickle wantonly, beware:
Ambitious Seas in their just death
As well as Lovers, must have share.

VI.
And see! you boyle as well as I;
You, that to coole her did aspire,
Now troubled and neglected lye,
Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.

VII.
Yet still be happy in the thought,
That in so small a time as this,
Through all the Heavens you were brought
Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.

<27.1> From this it might be conjectured, though the ground for
doing so would be very slight, that LUCASTA was a native of Kent
or of one of the adjoining shires; but against this supposition
we have to set the circumstance that elsewhere this lady is called
a "northern star."

TO LUCASTA.
ODE LYRICK.

I.
Ah LUCASTA, why so bright?
Spread with early streaked light!
If still vailed from our sight,
What is't but eternall night?

II.
Ah LUCASTA, why so chaste?
With that vigour, ripenes grac't,
Not to be by Man imbrac't
Makes that Royall coyne imbace't,
And this golden Orchard waste!

III.
Ah LUCASTA, why so great,
That thy crammed coffers sweat?
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.

IV.
Ah Lucasta, why so good?
Blest with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soule and blood;
If it be not understood,
'Tis a Diamond in mud.

V.
LUCASTA! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not bright but to the eye,
Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye,
Nor great but in this treasurie,
Nor good but in that sanctitie.

VI.
Harder then the Orient stone,
Like an apparition,
Or as a pale shadow gone,
Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.

VII.
Then receive this equall dombe:
Virgins, strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart i'th' roome,
And 'tis both her coarse and tombe.

LUCASTA PAYING HER OBSEQUIES TO THE CHAST MEMORY
OF MY DEAREST COSIN MRS. BOWES BARNE[S].<28.1>

I.
See! what an undisturbed teare
She weepes for her last sleepe;
But, viewing her, straight wak'd a Star,
She weepes that she did weepe.

II.
Griefe ne're before did tyranize
On th' honour of that brow,
And at the wheeles of her brave eyes
Was captive led til now.

III.
Thus, for a saints apostacy
The unimagin'd woes
And sorrowes of the Hierarchy
None but an angel knowes.

IV.
Thus, for lost soules recovery
The clapping of all wings
And triumphs of this victory
None but an angel sings.

V.
So none but she knows to bemone
This equal virgins fate,
None but LUCASTA can her crowne
Of glory celebrate.

VI.
Then dart on me (CHAST LIGHT)<28.2> one ray,
By which I may discry
Thy joy cleare through this cloudy day
To dresse my sorrow by.

<28.1> This lady was probably the wife of a descendant of
Sir William Barnes, of Woolwich, whose only daughter and heir,
Anne, married the poet's father, and brought him the seat in Kent.
See GENTS. MAGAZINE for 1791, part ii. 1095.

<28.2> A translation of LUCASTA, or LUX CASTA, for the sake
of the metre.

UPON THE CURTAINE OF LUCASTA'S PICTURE,
IT WAS THUS WROUGHT.<29.1>

Oh, stay that covetous hand; first turn all eye,
All depth and minde; then mystically spye
Her soul's faire picture, her faire soul's, in all
So truely copied from th' originall,
That you will sweare her body by this law
Is but its shadow, as this, its;--now draw.

<29.1> Pictures used formerly to have curtains before them.
It is still done in some old houses. In WESTWARD HOE, 1607,
act ii. scene 3, there is an allusion to this practice:--

"SIR GOSLING. So draw those curtains, and let's see the
pictures under 'em."--Webster's WORKS, ed. Hazlitt, i. 133.

LUCASTA'S WORLD.
EPODE.

I.
Cold as the breath of winds that blow
To silver shot descending snow,
Lucasta sigh't;<30.1> when she did close
The world in frosty chaines!
And then a frowne to rubies frose
The blood boyl'd in our veines:
Yet cooled not the heat her sphere
Of beauties first had kindled there.

II.
Then mov'd, and with a suddaine flame
Impatient to melt all againe,
Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl'd,
And earth in ashes mournes;
The sun his blaze denies the world,
And in her luster burnes:
Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice
Disdaine had first congeal'd to ice.

III.
And now her teares nor griev'd desire
Can quench this raging, pleasing fire;
Fate but one way allowes; behold
Her smiles' divinity!
They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold,
So fram'd up a new sky.
Thus earth, from flames and ice repreev'd,
E're since hath in her sun-shine liv'd.

<30.1> Original reads SIGHT.

THE APOSTACY OF ONE, AND BUT ONE LADY.

I.
That frantick errour I adore,
And am confirm'd the earth turns round;
Now satisfied o're and o're,
As rowling waves, so flowes the ground,
And as her neighbour reels the shore:
Finde such a woman says she loves;
She's that fixt heav'n, which never moves.

II.
In marble, steele, or porphyrie,
Who carves or stampes his armes or face,
Lookes it by rust or storme must dye:
This womans love no time can raze,
Hardned like ice in the sun's eye,
Or your reflection in a glasse,
Which keepes possession, though you passe.

III.
We not behold a watches hand
To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow;
Must we infer that this doth stand,
And therefore, that those do not blow?
This she acts calmer, like Heav'ns brand,
The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart,
She kils, but ere we feele the smart.

IV.
Oh, she is constant as the winde,
That revels in an ev'nings aire!
Certaine as wayes unto the blinde,
More reall then her flatt'ries are;
Gentle as chaines that honour binde,
More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew,
But as the divel not halfe so true.

AMYNTOR<31.1> FROM BEYOND THE SEA TO ALEXIS.<31.2>

A DIALOGUE.

Amyntor.
Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,
Though so much wet and drie
Doth drowne our eye,
Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?

Alexis.
Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare,
Hath swallow'd me, where now
My armes do row,
I floate i'th' ocean of a teare.

Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread
Your Watry land againe.
Amyn. I'd through the raine;
Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

Conceive how joy, after this short divorce,
Will circle her with beames,
When, like your streames,
You shall rowle back with kinder force,

And call the helping winds to vent your thought.
Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where
Or in what sphere
Say, may that glorious fair be sought?

Amyn. She's now the center of these armes e're blest,
Whence may she never move,
Till Time and Love
Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high
As yours, and burne as hot?
Am not I shot
With the selfe same artillery?

And can I breath without her air?--Amyn.
Why, then,
From thy tempestuous earth,
Where blood and dearth
Raigne 'stead of kings, agen

Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far
Arise, bring in our sight
The seas delight,
Lucasta, that bright northerne star.

Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare
The green god stops his fell
Chariot of shell,
And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done;
He as his empire's old,
And rivers, cold;
His queen now runs abed to th' sun;

But all his treasure he shall ope' that day:
Tritons shall sound: his fleete
In silver meete,
And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alex. We flye, Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent
By water, earth, or aire:
Or if with her
By fire: ev'n there
I move in mine owne element.

<31.1> Endymion Porter?

<31.2> Lovelace himself.

CALLING LUCASTA FROM HER RETIREMENT.
ODE.

I.
From the dire monument of thy black roome,
Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe,
As in the inmost cell of all earths wombe.

II.
Sacred Lucasta, like the pow'rfull ray
Of heavenly truth, passe this Cimmerian way,
Whilst all the standards of your beames display.

III.
Arise and climbe our whitest, highest hill;
There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill,
And see seas calme<32.1> as earth, earth as your will.

IV.
Behold! how lightning like a taper flyes,
And guilds your chari't, but ashamed dyes,
Seeing it selfe out-gloried by your eyes.

V.
Threatning and boystrous tempests gently bow,
And to your steps part in soft paths, when now
There no where hangs a cloud, but on your brow.

VI.
No showrs but 'twixt your lids, nor gelid snow,
But what your whiter, chaster brest doth ow,<32.2>
Whilst winds in chains colder for<32.3> sorrow blow.

VII.
Shrill trumpets doe only sound to eate,
Artillery hath loaden ev'ry dish with meate,
And drums at ev'ry health alarmes beate.

VIII.
All things Lucasta, but Lucasta, call,
Trees borrow tongues, waters in accents fall,
The aire doth sing, and fire is<32.4> musicall.

IX.
Awake from the dead vault in which you dwell,
All's loyall here, except your thoughts rebell
Which, so let loose, often their gen'rall quell.

X.
See! she obeys! By all obeyed thus,
No storms, heats, colds, no soules contentious,
Nor civill war is found; I meane, to us.

XI.
Lovers and angels, though in heav'n they show,
And see the woes and discords here below,
What they not feele, must not be said to know.

<32.1> Original has COLME.

<32.2> i.e. own.

<32.3> Original reads YOUR.

<32.4> Original has FIRE'S, but FIRE IS is required by the metre,
and it is probably what the poet wrote.

AMARANTHA.
A PASTORALL.<33.1>

Up with the jolly bird of light
Who sounds his third retreat to night;
Faire Amarantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises red
As the carnation-mantled morne,
Who now the blushing robe doth spurne,
And puts on angry gray, whilst she,
The envy of a deity,
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin'd in such a weed;
Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit;
Not made for her, but she to it:
By nature it sate close and free,
As the just bark unto the tree:
Unlike Love's martyrs of the towne,
All day imprison'd in a gown,
Who, rackt in silke 'stead of a dresse,
Are cloathed in a frame or presse,
And with that liberty and room,
The dead expatiate in a tombe.
No cabinets with curious washes,
Bladders and perfumed plashes;
No venome-temper'd water's here,
Mercury is banished this sphere:
Her payle's all this, in which wet glasse
She both doth cleanse and view her face.
Far hence, all Iberian smells,
Hot amulets, Pomander spells,
Fragrant gales, cool ay'r, the fresh
And naturall odour of her flesh,
Proclaim her sweet from th' wombe as morne.
Those colour'd things were made, not borne.
Which, fixt within their narrow straits,
Do looke like their own counterfeyts.
So like the Provance rose she walkt,
Flowerd with blush, with verdure stalkt;
Th' officious wind her loose hayre curles,
The dewe her happy linnen purles,
But wets a tresse, which instantly
Sol with a crisping beame doth dry.
Into the garden is she come,
Love and delight's Elisium;
If ever earth show'd all her store,
View her discolourd budding floore;
Here her glad eye she largely feedes,
And stands 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds;
The flowers in their best aray
As to their queen their tribute pay,
And freely to her lap proscribe
A daughter out of ev'ry tribe.
Thus as she moves, they all bequeath
At once the incense of their breath.
The noble Heliotropian
Now turnes to her, and knowes no sun.
And as her glorious face doth vary,
So opens loyall golden Mary<33.2>
Who, if but glanced from her sight,
Straight shuts again, as it were night.
The violet (else lost ith' heap)
Doth spread fresh purple for each step,
With whose humility possest,
Sh' inthrones the Poore Girle<33.3> in her breast:
The July-flow'r<33.4> that hereto thriv'd,
Knowing her self no longer-liv'd,
But for one look of her upheaves,
Then 'stead of teares straight sheds her leaves.
Now the rich robed Tulip who,
Clad all in tissue close, doth woe
Her (sweet to th' eye but smelling sower),
She gathers to adorn her bower.
But the proud Hony-suckle spreads
Like a pavilion her heads,
Contemnes the wanting commonalty,
That but to two ends usefull be,
And to her lips thus aptly plac't,
With smell and hue presents her tast.
So all their due obedience pay,
Each thronging to be in her way:
Faire Amarantha with her eye
Thanks those that live, which else would dye:
The rest, in silken fetters bound,
By crowning her are crown and crown'd.<33.5>
And now the sun doth higher rise,
Our Flora to the meadow hies:
The poore distressed heifers low,
And as sh' approacheth gently bow,
Begging her charitable leasure
To strip them of their milkie treasure.
Out of the yeomanry oth' heard,
With grave aspect, and feet prepar'd,
A rev'rend lady-cow drawes neare,
Bids Amarantha welcome here;
And from her privy purse lets fall
A pearle or two, which seeme[s] to call
This adorn'd adored fayry
To the banquet of her dayry.
Soft Amarantha weeps to see
'Mongst men such inhumanitie,
That those, who do receive in hay,
And pay in silver<33.6> twice a day,
Should by their cruell barb'rous theft
Be both of that and life bereft.
But 'tis decreed, when ere this dies,
That she shall fall a sacrifice
Unto the gods, since those, that trace
Her stemme, show 'tis a god-like race,
Descending in an even line
From heifers and from steeres divine,
Making the honour'd extract full
In Io and Europa's bull.
She was the largest goodliest beast,
That ever mead or altar blest;
Round [w]as her udder, and more white
Then is the Milkie Way in night;
Her full broad eye did sparkle fire;
Her breath was sweet as kind desire,
And in her beauteous crescent shone,
Bright as the argent-horned moone.
But see! this whiteness is obscure,
Cynthia spotted, she impure;
Her body writheld,<33.7> and her eyes
Departing lights at obsequies:
Her lowing hot to the fresh gale,
Her breath perfumes the field withall;
To those two suns that ever shine,
To those plump parts she doth inshrine,
To th' hovering snow of either hand,
That love and cruelty command.
After the breakfast on her teat,
She takes her leave oth' mournfull neat
Who, by her toucht, now prizeth her<33.8> life,
Worthy alone the hollowed knife.
Into the neighbring wood she's gone,
Whose roofe defies the tell-tale Sunne,
And locks out ev'ry prying beame;
Close by the lips of a cleare streame,
She sits and entertaines her eye
With the moist chrystall and the frye<33.9>
With burnisht-silver mal'd, whose oares<33.10>
Amazed still make to the shoares;
What need she other bait or charm,
What hook<33.11> or angle, but her arm?
The happy captive, gladly ta'n,
Sues ever to be slave in vaine,
Who instantly (confirm'd in's feares)
Hasts to his element of teares.
From hence her various windings roave
To a well-orderd stately grove;
This is the pallace of the wood
And court oth' Royall Oake, where stood
The whole nobility: the Pine,
Strait Ash, tall Firre, and wanton Vine;
The proper Cedar, and the rest.
Here she her deeper senses blest;
Admires great Nature in this pile,
Floor'd with greene-velvet Camomile,
Garnisht with gems of unset fruit,
Supply'd still with a self recruit;
Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes
Of never-planted Strawberries;
Where th' winged musick of the ayre
Do richly feast, and for their fare,
Each evening in a silent shade,
Bestow a gratefull serenade.
Thus ev'n tyerd with delight,
Sated in soul and appetite;
Full of the purple Plumme and Peare,
The golden Apple, with the faire
Grape that mirth fain would have taught her,
And nuts, which squirrells cracking brought her;
She softly layes her weary limbs,
Whilst gentle slumber now beginnes
To draw the curtaines of her eye;
When straight awakend with a crie
And bitter groan, again reposes,
Again a deep sigh interposes.
And now she heares a trembling voyce:
Ah! can there ought on earth rejoyce!
Why weares she this gay livery,
Not black as her dark entrails be?
Can trees be green, and to the ay'r
Thus prostitute their flowing hayr?
Why do they sprout, not witherd dy?
Must each thing live, save wretched I?
Can dayes triumph in blew and red,
When both their light and life is fled?
Fly Joy on wings of Popinjayes
To courts of fools, where<33.12> as your playes
Dye laught at and forgot; whilst all
That's good mourns at this funerall.
Weep, all ye Graces, and you sweet
Quire, that at the hill inspir'd meet:
Love, put thy tapers out, that we
And th' world may seem as blind as thee;
And be, since she is lost (ah wound!)
Not Heav'n it self by any found.
Now as a prisoner new cast,<33.13>
Who sleepes in chaines that night, his last,
Next morn is wak't with a repreeve,
And from his trance, not dream bid live,
Wonders (his sence not having scope)
Who speaks, his friend or his false hope.
So Amarantha heard, but feare
Dares not yet trust her tempting care;
And as againe her arms oth' ground
Spread pillows for her head, a sound
More dismall makes a swift divorce,
And starts her thus:----Rage, rapine, force!
Ye blew-flam'd daughters oth' abysse,
Bring all your snakes, here let them hisse;
Let not a leaf its freshnesse keep;
Blast all their roots, and as you creepe,
And leave behind your deadly slime,
Poyson the budding branch in's prime:
Wast the proud bowers of this grove,
That fiends may dwell in it, and move
As in their proper hell, whilst she
Above laments this tragedy:
Yet pities not our fate; oh faire
Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th' ay'r!
Why by those lawes did we not die,
As live but one, Lucasta! why----
As he Lucasta nam'd, a groan
Strangles the fainting passing tone;
But as she heard, Lucasta smiles,
Posses<33.14> her round; she's slipt mean whiles
Behind the blind of a thick bush,
When, each word temp'ring with a blush,
She gently thus bespake; Sad swaine,
If mates in woe do ease our pain,
Here's one full of that antick grief,
Which stifled would for ever live,
But told, expires; pray then, reveale
(To show our wound is half to heale),
What mortall nymph or deity
Bewail you thus? Who ere you be,
The shepheard sigh't,<33.15> my woes I crave
Smotherd in me, me<33.16> in my grave;
Yet be in show or truth a saint,
Or fiend, breath anthemes, heare my plaint,
For her and thy breath's symphony,
Which now makes full the harmony
Above, and to whose voice the spheres
Listen, and call her musick theirs;
This was I blest on earth with, so
As Druids amorous did grow,
Jealous of both: for as one day
This star, as yet but set in clay,
By an imbracing river lay,
They steept her in the hollowed brooke,
Which from her humane nature tooke,
And straight to heaven with winged feare,<33.17>
Thus, ravisht with her, ravish her.
The nymph reply'd: This holy rape
Became the gods, whose obscure shape
They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve
Your better life should ever live,
And weep that she, to whom you wish
What heav'n could give, has all its blisse.
Calling her angell here, yet be
Sad at this true divinity:
She's for the altar, not the skies,
Whom first you crowne, then sacrifice.
Fond man thus to a precipice
Aspires, till at the top his eyes
Have lost the safety of the plain,
Then begs of Fate the vales againe.
The now confounded shepheard cries:
Ye all-confounding destines!
How did you make that voice so sweet
Without that glorious form to it?
Thou sacred spirit of my deare,
Where e're thou hoverst o're us, hear!
Imbark thee in the lawrell tree,
And a new Phebus follows thee,
Who, 'stead of all his burning rayes,
Will strive to catch thee with his layes;
Or, if within the Orient Vine,
Thou art both deity and wine;
But if thou takest the mirtle grove,
That Paphos is, thou, Queene of Love,
And I, thy swain who (else) must die,
By no beasts, but thy cruelty:
But you are rougher than the winde.
Are souls on earth then heav'n<33.18> more kind?
Imprisoned in mortality
Lucasta would have answered me.
Lucasta, Amarantha said,
Is she that virgin-star? a maid,
Except her prouder livery,
In beauty poore, and cheap as I;
Whose glory like a meteor shone,
Or aery apparition,
Admir'd a while, but slighted known.
Fierce, as the chafed lyon hies,
He rowses him, and to her flies,
Thinking to answer with his speare----
Now, as in warre intestine where,
Ith' mist of a black battell, each
Layes at his next, then makes a breach
Through th' entrayles of another, whom
He sees nor knows whence he did come,
Guided alone by rage and th' drumme,
But stripping and impatient wild,
He finds too soon his onely child.
So our expiring desp'rate lover
Far'd when, amaz'd, he did discover
Lucasta in this nymph; his sinne
Darts the accursed javelin
'Gainst his own breast, which she puts by
With a soft lip and gentle eye,
Then closes with him on the ground
And now her smiles have heal'd his wound.
Alexis too again is found;
But not untill those heavy crimes
She hath kis'd off a thousand times,
Who not contented with this pain,
Doth threaten to offend again.
And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep,
Whilst each cheek doth the other's steep,
Whilst tongues, as exorcis'd, are calm;
Onely the rhet'rick of the palm
Prevailing pleads, untill at last
They[re] chain'd in one another fast.
Lucasta to him doth relate
Her various chance and diffring fate:
How chac'd by Hydraphil, and tract
The num'rous foe to Philanact,
Who whilst they for the same things fight,
As Bards decrees and Druids rite,
For safeguard of their proper joyes
And shepheards freedome, each destroyes
The glory of this Sicilie;
Since seeking thus the remedie,
They fancy (building on false ground)
The means must them and it confound,
Yet are resolved to stand or fall,
And win a little, or lose all.
From this sad storm of fire and blood
She fled to this yet living wood;
Where she 'mongst savage beasts doth find
Her self more safe then humane<33.19> kind.
Then she relates, how Caelia--<33.20>
The lady--here strippes her array,
And girdles her in home-spunne bayes
Then makes her conversant in layes
Of birds, and swaines more innocent,
That kenne not guile [n]or courtship ment.
Now walks she to her bow'r to dine
Under a shade of Eglantine,
Upon a dish of Natures cheere
Which both grew, drest and serv'd up there:
That done, she feasts her smell with po'ses
Pluckt from the damask cloath of Roses.
Which there continually doth stay,
And onely frost can take away;
Then wagers which hath most content
Her eye, eare, hand, her gust or sent.
Intranc't Alexis sees and heares,
As walking above all the spheres:
Knows and adores this, and is wilde,<33.21>
Untill with her he live thus milde.<33.22>
So that, which to his thoughts he meant
For losse of her a punishment,
His armes hung up and his sword broke,
His ensignes folded, he betook
Himself unto the humble crook.
And for a full reward of all,
She now doth him her shepheard call,
And in a see of flow'rs install:
Then gives her faith immediately,
Which he returns religiously;
Both vowing in her peacefull cave
To make their bridall-bed and grave.
But the true joy this pair conceiv'd,
Each from the other first bereav'd,
And then found, after such alarmes,
Fast-pinion'd in each other's armes,
Ye panting virgins, that do meet
Your loves within their winding sheet,
Breathing and constant still ev'n there;
Or souls their bodies in yon' sphere,
Or angels, men return'd from hell
And separated mindes--can tell.

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