Lucasta

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THE GRASSEHOPPER.
TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON.<41.1>
ODE.

I.
Oh thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare<41.2>
Of some well-filled oaten beard,<41.3>
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare<41.4>
Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

II.
The joyes of earth and ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy poppy workes, thou dost retire
To thy carv'd acorn-bed to lye.

III.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt plats<41.5> of his beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,<41.6>
Thy selfe, and melancholy streames.

IV.
But ah, the sickle! golden eares are cropt;
CERES and BACCHUS bid good-night;
Sharpe frosty fingers all your flowrs have topt,
And what sithes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

V.
Poore verdant foole! and now green ice, thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy peirch<41.7> of grasse,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter raine, and poize
Their flouds with an o'erflowing glasse.

VI.
Thou best of men and friends? we will create
A genuine summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate,
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

VII.
Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
As vestal flames; the North-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd winges, dissolve and flye
This Aetna in epitome.

VIII.
Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewayle th' usurping of his raigne;
But when in show'rs of old Greeke<41.8> we beginne,
Shall crie, he hath his crowne againe!

IX.
Night as cleare Hesper shall our tapers whip
From the light casements, where we play,
And the darke hagge from her black mantle strip,
And sticke there everlasting day.

X.
Thus richer then untempted kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need:
Though lord of all what seas imbrace, yet he
That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.

<41.1> Charles Cotton the elder, father of the poet. He died
in 1658. This poem is extracted in CENSURA LITERARIA, ix. 352,
as a favourable specimen of Lovelace's poetical genius. The
text is manifestly corrupt, but I have endeavoured to amend it.
In Elton's SPECIMENS OF CLASSIC POETS, 1814, i. 148, is a
translation of Anacreon's Address to the Cicada, or Tree-Locust
(Lovelace's grasshopper?), which is superior to the modern poem,
being less prolix, and more natural in its manner. In all
Lovelace's longer pieces there are too many obscure and feeble
conceits, and too many evidences of a leaning to the metaphysical
and antithetical school of poetry.

<41.2> Original has HAIRE.

<41.3> i.e. a beard of oats.

<41.4> Meleager's invocation to the tree-locust commences thus
in Elton's translation:--

"Oh shrill-voiced insect! that with dew-drops sweet
Inebriate----"

See also Cowley's ANACREONTIQUES, No. X. THE GRASSHOPPER.

<41.5> i.e. horizontal lines tinged with gold. See Halliwell's
GLOSSARY OF ARCHAIC WORDS, 1860, art. PLAT (seventh and eighth
meaning). The late editors of Nares cite this passage from LUCASTA
as an illustration of GUILT-PLATS, which they define to be "plots
of gold." This definition, unsupported by any other evidence, is
not very satisfactory, and certainly it has no obvious application
here.

<41.6> Randolph says:--

"----toiling ants perchance delight to hear
The summer musique of the gras-hopper."
POEMS, 1640, p. 90.

It is it question, perhaps, whether Lovelace intended by the
GRASSHOPPER the CICADA or the LOCUSTA. See Sir Thomas Browne's
INQUIRIES INTO VULGAR ERRORS (Works, by Wilkins, 1836, iii. 93).

<41.7> Perch.

<41.8> i.e. old Greek wine.

AN ELEGIE.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CASSANDRA COTTON,
ONLY SISTER TO MR. C. COTTON.<42.1>

Hither with hallowed steps as is the ground,
That must enshrine this saint with lookes profound,
And sad aspects as the dark vails you weare,
Virgins opprest, draw gently, gently neare;
Enter the dismall chancell of this rooome,
Where each pale guest stands fixt a living tombe;
With trembling hands helpe to remove this earth
To its last death and first victorious birth:
Let gums and incense fume, who are at strife
To enter th' hearse and breath in it new life;
Mingle your steppes with flowers as you goe,
Which, as they haste to fade, will speake your woe.

And when y' have plac't your tapers on her urn,
How poor a tribute 'tis to weep and mourn!
That flood the channell of your eye-lids fils,
When you lose trifles, or what's lesse, your wills.
If you'l be worthy of these obsequies,
Be blind unto the world, and drop your eyes;
Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire
That's fed no more: so willingly expire;
Passe through the cold and obscure narrow way,
Then light your torches at the spring of day,
There with her triumph in your victory.
Such joy alone and such solemnity
Becomes this funerall of virginity.

Or, if you faint to be so blest, oh heare!
If not to dye, dare but to live like her:
Dare to live virgins, till the honour'd age
Of thrice fifteen cals matrons on the stage,
Whilst not a blemish or least staine is scene
On your white roabe 'twixt fifty and fifteene;
But as it in your swathing-bands was given,
Bring't in your winding sheet unsoyl'd to Heav'n.
Daere to do purely, without compact good,
Or herald, by no one understood
But him, who now in thanks bows either knee
For th' early benefit and secresie.

Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow,
To which delights of pallaces are narrow,
And, lasting as their smiles, dig you a roome,
Where practise the probation of your tombe
With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r,
Smooth the rough passe through craggy earth to ay'r;
Flame there as lights that shipwrackt mariners
May put in safely, and secure their feares,
Who, adding to your joyes, now owe you theirs.

Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take
To follow her in life, else through this lake
Of Nature wade, and breake her earthly bars,
Y' are fixt with her upon a throne of stars,
Arched with a pure Heav'n chrystaline,
Where round you love and joy for ever shine.

But you are dumbe, as what you do lament
More senseles then her very monument,
Which at your weaknes weeps. Spare that vaine teare,
Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulcher.
Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall,
And celebrate your owne sad funerall:
For howsoe're you move, may heare, or see,
YOU ARE MORE DEAD AND BURIED THEN SHEE.

<42.1> Cassandra Cotton, only daughter of Sir George Cotton,
of Warblenton, Co. Sussex, and of Bedhampton, co. Hants, died
some time before 1649, unmarried. She was the sister of Charles
Cotton the elder, and aunt to the poet. See WALTON'S ANGLER,
ed. Nicolas, Introduction, clxvi.

THE VINTAGE TO THE DUNGEON.
A SONG.<43.1>
SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.

I.
Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!
Care shackles you in liberty:
Mirth frees you in captivity.
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Chorus.
Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde
Griefe too can manakell the minde.

II.
Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd;
Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollitie
And throats are free--

Chorus.
Tryumph in your bonds and paines,
And daunce to the music of your chaines.

<43.1> Probably composed during the poet's confinement in
Peterhouse.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER.<44.1>
AN ELEGIACALL EPITAPH.

You that shall live awhile, before
Old time tyrs, and is no more:
When that this ambitious stone
Stoopes low as what it tramples on:
Know that in that age, when sinne
Gave the world law, and governd Queene,
A virgin liv'd, that still put on
White thoughts, though out of fashion:
That trac't the stars, 'spite of report,
And durst be good, though chidden for't:
Of such a soule that infant Heav'n
Repented what it thus had giv'n:
For finding equall happy man,
Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen.
Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled,
She, making her celestiall bed
In her warme alablaster, lay
As cold is in this house of clay:
Nor were the rooms unfit to feast
Or circumscribe this angel-guest;
The radiant gemme was brightly set
In as divine a carkanet;
Of<44.2> which the clearer was not knowne,
Her minde or her complexion.
Such an everlasting grace,
Such a beatifick face,
Incloysters here this narrow floore,
That possest all hearts before.

Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth!
The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth!
Virgins at each step are afeard,
Filmer is shot by which they steer'd,
Their star extinct, their beauty dead,
That the yong world to honour led;
But see! the rapid spheres stand still,
And tune themselves unto her will.

Thus, although this marble must,
As all things, crumble into dust,
And though you finde this faire-built tombe
Ashes, as what lyes in its wombe:
Yet her saint-like name shall shine
A living glory to this shrine,
And her eternall fame be read,
When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.<44.3>

<44.1> This lady was perhaps the daughter of Edward Filmer, Esq.,
of East Sutton, co. Kent, by his wife Eliza, daughter of Richard
Argall, Esq., of the same place (See Harl. MS. 1432, p. 300).
Possibly, the Edward Filmer mentioned here was the same as the
author of "Frenche Court Ayres, with their Ditties englished,"
1629, in praise of which Jonson has some lines in his UNDERWOODS.

<44.2> Original reads FOR.

<44.3> "Which ensuing times shall warble,
When 'tis lost, that's writ in marble."
Wither's FAIR VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHILARETE, 1622.

Headley (SELECT BEAUTIES, ed. 1810, ii. p. 42) has remarked
the similarity between these lines and some in Collins'
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE:--

"Belov'd till life can charm no more;
And MOURN'D TILL PITY'S SELF BE DEAD."

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. PETER LILLY:<45.1>
ON THAT EXCELLENT PICTURE OF HIS MAJESTY AND THE DUKE OF YORKE,
DRAWNE BY HIM AT HAMPTON-COURT.

See! what a clouded majesty, and eyes
Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!
See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And griefe triumphant breaking through each line,
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorne
Never did HAPPY MISERY adorne!
So sacred a contempt, that others show
To this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below,
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded booke
May coppy out their proudest, richest looke.

Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies,
And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes;
He cures<45.2> his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight
Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;
Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,
And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.

These, my best LILLY, with so bold a spirit
And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit
For that time all their greatnesse, and didst draw
With those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.

Not as of old, when a rough hand did speake
A strong aspect, and a faire face, a weake;
When only a black beard cried villaine, and
By hieroglyphicks we could understand;
When chrystall typified in a white spot,
And the bright ruby was but one red blot;
Thou dost the things Orientally the same
Not only paintst its colour, but its flame:
Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare,
And with the man his very hope or feare;
So that th' amazed world shall henceforth finde
None but my LILLY ever drew a MINDE.

<45.1> Mr., afterwards Sir Peter, Lely. He was frequently called
Lilly, or Lilley, by his contemporaries, and Lilley is Pepys'
spelling. "At Lord Northumberland's, at Sion, is a remarkable
picture of King Charles I, holding a letter directed 'au roi
monseigneur,' and the Duke of York, aet. 14, presenting a penknife
to him to cut the strings. It was drawn at Hampton Court, when
the King was last there, by Mr. Lely, who was earnestly recommended
to him. I should have taken it for the hand of Fuller or Dobson.
It is certainly very unlike Sir Peter's latter manner, and is
stronger than his former. The King has none of the melancholy
grace which Vandyck alone, of all his painters, always gave him.
It has a sterner countenance, and expressive of the tempests he
had experienced."--Walpole's ANECDOTES OF PAINTING IN ENGLAND,
ed. 1862, p. 443-4.

<45.2> Original reads CARES.

THE LADY A. L.<46.1>
MY ASYLUM IN A GREAT EXTREMITY.

With that delight the Royal captiv's<46.2> brought
Before the throne, to breath his farewell thought,
To tel his last tale, and so end with it,
Which gladly he esteemes a benefit;
When the brave victor, at his great soule dumbe,
Findes something there fate cannot overcome,
Cals the chain'd prince, and by his glory led,
First reaches him his crowne, and then his head;
Who ne're 'til now thinks himself slave and poor;
For though nought else, he had himselfe before.
He weepes at this faire chance, nor wil allow,
But that the diadem doth brand his brow,
And under-rates himselfe below mankinde,
Who first had lost his body, now his minde,

With such a joy came I to heare my dombe,
And haste the preparation of my tombe,
When, like good angels who have heav'nly charge
To steere and guide mans sudden giddy barge,
She snatcht me from the rock I was upon,
And landed me at life's pavillion:
Where I, thus wound out of th' immense abysse,
Was straight set on a pinacle of blisse.

Let me leape in againe! and by that fall
Bring me to my first woe, so cancel all:
Ah! 's this a quitting of the debt you owe,
To crush her and her goodnesse at one blowe?
Defend me from so foule impiety,
Would make friends grieve, and furies weep to see.

Now, ye sage spirits, which infuse in men
That are oblidg'd twice to oblige agen,
Informe my tongue in labour what to say,
And in what coyne or language to repay.
But you are silent as the ev'nings ayre,
When windes unto their hollow grots repaire.<46.3>
Oh, then accept the all that left me is,
Devout oblations of a sacred wish!

When she walks forth, ye perfum'd wings oth' East,
Fan her, 'til with the Sun she hastes to th' West,
And when her heav'nly course calles up the day,
And breakes as bright, descend, some glistering ray,
To circle her, and her as glistering haire,
That all may say a living saint shines there.
Slow Time, with woollen feet make thy soft pace,
And leave no tracks ith' snow of her pure face;
But when this vertue must needs fall, to rise
The brightest constellation in the skies;
When we in characters of fire shall reade,
How cleere she was alive, how spotless, dead.
All you that are a kinne to piety:
For onely you can her close mourners be,
Draw neer, and make of hallowed teares a dearth:
Goodnes and justice both are fled the earth.

If this be to be thankful, I'v a heart
Broaken with vowes, eaten with grateful smart,
And beside this, the vild<46.4> world nothing hath
Worth anything but her provoked wrath;
So then, who thinkes to satisfie in time,
Must give a satisfaction for that crime:
Since she alone knowes the gifts value, she
Can onely to her selfe requitall be,
And worthyly to th' life paynt her owne story
In its true colours and full native glory;
Which when perhaps she shal be heard to tell,
Buffoones and theeves, ceasing to do ill,
Shal blush into a virgin-innocence,
And then woo others from the same offence;
The robber and the murderer, in 'spite
Of his red spots, shal startle into white:
All good (rewards layd by) shal stil increase
For love of her, and villany decease;<46.5>
Naught<46.6> be ignote, not so much out of feare
Of being punisht, as offending her.

So that, when as my future daring bayes
Shall bow it selfe<46.7> in lawrels to her praise,
To crown her conqu'ring goodnes, and proclaime
The due renowne and glories of her name:
My wit shal be so wretched and so poore
That, 'stead of praysing, I shal scandal her,
And leave, when with my purest art I'v done,
Scarce the designe of what she is begunne:
Yet men shal send me home, admir'd, exact;
Proud, that I could from her so wel detract.

Where, then, thou bold instinct, shal I begin
My endlesse taske? To thanke her were a sin
Great as not speake, and not to speake, a blame
Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a name;
So thou my all, poore gratitude, ev'n thou
In this wilt an unthankful office do:
Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have:
My life, my love, my very soule, a slave?
Tye my free spirit onely unto her,
And yeeld up my affection prisoner?
Fond thought, in this thou teachest me to give
What first was hers, since by her breath I live;
And hast but show'd me, how I may resigne
Possession of those thing are none of mine.

<46.1> i.e. Anne, Lady Lovelace, the poet's kinswoman, who seems
to have assisted him in some emergency, unknown to us except
through the present lines.

<46.2> Caractacus(?).

<46.3> The mythology of Greece assigned to each wind a separate
cave, in which it was supposed to await the commands of its
sovereign Aeolus, or Aeolos. It is to this myth that Lovelace
alludes.

<46.4> A very common form of VILE among early writers.

<46.5> This reads like a parody on the fourth Eclogue of Virgil.
The early English poets were rather partial to the introduction
of miniature-pictures of the Golden Age on similar occasions
to the present. Thus Carew, in his poem TO SAXHAM, says:--

"The Pheasant, Partridge, and the Lark
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing Oxe of himself came
Home to the slaughter with the Lamb.
And every beast did thither bring
Himself, to be an offering."
Carew's POEMS, 1651, p. 34.

<46.6> Vice.

<46.7> We should read THEMSELVES.

A LADY WITH A FALCON ON HER FIST.
TO THE HONOURABLE MY COUSIN A[NNE] L[OVELACE.]

I.
This Queen of Prey (now prey to you),
Fast to that pirch of ivory
In silver chaines and silken clue,
Hath now made full thy victory:

II.
The swelling admirall of the dread
Cold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire!
Wast not enough, but thou must lead
Bound, too, the Princesse of the aire?

III.
Unarm'd of wings and scaly oare,
Unhappy crawler on the land,
To what heav'n fly'st? div'st to what shoare,
That her brave eyes do not command?

IV.
Ascend the chariot of the Sun
From her bright pow'r to shelter thee:
Her captive (foole) outgases him;
Ah, what lost wretches then are we!

V.
Now, proud usurpers on the right
Of sacred beauty, heare your dombe;
Recant your sex, your mastry, might;
Lower you cannot be or'ecome:

VI.
Repent, ye er'e nam'd he or head,
For y' are in falcon's monarchy,
And in that just dominion bred,
In which the nobler is the shee.

A PROLOGUE TO THE SCHOLARS.
A COMAEDY PRESENTED AT THE WHITE FRYERS.<47.1>

A gentleman, to give us somewhat new,
Hath brought up OXFORD with him to show you;
Pray be not frighted--Tho the scaene and gown's
The Universities, the wit's the town's;
The lines each honest Englishman may speake:
Yet not mistake his mother-tongue for Greeke,
For stil 'twas part of his vow'd liturgie:--
From learned comedies deliver me!
Wishing all those that lov'd 'em here asleepe,
Promising SCHOLARS, but no SCHOLARSHIP.

You'd smile to see, how he do's vex and shake,
Speakes naught; but, if the PROLOGUE do's but take,
Or the first act were past the pikes once, then--
Then hopes and joys, then frowns and fears agen,
Then blushes like a virgin, now to be
Rob'd of his comicall virginity
In presence of you all. In short, you'd say
More hopes of mirth are in his looks then play.

These feares are for the noble and the wise;
But if 'mongst you there are such fowle dead eyes,
As can damne unaraign'd, cal law their pow'rs,
Judging it sin enough that it is ours,
And with the house shift their decreed desires,
FAIRE still to th' BLACKE, BLACKE still to the WHITE-FRYERS;<47.2>
He do's protest he wil sit down and weep
Castles and pyramids . . .
. . . . . . No, he wil on,
Proud to be rais'd by such destruction,
So far from quarr'lling with himselfe and wit,
That he wil thank them for the benefit,
Since finding nothing worthy of their hate,
They reach him that themselves must envy at:

<47.1> This was the theatre in Salisbury Court. See Collier,
H. E. D. P. iii. 289, and Halliwell's DICTIONARY OF OLD PLAYS,
art. SCHOLAR. From the terms of the epilogue it seems to have
been a piece occupying two hours in the performance. Judging,
I presume, from the opening lines, Mr. Halliwell supposes it
to have been originally acted at Gloucester Hall. Probably
Mr. Halliwell is right.

<47.2> A quibble on the two adjacent theatres in Whitefriars
and Blackfriars.

THE EPILOGUE.

The stubborne author of the trifle<48.1> crime,
That just now cheated you of two hours' time,
Presumptuous it lik't him,<48.2> began to grow
Carelesse, whether it pleased you or no.

But we who ground th' excellence of a play
On what the women at the dores wil say,
Who judge it by the benches, and afford
To take your money, ere his oath or word
His SCHOLLARS school'd, sayd if he had been wise
He should have wove in one two COMEDIES;
The first for th' gallery, in which the throne
To their amazement should descend alone,
The rosin-lightning flash, and monster spire
Squibs, and words hotter then his fire.

Th' other for the gentlemen oth' pit,
Like to themselves, all spirit, fancy, wit,
In which plots should be subtile as a flame,
Disguises would make PROTEUS stil the same:
Humours so rarely humour'd and exprest,
That ev'n they should thinke 'em so, not drest;
Vices acted and applauded too, times
Tickled, and th' actors acted, not their crimes,
So he might equally applause have gain'd
Of th' hardned, sooty, and the snowy hand.<48.3>

Where now one SO SO<48.4> spatters, t'other: no!
Tis his first play; twere solecisme 'tshould goe;
The next 't show'd pritily, but searcht within
It appeares bare and bald, as is his chin;
The towne-wit sentences: A SCHOLARS PLAY!
Pish! I know not why, but th'ave not the way.<48.5>

We, whose gaine is all our pleasure, ev'n these
Are bound by justice and religion to please;
Which he, whose pleasure's all his gaine, goes by
As slightly, as they doe his comaedy.

Culls out the few, the worthy, at whose feet
He sacrifices both himselfe and it,
His fancies first fruits: profit he knowes none,
Unles that of your approbation,
Which if your thoughts at going out will pay,
Hee'l not looke farther for a second day.<48.6>

<48.1> Perhaps TRIFLING was the word written by Lovelace.
A VENIAL OFFENCE is meant.

<48.2> It would be difficult to point out a writer so unpardonably
slovenly in his style or phraseology as Lovelace. By "Presumptuous
it lik't him," we must of course understand "Presumptuous that
he liked it himself," or presumptuously self-satisfied.

<48.3> i.e. the rough and dirty occupants of the gallery and
the fair spectators in the boxes.

<48.4> An exclamation of approval, when an actor made a hit.
The phrase seems to be somewhat akin to the Italian "SI, SI,"
a corruption of "SIA, SIA."

<48.5> i.e. they do not know how to act a play.

<48.6> This prologue and epilogue were clearly not attached
to the play when it was first performed by the fellow-collegians
of the poet at Gloucester Hall, as an amateur attempt in the
dramatic line, but were first added when "The Scholars" was
reproduced in London, and the parts sustained by ordinary actors.

AGAINST THE LOVE OF GREAT ONES.

Vnhappy youth, betrayd by Fate
To such a love<49.1> hath sainted hate,
And damned those celestiall bands<49.2>
Are onely knit with equal hands;
The love of great ones is a love,<49.3>
Gods are incapable to prove:
For where there is a joy uneven,
There never, never can be Heav'n:
'Tis such a love as is not sent
To fiends as yet for punishment;
IXION willingly doth feele
The gyre of his eternal wheele,
Nor would he now exchange his paine
For cloudes and goddesses againe.

Wouldst thou with tempests lye? Then bow
To th' rougher furrows of her brow,
Or make a thunder-bolt thy choyce?
Then catch at her more fatal voyce;
Or 'gender with the lightning? trye
The subtler<49.4> flashes of her eye:
Poore SEMELE<49.5> wel knew the same,
Who<49.6> both imbrac't her God and flame;
And not alone in soule did burne,
But in this love did ashes turne.

How il doth majesty injoy
The bow and gaity oth' boy,
As if the purple-roabe should sit,
And sentence give ith' chayr of wit.

Say, ever-dying wretch, to whom
Each answer is a certaine doom,<49.7>
What is it that you would possesse,
The Countes, or the naked Besse?<49.8>
Would you her gowne or title do?
Her box or gem, the<49.9> thing or show?
If you meane HER, the very HER,
Abstracted from her caracter,
Unhappy boy! you may as soone
With fawning wanton with the Moone,
Or with an amorous complaint
Get prostitute your very saint;
Not that we are not mortal, or
Fly VENUS altars, and<49.10> abhor
The selfesame knack, for which you pine;
But we (defend us!) are divine,
[Not] female, but madam born,<49.11> and come
From a right-honourable wombe.
Shal we then mingle with the base,
And bring a silver-tinsell race?
Whilst th' issue noble wil not passe
The gold alloyd<49.12> (almost halfe brasse),
And th' blood in each veine doth appeare,
Part thick Booreinn, part Lady Cleare;
Like to the sordid insects sprung
From Father Sun and Mother Dung:
Yet lose we not the hold we have,
But faster graspe the trembling slave;
Play at baloon with's heart, and winde
The strings like scaines, steale into his minde
Ten thousand false<49.13> and feigned joyes
Far worse then they; whilst, like whipt boys,
After this scourge hee's hush with toys.

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