π1r π1v

Engraved bust of Katherine Philips in half-profile, looking to the left. Pedestal inscribed: “Orinda”. Orinda Guil·Faithorne fe.fecit



By the most deservedly Admired Mrs. Katherine Philips
The matchless Orinda.

To which is added
Monsieur Corneille’s


With several other Translations out of

Printed by J.M. for H. Herringman, at the Sign of
the Blew Anchor in the Lower Walk of the
New Exchange.16671667.

π2v A1r


When the false Edition of these Poems
stole into the light, a Friend of that
incomparable Ladys that made
them, knowing how averse she was
to be in print, and therefore being sure that it was
absolutely against her consent, as he believed it utterly
without her knowledge, (she being then in
Wales above 150 miles from this Town) went presently
both to the Gentleman, who licens’d it upon
the Stationer’s averment that he had her leave,
and to the Stationer himself for whom it was
printed, and took the best course he could with both
to get it suppress’d, as it presently was (though afterward
many of the Books were privately sold) and
gave her an account by the next Post of what he had
done. A while after he received this Answer, which
you have here (taken from her own hand) under
that disguised Name she had given him, it being her
custom to use such with most of her particular

“‘Worthy Poliarchus,
It is very well that you chid me so much for endeavouring
to express a part of the sense I have of your
obligations; for while you go on in conferring them beyond
all possibility of acknowledgment, it is convenient
for me to be forbidden to attempt it. Your last generous
concern for me, in vindicating me from the unworthy
usage I have received at London from the Press,
doth as much transcend all your former favours, as the
injury done me by that Publisher and Printer exceeds all
the troubles that I remember I ever had. All I can say to
you for it, is, that though you assert an unhappy, it is yet
a very innocent person, and that it is impossible for maliceA lice A1v
it self to have printed those Rimes (you tell me are
gotten abroad so impudently) with so much abuse to the
things, as the very publication of them at all, though
they had been never so correct, had been to me; to me
(Sir) who never writ any line in my life with an intention
to have it printed, and who am of my Lord Falkland’s
mind, that said,
“He danger fear’d than censure less, Nor could he dread a breach like to a Press.” And who (I think you know) am sufficiently distrustful of
all, that my own want of company and better employment,
or others commands have seduc’d me to write, to endeavor
rather that they should never be seen at all, than that
they should be expos’d to the world with such effrontery
as now they most unhappily are. But is there no retreat
from the malice of the World? I thought a Rock and a
Mountain might have hidden me, and that it had been
free for all to spend their Solitude in what Resveries
they please, and that our Rivers (though they are babling)
would not have betray’d the follies of impertinent
thoughts upon their Banks; but ’tis only I who am
that unfortunate person that cannot so much as think in
private, that must have my imaginations rifled and exposed
to play the Mountebanks, and dance upon the
Ropes to entertain all the rabble; to undergo all the raillery
of the Wits, and all the severity of the Wise, and
to be the sport of some that can, and some that cannot
read a Verse. This is a most cruel accident, and hath
made so proportionate an impression upon me, that really
it hath cost me a sharp fit of sickness since I heard it,
and I believe would be more fatal but that I know what
a Champion I have in you, and that I am sure your credit
in the World will gain me a belief from all that are
knowing and civil, that I am so innocent of that wretched
Artifice of a secret consent (of which I am, I fear,
suspected) that whoever would have brought me those Copies A2r
Copies corrected and amended, and a thousand pounds to
have bought my permission for their being printed,
should not have obtained it. But though there are many
things, I believe, in this wicked impression of those
fancies, which the ignorance of what occasion’d them,
and the falseness of the Copies may represent very ridiculous
and extravagant, yet I could give some account
of them to the severest Cato, and I am sure they must be
more abus’d than I think is possible (for I have not seen
the Book, nor can imagine what’s in’t) before they can
be render’d otherwise than Sir Edward Deering says in
his Epilogue to Pompey.
“――No bolder thought can tax Those Rimes of blemish to the blushing Sex, As chaste the lines, as harmless is the sense, As the first smiles of infant innocence.” So that I hope there will be no need of justifying them to
Vertue and Honour; and I am so little concern’d for the
reputation of writing Sense, that provided the World
would believe me innocent of any manner of knowledge,
much less connivance at this Publication, I shall willingly
compound never to trouble them with the true Copies,
as you advise me to do: which if you still should judge
absolutely necessary to the reparation of this misfortune,
and to general satisfaction; and that, as you tell me, all
the rest of my friends will press me to it, I should yield
to it with the same reluctancy as I would cut off a Limb
to save my Life. However I hope you will satisfie all
your acquaintance of my aversion to it, and did they know
me as well as you do, that Apology were very needless,
for I am so far from expecting applause for anything I
scribble, that I can hardly expect pardon; and sometimes
I think that employment so far above my reach,
and unfit for my Sex, that I am going to resolve against
it for ever; and could I have recovered those fugitive
Papers that have escap’d my hands, I had long since made A2v
made a sacrifice of them all. The truth is, I have an
incorrigible inclination to that folly of riming, and intending
the effects of that humour, only for my own
amusement in a retir’d life; I did not so much resist it
as a wiser woman would have done; but some of my
dearest friends having found my Ballads, (for they deserve
no better name) they made me so much believe they
did not dislike them, that I was betray’d to permit some
Copies for their divertisement; but this, with so little
concern for them, that I have lost most of the originals,
and that I suppose to be the cause of my present misfortune;
for some infernal Spirits or other have catch’d
those rags of Paper, and what the careless blotted writing
kept them from understanding, they have supplied by conjecture,
till they put them into the shape wherein you saw
them, or else I know not which way it is possible for
them to be collected, or so abominably transcrib’d as I
hear they are. I believe also there are some among them
that are not mine, but every way I have so much injury,
and the worthy persons that had the ill luck of my converse,
and so their Names expos’d in this impression
without their leave, that few things in the power of
Fortune could have given me so great a torment as this
most afflictive accident. I know you Sir, so much my
friend, that I need not ask your pardon for making
this tedious complaint; but methinks it is a great injustice
to revenge my self upon you by this Harangue
for the wrongs I have received from others; therefore
I will only tell you that the sole advantage I have
by this cruel news, is that it has given me an experiment,
That no adversity can shake the constancy of your
friendship, and that in the worst humour that ever I
was in, I am still,

Worthy Poliarchus,
Your most faithful, most obliged
Friend, and most humble Servant
She a1r

She writ divers Letters to many of her other
friends ful of the like resentments, but this is enough
to shew how little she desired the fame of being in
print, and how much she was troubled to be so exposed.
It may serve likewise to give a taste of her
Prose to those that have seen none of it, and of her
way of writing familiar Letters, which she did with
strange readiness and facility, in a very fair hand, and
perfect Orthography; and if they were collected
with those excellent Discourses she writ on several
subjects, they would make a Volume much larger
than this, and no less worth the reading.

About three months after this Letter she came to
London, where her Friends did much sollicite her to
redeem her self by a correct impression; yet she continued
still averse, though perhaps in time she might
have been over-rul’d by their perswasions if she had

But the small Pox, that malicious disease (as knowing
how little she would have been concern’d for her
handsomeness, when at the best) was not satisfied to
be as injurious a Printer of her face, as the other
had been of her Poems, but treated her with a more
fatal cruelty than the Stationer had them; for though
he to her most sensible affliction surreptitiously possess’d
himself of a false Copy, and sent those children
of her Fancy into the World, so martyred, that they
were more unlike themselves than she could have
been made had she escaped; that murtherous Tyrant,
with greater barbarity seiz’d unexpectedly upon
her, the true Original, and to the much juster affliction
of all the world, violently tore her out of it,
and hurried her untimely to her Grave, upon the 1664-06-2222.
of June 1664
. she being then but 31 years of age.

But he could not bury her in Oblivion, for this
Monument which she erected for her self, will for
ever make her to be honoured as the honour of her
Sex, the emulation of ours, and the admiration of
both. That unfortunate surprise hath rob’d it of a much a1v
much of that perfection it might else have had, having
broke off the Translation of Horace before it
was finish’d, much less review’d, and hindred the rest
from being more exactly corrected, and put into the
order they were written in, as she possibly her self
would have done, had she consented to a second Edition.
’Tis probable she would also have left out
some of those pieces that were written with less care
and upon occasions less fit to be made publick, and
she might also have added more: but all industry
has been us’d to make this Collection as full and as
perfect as might be, by the addition of many that
were not in the former impression, and by divers
Translations, whereof the first has the Original in the
opposite Page, that they who have a mind to compare
them, may by that pattern find how just she has
been in all the rest to both the Languages, exactly
rendring the full sence of the one, without tying her
self strictly to the words, and clearly evincing the
capaciousness of the other, by comprising it fully in
the same number of lines, though in the Plays half
the Verses of the French are of thirteen syllables,
and the rest of twelve, whereas the English have no
more but ten. In short though some of her Pieces
may perhaps be lost, and others in hands that have
not produc’d them; yet none that upon good
grounds could be known to be hers, are left out;
for many of the less considerable ones were publish’d
in the other; but those, or others that shall be judged
so, may be excused by the politeness of the rest which
have more of her true spirit, and of her diligence.
Some of them would be no disgrace to the name of
any Man that amongst us is most esteemed for his excellency
in this kind, and there are none that may not
pass with favour, when it is remembred that they fell
hastily from the pen but of a Woman. We might well
have call’d her the English Sappho, she of all the female
poets of former Ages, being for her Verses and her Vertues a2r
Vertues both, the most highly to be valued; but
she has call’d her self Orinda, a name that
deserves to be added to the number of the
Muses, and to live with honour as long as they.
Were our language as generally known to the world
as the Greek and Latine were anciently, or as the
French is now, her Verses could not be confin’d
within the narrow limits of our Islands, but would
spread themselves as far as the Continent has Inhabitants,
or as the Seas have any shore. And for her
Vertues, they as much surpass’d those of Sappho as
the Theological do the Moral, (wherein yet Orinda
was not her inferiour) or as the fading immortality of
an earthly Lawrel, which the justice of men cannot
deny to her excellent Poetry, is transcended by that
incorruptible and eternal Crown of Glory, wherewith
the Mercy of God hath undoubtedly rewarded
her more eminent Piety. Her merit should have
had a Statue of Porphiry wrought by some great Artist,
equal in skill to Michael Angelo, that might have
transferr’d to posterity the lasting image of so rare a
Person: but here is only a poor paper shadow of a
Statue made after a Picture not very like her, to accompany
that she has drawn of her self in these Poems,
and which represents the beauties of her mind
with a far truer resemblance, than that does the liniaments,
of her Face. They had sooner performed
this Right to her memory, if that raging Pestilence
which, not long after her, swept away so many thousands
here and in other places of this Kingdom;
that devouring Fire, which since destroy’d this famous
City; and the harsh sounds of War, which
with the thunderings of Cannon, deafn’d all ears to
the gentle and tender strains of Friendship, had not
made the Publication of them hitherto unseasonable.
But they have out-liv’d all these dismal things to see
the blessing of Peace, a conjuncture more suitable to
their Nature, all compos’d of kindness; so that I hope a2v
hope Time it self shall have as little power against
them as these other storms have had, and
then Ovid’ Nec Jovis ira,
nec ignis, nec poterit
ferrum, nec edax
abolere vetustas,
s conclusion of his Metamorphosis
may with little alteration, more
truth, and less vanity than by him to
himself, be applyed to these once transformed, or
rather deformed Poems, which, are here in some
measure restor’d to their native Shape and Beauty,
and therefore certainly cannot fail of a welcome reception
now, since they wanted it not before, when
they appeared in that strange disguise.

The b1r

The Earl of Orrery to Mrs. Philips.


When I but knew you by report,

I fear’d the praises of th’ admiring Court

Were but their Complements, but now I must

Confess, what I thought civil is scarce just:

For they imperfect Trophies to you raise,

You deserve wonder, and they pay but praise;

A praise, which is as short of your great due,

As all which yet have writ come short of you.

You, to whom wonder’s paid by double right,

Both for your Verses smoothness and their height.

In me it does not the least trouble breed,

That your fair Sex does Ours in Verse exceed,

Since every Poet this great Truth does prove,

Nothing so much inspires a Muse as Love;

Thence has your Sex the best poetick fires,

For what’s inspir’d must yield to what inspires.

And as Our Sex resigns to Yours the due,

So all of your bright Sex must yield to You.

Experience shows, that never Fountain fed

A stream which could ascend above its Head;

For those whose wit fam’d Helicon does give,

To rise above its height durst never strive,

Their double Hill too, though ’tis often clear,

Yet often on it clouds and storms appear.

Let none admire then that the ancient wit

Shar’d in those Elements infused it;

Nor that your Muse than theirs ascends much higher,

She sharing in no Element but fire.

Past ages could not think those things you do,

For their Hill was their Basis and height too:

So that ’tis Truth, not Complement, to tell,

Your lowest height their highest did excel;

Your nobler thoughts warm’d by a heav’nly fire,

To their bright Centre constantly aspire;

b And b1v

And by the place to which they take their flight,

Leave us no doubt from whence they have their light.

Your merit has attain’d this high degree,

’Tis above praise as much as flattery,

And when in that we have drain’d all our store,

All grant from this nought can be distant more.

Though you have sung of friendships power so well,

That you in that, as you in wit excel,

Yet my own interest obliges me

To praise your practise more than Theory;

For by that kindness you your friend did show

The honour I obtain’d of knowing you.

In Pictures none hereafter will delight,

You draw more to the life in black and white;

The Pencil to your Pen must yield the place,

This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.

Of blest retirement such great Truths you write,

That ’tis my wish as much as your delight;

Our gratitude to praise it does think fit,

Since all you writ are but effects of it.

You English Corneil’s Pompey with such flame,

That you both raise our wonder and his fame;

If he could read it, he like us would call

The copy greater than th’ Original;

You cannot mend what is already done,

Unless you’l finish what you have begun:

Who your Translation sees, cannot but say,

That ’tis Orinda’s Work, and but his Play.

The French to learn our Language now will seek,

To hear their greatest Wit more nobly speak;

Rome too would grant, were our Tongue to her known,

sar speaks better in’t than in his own.

And all those Wreaths once circl’d Pompey’s brow,

Exalt his Fame, less than your Verses now.

From these clear Truths all must acknowledge this,

If there be Helicon, in Wales it is.

Oh happy Country which to our Prince gives

His Title, and in which Orinda lives!

The b2r

The Earl of Roscomon to Orinda: an imitation of
Integer vitæ, &c.
Carm. lib. I. od. 22.


Vertue (dear Friend) needs no defence,

No arms, but its own innocence;

Quivers and Bows, and poison’d darts,

Are only us’d by guilty hearts.


An honest mind, safely, alone

May travel through the burning Zone,

Or through the deepest Scythian snows,

Or where the fam’d Hydaspes flows.


While (rul’d by a resistless fire)

Our great Orinda I admire,

The hungry Wolves that see me stray

Unarm’d, and single, run away.


Set me in the remotest place

That ever Neptune did embrace,

When there her image fills my breast,

Helicon is not half so blest.


Leave me upon some Lybian plain,

So she my fancy entertain,

And when the thirsty Monsters meet,

They’ll all pay homage to my feet.


The Magick of Orinda’s Name,

Not only can their fierceness tame,

But, if that mighty word I once rehearse,

They seem submissively to roar in Verse.

Upon b2v

Upon Mrs. K. Philips her Poems.

We allow’d you beauty, and we did submit

To all the tyrannies of it.

Ah cruel Sex! will you depose us too in Wit?

Orinda does in that too reign,

Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,

And cancel great Apollo’s Salick Law.

We our old Title plead in vain:

Man may be Head, but Woman’s now the Brain.

Verse was Love’s fire-arms heretofore:

In Beauties Camp it was not known,

Too many arms beside that Conquerour bore.

’Twas the great Cannon we brought down,

T’assault a stubborn Town.

Orinda first did a bold sally make,

Our strongest quarter take,

And so successful prov’d, that she

Turn’d upon Love himself his own Artillery.


Women, as if the Body were the whole

Did that, and not the Soul,

Transmit to their posterity;

If in it sometimes they conceiv’d,

Th’ abortive Issue never liv’d.

’Twere shame and pity, Orinda, if in thee

A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,

Should unmanur’d or barren lie.

But thou industriously hast sow’d and till’d

The fair and fruitful field:

And ’tis a strange increase that it doth yield.

As when the happy Gods above

Meet all together at a Feast,

A secret joy unspeakably does move

In their great Mother Cybeles contented breast:

With c1r

With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should’st see

This thy no less immortal Progeny,

And in their Birth thou no one touch dost find,

Of th’ ancient Curse to Woman-kind;

Thou bring’st not forth with pain,

It neither Travel is, nor Labour of thy Brain.

So easily they from thee come,

And there is so much room

In the unexhausted and unfathom’d womb;

That, like the Holland Countess, thou might’st bear

A Child for ev’ry day of all the fertile year.


Thou dost my Wonder, would’st my Envy raise,

If to be prais’d I lov’d more than to praise.

Wheree’re I see an excellence,

I must admire to see thy well-knit Sense,

Thy Numbers gentle, and thy Fancies high,

Those as thy Forehead smooth, these sparkling as thine

’Tis solid, and ’tis manly all,

Or rather, ’tis Angelical:

For, as in Angels, we

Do in thy Verses see

Both improv’d Sexes eminently meet;

They are than Man more strong, and more than Woman


They talk of Nine, I know not who,

Female Chimæras, that o’re Poets reign;

I ne’re could find that Fancy true,

But have invok’d them oft I’m sure in vain.

They talk of Sappho, but, alas! the shame

Ill Manners soil the lustre of her fame.

Orinda’s inward Vertue is so bright,

That like a Lantern’s fair enclosed light,

It through the Paper shines where she doth write.

c Honour c1v

Honour and Friendship, and the gen’rous scorn

Of things for which we were not born,

(Things that can only by a fond disease,

Like that of Girles our vicious stomacks please)

Are the instructive subjects of her Pen.

And as the Roman Victory

Taught our rude Land arts, and civility

At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters men.


But Rome with all her arts could ne’re inspire

A Female Breast with such a fire.

The warlike Amazonian Train,

Which in Elysium now do peaceful reign,

And Wit’s mild Empire before Arms prefer,

Hope ’twill be settled in their Sex by her.

Merlin the Seer (and sure he would not lie

In such a sacred Company)

Does Prophecies of learn’d Orinda show,

Which he had darkly spoke so long ago.

Even Boadicia’s angry Ghost

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,

And to her injur’d Daughters now does boast,

That Rome’s o’recome at last by a Woman of her race.

Abraham Cowley.

To c2r

To the Excellent Orinda.

Let the male Poets their male Phœbus chuse,

Thee I invoke, Orinda, for my Muse;

He could but force a Branch, Daphne her Tree

Most freely offers to her Sex and thee,

And says to Verse, so unconstrain’d as yours,

Her Laurel freely comes, your fame secures:

And men no longer shall with ravish’d Bays

Crown their forc’d Poems by as forc’d a praise.

Thou glory of our Sex, envy of men,

Who are both pleas’d and vex’d with thy bright Pen:

Its lustre doth intice their eyes to gaze,

But mens sore eyes cannot endure its rayes;

It dazles and surprizes so with light,

To find a noon where they expected night:

A Woman Translate Pompey! which the fam’d

Corneille with such art and labour fram’d!

To whose close version the Wits club their sence,

And a new Lay poetick S M E C springs thence!

Yes, that bold work a Woman dares Translate,

Not to provoke, nor yet to fear mens hate.

Nature doth find that she hath err’d too long,

And now resolves to recompence that wrong:

Phœbus to Cynthia must his beams resigne,

The rule of Day and Wit’s now Feminine.

That Sex, which heretofore was not allow’d

To understand more than a beast, or crowd;

Of which Problems were made, whether or no

Women had Souls; but to be damn’d, if so;

Whose highest Contemplation could not pass,

In mens esteem, no higher than the Glass;

And all the painful labours of their Brain,

Was only how to Dress and Entertain:

Or, if they ventur’d to speak sense, the wise

Made that, and speaking Oxe, like Prodigies.

From c2v

From these thy more than masculine Pen hath rear’d

Our Sex; first to be prais’d, next to be feard.

And by the same Pen forc’d, men now confess,

To keep their greatness, was to make us less.

Men know of how refin’d and rich a mould

Our Sex is fram’d, what Sun is in our Gold:

They know in Lead no Diamonds are set,

And Jewels only fill the Cabinet.

Our Spirits purer far than theirs, they see;

By which even Men from Men distinguish’d be:

By which the Soul is judg’d, and does appear

Fit or unfit for action, as they are.

When in an Organ various sounds do stroak,

Or grate the ear, as Birds sing, or Toads Croak;

The Breath, that voyces every Pipe,’s the same,

But the bad mettal doth the sound defame.

So, if our Souls by sweeter Organs speak,

And theirs with harsh false notes the air do break;

The Soul’s the same, alike in both doth dwell,

’Tis from her instruments that we excel.

Ask me not then, why jealous men debar

Our Sex from Books in Peace, from Arms in War;

It is because our Parts will soon demand

Tribunals for our Persons, and Command.

Shall it be our reproach, that we are weak,

And cannot fight, nor as the School-men speak?

Even men themselves are neither strong nor wise,

If Limbs and Parts they do not exercise.

Train’d up to Arms, we Amazons have been,

And Spartan Virgins strong as Spartan Men:

Breed Women but as Men, and they are these;

Whilst Sybarit Men are Women by their ease.

Why should not brave Semiramis break a Lance,

And why should not soft Ninyas curle and dance?

Ovid in vain Bodies with change did vex,

Changing her form of life, Iphis chang’d Sex.

Nature to Females freely doth impart

That, which the Males usurp, a stout, bold heart.

Thus d1r

Thus Hunters female Beasts fear to assail:

And female Hawks more mettal’d than the male:

Men ought not then Courage and Wit ingross,

Whilst the Fox lives, the Lyon, or the Horse.

Much less ought men both to themselves confine,

Whilst Women, such as you, Orinda, shine.

That noble friendship brought thee to our Coast,

We thank Lucasia, and thy courage boast.

Death in each Wave could not Orinda fright,

Fearless she acts that friendship she did write:

Which manly Vertue to their Sex confin’d,

Thou rescuest to confirm our softer mind;

For there’s required (to do that Virtue right)

Courage, as much in Friendship as in Fight.

The dangers we despise, doth this truth prove,

Though boldly we not fight, we boldly love.

Ingage us unto Books, Sappho comes forth,

Though not of Hesiod’s age, of Hesiod’s worth.

If Souls no Sexes have, as ’tis confest,

’Tis not the he or she makes Poems best:

Nor can men call these Verses Feminine,

Be the sence vigorous and Masculine.

’Tis true, Apollo sits as Judge of Wit,

But the nine Female learned Troop are it:

Those Laws, for which Numa did wise appear,

Wiser Ægeria whisper’d in his ear.

The Gracchi’s Mother taught them Eloquence;

From her Breasts courage flow’d, from her Brain sence;

And the grave Beards, who heard her speak in Rome,

Blush’d not to be instructed, but o’recome.

Your speech, as hers, commands respect from all,

Your very Looks, as hers, Rhetorical:

Something of grandeur in your Verse men see,

That they rise up to it as Majesty.

The wise and noble Orrery’s regard,

Was much observ’d, when he your Poem heard:

All said, a fitter match was never seen,

Had Pompey’s Widow been Arsamnes Queen.

d Pom- d1v

Pompey, who greater than himself’s become,

Now in your Poem, than before in Rome;

And much more lasting in the Poets Pen,

Great Princes live, than the proud Towers of Men.

He thanks false Egypt for its Treachery,

Since that his Ruine is so sung by thee;

And so again would perish, if withall,

Orinda would but celebrate his Fall.

Thus pleasingly the Bee delights to die,

Foreseeing, he in Amber Tomb shall lie.

If that all Ægypt, for to purge its Crime,

Were built into one Pyramid o’re him,

Pompey would lie less stately in that Herse,

Than he doth now, Orinda, in thy Verse:

This makes Cornelia for her Pompey vow,

Her hand shall plant his Laurel on thy brow:

So equal in their merits were both found,

That the same Wreath Poets and Princes Crown’d:

And what on that great Captains Brow was dead,

She Joies to see re-flourish’d on thy head.

In the French Rock Cornelia first did shine,

But shin’d not like her self till she was thine:

Poems, like Gems, translated from the place

Where they first grew, receive another grace.

Drest by thy hand, and polish’d by thy Pen,

She glitters now a Star, but Jewel then:

No flaw remains, no cloud, all now is light,

Transparent as the day, bright parts more bright.

Corneille, now made English, so doth thrive,

As Trees transplanted do much lustier live.

Thus Oar digg’d forth, and by such hands as thine

Refin’d and stamp’d, is richer than the Mine.

Liquors from Vessel into Vessel pour’d,

Must lose some Spirits, which are scarce restor’d:

But the French Wines, in their own Vessel rare,

Pour’d into ours, by thy hand, Spirits are;

So high in taste, and so delicious,

Before his own Corneille thine would chuse.

He d2r

He finds himself inlightned here, where shade

Of dark expression his own words had made:

There what he would have said, he sees so writ,

As generously, to just decorum fit.

When in more words than his you please to flow,

Like a spread Floud, inriching all below,

To the advantage of his well meant sence,

He gains by you another excellence.

To render word for word, at the old rate,

Is only but to Construe, not Translate:

In your own fancy free, to his sence true,

We read Corneille, and Orinda too:

And yet ye both are so the very same,

As when two Tapers join’d make one bright flame.

And sure the Copier’s honour is not small,

When Artists doubt which is Original.

But if your fetter’d Muse thus praised be,

What great things do you write when it is free?

When it is free to chuse both sence and words,

Or any subject the vast World affords?

A gliding Sea of Chrystal doth best show

How smooth, clear, full, and rich your Verse doth flow:

Your words are chosen, cull’d, not by chance writ,

To make the sence, as Anagrams do hit.

Your rich becoming words on the sence wait,

As Maids of Honour on a Queen of State.

’Tis not White Satin makes a Verse more white,

Or soft; Iron is both, write you on it.

Your Poems come forth cast, no File you need,

At one brave Heat both shap’d and polished.

But why all these Encomiums of you,

Who either doubts, or will not take as due?

Renown how little you regard, or need,

Who like the Bee, on your own sweets doth feed?

There are, who like weak Fowl with shouts fall down,

Doz’d with an Army’s Acclamation:

Not d2v

Not able to indure applause, they fall,

Giddy with praise, their praises Funeral.

But you, Orinda, are so unconcern’d,

As if when you, another we commend.

Thus, as the Sun, you in your Course shine on,

Unmov’d with all our admiration:

Flying above the praise you shun, we see

Wit is still higher by humility.


To e1r

To the memory of the Excellent Orinda.


Forgive bright Saint a Vot’ry, who

No missive Orders has to show,

Nor does a call to inspiration owe:

Yet rudely dares intrude among

This sacred, and inspir’d throng;

Where looking round me, ev’ry one I see

Is a sworn Priest of Phœbus, or of thee.

Forgive this forward zeal for things divine,

If I strange fire do offer at thy Shrine:

Since the pure Incense, and the Gum

We send up to the Pow’rs above,

(If with devotion giv’n, and love)

Smells sweet, and does alike accepted prove,

As if from golden Censors it did come;

Though we the pious tribute pay

In some rude vessel made of common clay.


What by Pindaricks can be done,

Since the great Pindar’s greater Mr. A. Cowley. Son

(By ev’ry Grace adorn’d, and ev’ry Muse inspir’d)

From th’ ungrateful World, to kinder Heaven’s retir’d:

He, and Orinda from us gone,

What Name like theirs shall we now call upon?

Whether her Vertue, or her Wit

We chuse for our eternal Theme,

What hand can draw the perfect Scheme?

None but her self could such high subjects fit:

We yield, with shame we yield

To Death and Her the field:

For were not Nature partial to us Men,

The World’s great Order had inverted been;

Had she such Souls plac’d in all Woman-kind,

Giv’n ’um like wit, not with like goodness join’d,

Our vassal Sex to hers had homage pay’d;

Woman had rul’d the World, and weaker Man obey’d.

e 3. To e1v


To thee O Fame, we now commit

Her, and these last remains of gen’rous wit:

I charge thee, deeply to enroll

This glorious Name in thy immortal Scroll;

Write ev’ry letter in large Text,

And then to make the lustre hold,

Let it be done with purest Gold,

To dazle this Age, and outshine the next:

Since not a Name more bright than Hers,

In this, or thy large Book appears.

And thou impartial, powerful Grave,

These Reliques (like her deathless Poems save)

Ev’n from devouring Time secure,

May they still rest from other mixture pure:

Unless some dying Monarch shall to trye

Whether Orinda, though her self could dye,

Can still give others immortality;

Think, if but laid in her miraculous Tomb,

As from the Prophets touch, new life from hers may come.

James Tyrrell.

To e2r

To the Memory of the incomparable Orinda.

A Pindarick Ode.


Along Adieu to all that’s bright,

Noble, or brave, in Womankind,

To all the wonders of their Wit,

And Trophies of their mind;

The glowing Heat of th’ Holy Fire is gone,

To th’ Altar, whence ’twas kindled, flown;

There’s nought on Earth, but Ashes left behind;

E’re since th’ amazing sound was spred,

Orinda’s Dead,

Every soft and fragrant word,

All that language could afford,

Every high and lofty thing,

That’s wont to set the Soul on wing,

No longer with this worthless World would stay:

Thus when the Death of the great Pan was told,

A long the shore the dismal tidings roll’d,

The lesser Gods their Fanes forsook;

Confounded with the mighty stroke,

They could not over-live that Fatal day,

But sigh’d, and groan’d their gasping Oracles away.


How rigid are the Laws of Fate,

And how severe that black Decree?

No sublunary thing is free,

But all must enter th’ Adamantine Gate:

Sooner, or later shall we come

To Natures dark Retiring room,

And yet ’tis pity, is it not?

The learned as the fool should dye,

One e2v

One full as low as t’other lye;

Together Blended in the general lot;

Distinguish’t only from the common croud,

By an hindg’d Coffin, or an Holland shroud,

Though Fame and Honour speak them ne’re so loud;

Alas Orinda, even thou!

Whose happy verse made others live,

And certain Immortality could give;

Blasted are all thy blooming glories now,

The Laurel wither’s o’re thy brow:

Methinks it should disturbe thee to conceive

That when poor I this artless breath resign,

My Dust should have as much of Poetry as Thine.


Too soon we languish with desire

Of what we never could enough admire;

On th’ Billows of this world some times we rise

So dangerously high,

We are to Heaven too nigh;

When (all in rage

Grown hoary with one minute’s age,)

The very self same fickle wave,

Which the entrancing Prospect gave,

Swoll’n to a Mountain, sinks into a grave.

Too happy Mortals if the Pow’rs above

As merciful would be,

And easy to preserve the thing we love,

As in the giving they are free!

But they too oft delude our weary’d Eyes,

They fix a flaming Sword ’twixt us and Paradise;

A weeping Evening crowns a smiling Day,

Yet why should Heads of Gold, have feet of Clay?

Why should the Man that wav’d th’ Almighty Wand,

That led the Murmuring Croud,

By Pillar and by Cloud,

Shiver- f1r

Shivering atop of aery Pisgah stand,

Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis’d Land?


Throw your Swords, and Gauntlets by

You daring Sons of War,

You cannot purchase e’re you dy

One honourable scar,

Since that fair hand that gilded all your Bays,

That in heroick Numbers wrot your praise,

While you securely slept on Honour’s Bed,

It self, alas! is withered, cold and Dead;

Cold and Dead are all those Charms,

Which burnish’t your Victorious Arms:

Inglorious Arms hereafter must

Blush first in bloud, and then in rust:

No Oil, but that of Her smooth words will serve

Weapon, and Warriour to preserve.

Expect no more from this dull Age,

But folly, or Poetique Rage,

Short-liv’d Nothings of the Stage,

Vented to Day, and cry’d to morrow down,

With her the soul of Poesie is gone;

Gone, while our expectations flew

As high a pitch as She has done,

Exhal’d to Heaven like early dew,

Betimes the little shining drops are flown,

E’re th’ drowzy World perceiv’d that Manna was come


You of the Sex that would be fair,

Exceeding lovely, hither come,

Would you be pure as Angels are,

Come dress you by Orinda’s Tomb,

And leave your flatt’ring Glass at home;

Within this Marble Mirrour see

f How f1v

How one day such as She

You must, and yet alas! can never be.

Think on the heights of that vast Soul,

And then admire, and then condole.

Think on the wonders of Her Pen,

’Twas that made Pompey truely Great,

Neither th’expence of bloud nor sweat,

Nor yet Cornelia’s Kindness made him live agen.

With envy think, when to the Grave you goe,

How very little must be said of you,

Since all that can be said of vertuous Woman was her

Thomas Flatman.
M. A.

On f2r

On the Death of Mrs Katherine Philips.

Cruel Disease! Ah could it not suffice

Thy old and constant spight to exercise

Against the gentlest and the fairest sex,

Which still thy Depredations most do vex?

Where still thy malice most of all

(Thy malice or thy lust) does on the fairest fall?

And in them most aßault the fairest place,

The Throne of Empress Beauty, even the Face?

There was enough of that here to aßwage

(One would have thought) either thy Lust or Rage:

Wast not enough, when thou, Profane Disease,

Didst on this glorious Temple seize,

Wast not enough, like a wild zealot there,

All the rich outward ornaments to tear,

Deface the Innocent Pride of beauteous Images?

Wast not enough thus rudely to defile,

But thou must quite destroy the goodly Pile?

And thy unbounded Sacrilege commit

On the inward Holyest Holy of her Wit?

Cruel Disease! there thou mistook’st thy Power;

No Mine of Death can that Devour;

On her Embalmed Name it will abide

An Everlasting Pyramide,

As high as Heaven the Top, as Earth the Basis wide.


All Ages past, Record; all Countrys now

In various kinds such equal Beauties show,

That even Judge Paris would not know

On whom the Golden Apple to bestow.

Though Goddeßes to his sentence did submit,

Women and Lovers would appeal from it;

Nor durst he say, of all the fameemale race

This is the sovreign Face.

And some (though these be of a kind that’s Rare,

That’s much, oh much less frequent then the Fair)

So equally renown’d for virtue are,

That it is the Mother of the Gods might pose,

When the best Woman for her guide she chose,

But f2v

But if Apollo should design

A Woman Laureat to make,

Without dispute he would Orinda take,

Though Sappho and the famous Nine

Stood by, and did repine.

To be a Princess or a Queen

Is Great, but ’tis a Greatness always seen,

The World did never but two Women know

Who, one by fraud, the other by wit did rise

To the two tops of Spiritual dignities;

One Female Pope of old, one Female Poet now.


Of Female Poets who had names of old,

Nothing is shewn, but onely told,

And all we hear of them, perhaps maay be

Male Flattery onely, and Male Poetry;

Few minutes did their Beauties Lightning wast,

The Thunder of their voice did longer last,

But that too soon was paste

The certain proofs of our Orinda’s Wit

In her own lasting characters are writ,

And they will long my praise of them survive,

Though long perhaps too that may live.

The trade of Glory managed by the pen

Though great it be, and every where is found,

Does bring in but small profit to us men;

’Tis by the number of the sharers drown’d,

Orinda in the female Coasts of fame

Engroßes all the Goods of a Poetique name,

She does no Partner with her see;

Does all the Business there Alone which we

Are forced to carry on by a whole company.


But Wit’s like a Luxuriant Vine,

Unless to Virtues prop it join,

Firm and erect, towards Heaven bound,

Though it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be

It lies deform’d, and rotting on the ground.

Now g1r

Now shame and blushes on us all

Who our own Sex superiour call;

Orinda does our boasting Sex out-do,

Not in wit only, but in virtue too:

She does above our best examples rise,

In hate of vice, and scorn of vanities.

Never did spirit of the manly make,

And dipt all o’re in Learnings sacred Lake,

A temper more invulnerable take;

No violent passion could an entrance find

Into the tender goodness of her mind:

Through walls of stone those furious bullets may

Force their impetuous way;

When her soft breast they hit, damped and dead they lay.


The fame of friendship, which so long had told

Of three or four illustrious Names of old,

Till hoarse and weary of the tale she grew,

Rejoyces now to have got a new,

A new, and more surprising story

Of fair Lucasia and Orinda’s glory.

As when a prudent man does once perceive

That in some foreign Country he must live,

The Language and the Manners he does strive

To understand and practise here,

That he may come no stranger there;

So well Orinda did her self prepare,

In this much different Clime for her remove,

To the glad world of Poetry and Love;

There all the blest do but one body grow,

And are made one too with their glorious Head,

Whom there triumphantly they wed,

After the secret Contract past below;

There Love into Identity does go,

’Tis the first unities Monarchique Throne,

The Centre that knits all, where the great Three’s but One.

Abraham Cowley.

g The g1v
1667-08-20Aug. 20. 1667. Roger L’Estrange.
Poems. B1r 1


Upon the double Murther of K. Charles I.
in Answer to a Libellous Copy of Rimes by
Vavasor Powell.

Ithink not on the State, nor am concern’d

Which way soever the great Helm is turn’d:

But as that son whose father’s danger nigh

Did force his native dumbness, and untie

The fetter’d organs; so this is a cause

That will excuse the breach of Nature’s laws.

Silence were now a sin, nay Passion now

Wise men themselves for Merit would allow.

What noble eye could see (and careless pass)

The dying Lion kick’d by every Ass?

Has Charles so broke God’s Laws, he must not have

A quiet Crown, nor yet a quiet Grave?

Tombs have been Sanctuaries; Thieves lie there

Secure from all their penalty and fear.

Great Charles his double misery was this,

Unfaithful Friends, ignoble Enemies.

Had any Heathen been this Prince’s foe,

He would have wept to see him injur’d so.

His Title was his Crime, they’d reason good

To quarrel at the Right they had withstood.

He broke God’s Laws, and therefore he must die;

And what shall then become of thee and I?

Slander must follow Treason; but yet stay,

Take not our Reason with our King away.

Though you have seiz’d upon all our defence,

Yet do not sequester our common Sense.

B Christ B1v 2

Christ will be King, but I ne’re understood

His Subjects built his Kingdom up with blood,

Except their own; or that he would dispence

With his commands, though for his own defence.

Oh! to what height of horrour are they come

Who dare pull down a crown, tear up a Tomb?

On the numerous Access of the English to wait upon the
King in Flanders.

Hasten, Great Prince, unto thy British Isles,

Or all thy Subjects will become Exiles.

To thee they flock, thy Presence is their home,

As Pompey’s Camp, where e’re it mov’d, was Rome.

They that asserted thy Just Cause go hence

To testifie their joy and reverence;

And those that did not, now, by wonder taught,

Go to confess and expiate their fault.

So that if thou dost stay, thy gasping Land

It self will empty on the Belgick sand:

Where the affrighted Dutchman does profess

He thinks it an Invasion, not Address.

As we unmonarch’d were for want of thee,

So till thou come we shall unpeopled be.

None but the close Fanatick will remain,

Who by our Loyalty his ends will gain:

And he th’exhausted Land will quickly find

As desolate a place as he design’d.

For England (though grown old with woes) will see

Her long deny’d and Sovereign Remedy.

So when old Jacob could but credit give

That his prodigious Joseph still did live,

(Joseph that was preserved to restore

Their lives that would have taken his before)

“It is enough,” (said he) “to Egypt I

Will go, and see him once before I die.”

Arion B2r 3

Arion on a Dolphin, To his Majesty at his passage
into England.

Whom does this stately Navy bring?

O! ’tis Great Britain’s Glorious King.

Convey him then, ye Winds and Seas,

Swift as Desire and calm as Peace.

In your Respect let him survey

What all his other Subjects pay;

And prophesie to them again

The splendid smoothness of his Reign.

Charles and his mighty hopes you bear:

A greater now than Cæsar’s here;

Whose Veins a richer Purple boast

Than ever Hero’s yet engrost;

Sprung from a Father so august,

He triumphs in his very dust.

In him two Miracles we view,

His Vertue and his Safety too:

For when compell’d by Traitors crimes

To breathe and bow in forreign Climes,

Expos’d to all the rigid fate

That does on wither’d Greatness wait,

Plots against Life and Conscience laid,

By Foes pursu’d, by Friends betray’d;

Then Heaven, his secret potent friend,

Did him from Drugs and Stabs defend;

And, what’s more yet, kept him upright

’Midst flattering Hope and bloudy Fight.

Cromwell his whole Right never gain’d

Defender of the Faith remain’d,

For which his Predecessors fought

And writ, but none so dearly bought.

Never was Prince so much besieged,

At home provok’d, abroad obliged;

Nor B2v 4

Nor ever Man resisted thus,

No not great Athanasius.

No help of Friends could, or Foes spight,

To fierce Invasion him invite.

Revenge to him no pleasure is,

He spar’d their bloud who gap’d for his;

Blush’d any hands the English Crown

Should fasten on him but their own.

As Peace and Freedom with him went,

With him they came from Banishment.

That he might his Dominions win,

He with himself did first begin:

And, that best victory obtain’d,

His Kingdom quickly he regain’d.

Th’ illustrious suff’rings of this Prince

Did all reduce, and all convince

He only liv’d with such success,

That the whole world would fight with less.

Assistant Kings could but subdue

Those Foes which he can pardon too.

He thinks no Slaughter-trophees good,

Nor Laurels dipt in Subjects blood;

But with a sweet resistless art

Disarms the hand, and wins the heart;

And like a God doth rescue those

Who did themselves and him oppose.

Go, wondrous Prince, adorn that Throne

Which Birth and Merit make your own;

And in your Mercy brighter shine

Than in the Glories of your Line:

Find Love at home, and abroad Fear,

And Veneration every where.

Th’ united world will you allow

Their Chief, to whom the English bow:

And Monarchs shall to yours resort,

As Sheba’s Queen to Judah’s Court;

Returning thence constrained more

To C1r 5

To wonder, envy, and adore.

Discovered Rome will hate your Crown,

But she shall tremble at your Frown.

For England shall (rul’d and restor’d by You)

The suppliant world protect, or else subdue.

On the Fair Weather just at the Coronation, it having
rained immediately before and after.

So clear a season, and so snatch’d from storms,

Shews Heav’n delights to see what Man performs.

Well knew the Sun, if such a day were dim,

It would have been an injury to him:

For then a Cloud had from his eye conceal’d

The noblest sight that ever he beheld.

He therefore check’d th’invading Rains we fear’d,

And in a bright Parenthesis appear’d.

So that we knew not which look’d most content,

The King, the People, or the Firmament.

But the Solemnity once fully past,

The storm return’d with an impetuous hast.

And Heav’n and Earth each other to out-do,

Vied both in Cannons and in Fire-works too.

So Israel past through the divided floud,

While in obedient heaps the Ocean stood:

But the same Sea (the Hebrews once on shore)

Return’d in torrents where it was before.

To the Queen’s Majesty on her Arrival at Portsmouth,
1662-05-14May 14. 1662.

Now that the Seas & Winds so kind are grown,

For our advantage to resign their own;

Now you have quitted the triumphant Fleet,

And suffered English ground to kiss your Feet,

Whilst your glad Subjects with impatience throng

C To C1v 6

To see a Blessing they have begg’d so long;

Whilst Nature (who in complement to you

Kept back till now her wealth and beauty too)

Hath, to attend the lustre your eyes bring,

Sent forth her lov’d Embassadour the Spring;

Whilst in your praise Fame’s echo doth conspire

With the soft touches of the sacred Lyre;

Let an obscurer Muse upon her knees

Present you with such Offerings as these,

And you as a Divinity adore,

That so your mercy may appear the more;

Who, though of those you should the best receive,

Can such imperfect ones as these forgive.

Hail Royal Beauty, Virgin bright and great,

Who do our hopes secure, our joys compleat.

We cannot reckon what to you we owe,

Who make Him happy who makes us be so.

But Heav’n for us the desp’rate debt hath paid,

Who such a Monarch hath your Trophee made.

A Prince whose Vertue did alone subdue

Armies of Men, and of Offences too.

So good, that from him all our blessings flow,

Yet is a greater than he can bestow.

So great, that he dispenses life and death,

And Europe’s fate depends upon his breath.

(For Fortune in amends now courts him more

Than ever she affronted him before:

As Lovers that of Jealousie repent

Grow troublesome in kind acknowledgment.)

Who greater courage shew’d in wooing you,

Than other Princes in their battels do.

Never was Spain so generously defi’d;

Where they design’d a Prey, he courts a Bride.

Hence they may guess what will his Anger prove,

When he appear’d so brave in making Love;

And be more wise than to provoke his Arms,

Who can submit to nothing but your Charms.

And C2r 7

And till they give him leisure to subdue,

His Enemies must owe their peace to you.

Whilst he and you mixing illustrious Rays,

As much above our wishes as our praise,

Such Hero’s shall produce, as even they

Without regret or blushes shall obey.

To the Queen-mother’s Majesty, 1661-01-01Jan. 1. 16601.

You justly may forsake a Land which you

Have found so guilty and so fatal too.

Fortune, injurious to your Innocence,

Shot all her poison’d arrows here, or hence.

’Twas here bold Rebels once your Life pursu’d

(To whom ’twas Treason only to be rude,)

Till you were forc’d by their unwearied spight

(O glorious Criminal!) to take your flight.

Whence after you all that was Humane fled;

For here, oh! here the Royal Martyr bled,

Whose cause and heart must be divine and high,

That having you could be content to die.

Here they purloin’d what we to you did owe,

And paid you in variety of woe.

Yet all those billows in your breast did meet

A heart so firm, so loyal, and so sweet,

That over them you greater conquest made

Than your Immortal Father ever had.

For we may read in story of some few

That fought like him, none that indur’d like you:

Till Sorrow blush’d to act what Traitors meant,

And Providence it self did first repent.

But as our Active, so our Passive, ill

Hath made your share to be the sufferer’s still.

As from our Mischiefs all your troubles grew,

’Tis your sad right to suffer for them too.

Else our Great Charles had not been hence so long,

Nor C2v 8

Nor the Illustrious Glou’ster dy’d so young:

Nor had we lost a Princess all confest

To be the greatest, wisest, and the best;

Who leaving colder parts, but less unkind,

(For it was here she set, and there she shin’d,)

Did to a most ungrateful Climate come

To make a Visit, and to find a Tomb.

So that we should as much your smile despair,

As of your stay in this unpurged air;

But that your Mercy doth exceed our Crimes

As much as your Example former times,

And will forgive our Off’rings, though the flame

Does tremble still betwixt regret and shame.

For we have justly suffered more than you

By the sad guilt of all your suff’rings too.

As you the great Idea have been seen

Of either fortune, and in both a Queen,

Live still triumphant by the noblest wars,

And justifie your reconciled stars.

See your Offenders for your mercy bow,

And your try’d Virtue all Mankind allow;

While you to such a Race have given birth,

As are contended for by Heaven and Earth.

Upon the Princess Royal her Return into

Welcome sure Pledge of reconciled Powers;

If Kingdoms have Good Angels, you are ours:

For th’Ill ones check’d by your bright influence,

Could never strike till you were hurried hence.

But then, as Streams withstood more rapid grow,

War and Confusion soon did overflow:

Such and so many sorrows did succeed,

As it would be a new one now to read.

But whilst your Lustre was to us deny’d,

You scatter’d blessings every where beside.

Nature D1r 9

Nature and Fortune have so curious been,

To give you Worth, and Scene to shew it in.

But we do most admire that gen’rous Care

Which did your glorious Brother’s sufferings share;

So that he thought them in your Presence none,

And yet your suff’rings did increase his own.

O wondrous Prodigy! O Race Divine!

Who owe more to your Actions than your Line.

Your Lives exalt your Father’s deathless Name,

The blush of England, and the boast of Fame.

Pardon, Great Madam, this unfit Address,

Which does profane the Glory ’twould confess.

Our Crimes have banish’d us from you, and we

Were more remov’d by them than by the Sea.

Nor is it known whether we wrong’d you more

When we rebell’d, or now we do adore.

But what Guilt found, Devotion cannot miss;

And you who pardon’d that, will pardon this.

Your blest Return tells us our storms are ceas’d,

Our faults forgiven, and our stars appeas’d.

Your Mercy, which no Malice could destroy,

Shall first bestow, and then instruct, our Joy.

For bounteous Heav’n hath in your Highness sent

Our great Example, Bliss, and Ornament.

On the Death of the Illustrious Duke
of Gloucester

Great Glou’ster’s dead, and yet in this we must

Confess that angry Heaven is wise and just.

We have so long and yet so ill endur’d

The woes which our offences had procur’d,

That this new stroke would all our strength destroy,

Had we not known an interval of Joy.

And yet perhaps this stroke had been excus’d,

If we this interval had not abus’d.

D But D1v 10

But our Ingratitude and Discontent

Deserv’d to know our mercies were but lent:

And those complaints Heaven in this rigid fate

Does first chastise, and then legitimate.

By this it our Divisions does reprove,

And makes us join in grief, if not in love.

For (Glorious Youth) all Parties do agree,

As in admiring, so lamenting thee;

The Sovereign’s, Subject’s, Foreiner’s delight;

Thou wert the universal Favourite.

Not Rome’s belov’d and brave Marcellus fell

So much a Darling or a Miracle.

Though built of richest bloud and finest earth,

Thou hadst a heart more noble than thy birth:

Which by th’afflictive changes thou didst know,

Thou hadst but too much cause and time to show.

For when Fate did thy Infancy expose

To the most barbarous and stupid Foes;

Yet thou didst then so much express the Prince,

As did even them amaze, if not convince.

Nay, that loose Tyrant whom no bound confin’d,

Whom neither laws, nor oaths, nor shame could bind,

Although his Soul was than his Look more grim,

Yet thy brave Innocence half softn’d him.

And he that Worth wherein thy Soul was drest

By his ill-favour’d clemency confest;

Lessening the ill which he could not repent,

He call’d that Travel which was Banishment.

Escap’d from him, thy Trials were encreas’d;

The scene was chang’d, but not the danger ceas’d.

Thou from rough Guardians to Seducers gone,

Those made thy Temper, these thy Judgmtent known;

Whilst thou the noblest Champion wert for Truth,

Whether we view thy Courage or thy Youth.

If to foil Nature and Ambition claims

Greater reward than to encounter Flames,

All that shall know the story must allow

A Martyr’s Crown prepared for thy brow.

But D2r 11

But yet thou wert suspended from thy Throne,

Till thy Great Brother had regain’d his own:

Who though the bravest Suff’rer, yet even He

Could not at once have mist his Crown and Thee.

But as Commission’d Angels make no stay,

But having done their errand go their way:

So thy part done, not thy restored State,

The future splendour which did for thee wait,

Nor that thy Prince and Country must mourn for

Such a Support, and such a Counsellor,

Could longer keep thee from that bliss, whence thou

Look’st down with pity on Earth’s Monarchs now;

Where thy capacious Soul may quench her thirst,

And younger Brothers may inherit first.

While on our King Heav’n does this care express,

To make his Comforts safe he makes them less.

For this successful Heathens use to say,

“It is too much, (great Gods) send some allay.”

To Her Royal Highness the Dutchess of York, on her
commanding me to send her some things that I had

To you whose Dignity strikes us with aw,

And whose far greater Judgment gives us law,

(Your Mind b’ing more transcendent than your State,

For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,)

These humble Papers never durst come near,

Had not your pow’rful Word bid them appear;

In which such majesty, such sweetness dwells,

As in one act obliges, and compels.

None can dispute commands vouchsaf’d by you.

What shall my fears then and confusion do?

They must resign, and by their just pretence

Some value set on my obedience.

For in religious Duties, ’tis confest,

The most Implicite are accepted best.

If D2v 12

If on that score your Highness will excuse

This blushing tribute of an artless Muse,

She may (encourag’d by your least regard,

Which first can worth create, and then reward)

At modest distance with improved strains

That Mercy celebrate which now she gains.

But should you that severer justice use,

Which these too prompt Approches may produce,

As the swift Hinde which hath escaped long,

Believes a Vulgar shot would be a wrong;

But wounded by a Prince falls without shame,

And what in life she loses, gains in fame:

So if a Ray from you chance to be sent,

Which to consume, and not to warm, is meant;

My trembling Muse at least more nobly dies,

And falls by that a truer sacrifice.

On the Death of the Queen of Bohemia.

Although the most do with officious heat

Only adore the Living and the Great;

Yet this Queen’s Merits Fame so far hath spread,

That she rules still, though dispossest and dead.

For losing one, two other Crowns remain’d;

Over all hearts and her own griefs she reign’d.

Two Thrones so splendid, as to none are less

But to that third which she does now possess.

Her Heart and Birth Fortune so well did know,

That seeking her own fame in such a Foe,

She drest the spacious Theatre for the fight,

And the admiring World call’d to the sight:

An Army then of mighty Sorrows brought,

Who all against this single Vertue fought;

And sometimes stratagems, and sometimes blows

To her Heroick Soul they did oppose:

But at her feet their vain attempts did fall,

And she discover’d and subdu’d them all.

Till E1r 13

Till Fortune weary of her malice grew,

Became her Captive and her Trophee too:

And by too late a Tribute begg’d t’have been

Admitted subject to so brave a Queen.

But as some Hero who a field hath wone,

Viewing the things he had so greatly done;

When by his spirit’s flight he finds that he

With his own Life must buy his Victory,

He makes the slaughter’d heap that next him lies

His Funeral Pile, and then in triumph dies:

So fell this Royal Dame, with conquering spent,

And left in every breast her monument;

Wherein so high an Epitaph is writ,

As I must never dare to copy it.

But that bright Angel which did on her wait,

In fifty years contention with her fate,

And in that office did with wonder see

How great her troubles, how much greater she;

How she maintain’d her best Prerogative,

In keeping still the power to Forgive:

How high she did in her Devotion go,

And how her Condescention stoop’d as low;

With how much Glory she had ever been

A Daughter, Sister, Mother, Wife, and Queen;

Will sure employ some deathless Muse to tell

Our children this instructive Miracle,

Who may her sad Illustrious Life recite,

And after all her Wrongs may do her right.

On the 1651-09-033. of September, 1651.

As when the glorious Magazine of Light

Approches to his Canopy of Night,

He with new splendour clothes his dying Rays,

And double brightness to his Beams conveys;

And (as to brave and check his ending fate)

Puts on his highest looks in’s lowest state,

E Drest E1v 14

Drest in such terrour as to make us all

Be Anti-Persians, and adore his Fall;

Then quits the world depriving it of Day,

While every Herb and Plant does droop away:

So when our gasping English Royalty

Perceiv’d her Period was now drawing nigh,

She summons her whole strength to give one blow,

To raise her self, or pull down others too.

Big with revenge and hope she now spake more

Of terror than in many months before;

And musters her Attendants, or to save

Her from, or else attend her to, the Grave:

Yet but enjoy’d the miserable fate

Of setting Majesty, to die in State.

Unhappy Kings, who cannot keep a Throne,

Nor be so fortunate to fall alone!

Their weight sinks others: Pompey could not fly,

But half the World must bear him company;

And captiv’d Sampson could not life conclude,

Unless attended with a multitude.

Who’d trust to Greatness now, whose food is air,

Whose ruine sudden, and whose end despair?

Who would presume upon his Glorious Birth,

Or quarrel for a spacious share of Earth,

That sees such Diadems become so cheap,

And Heros tumble in a common heap?

Oh give me Vertue then, which sums up all,

And firmly stands when Crowns and Scepters fall.

To the noble Palæmon, on his incomparable Discourse
of Friendship.

We had been still undone, wrapt in disguise,

Secure, not happy; cunning, and not wise;

War had been our design, Interest our trade;

We had not dwelt in safety, but in shade;

Hadst E2r 15

Hadst thou not hung out Light more welcome far

Than wand’ring Sea-men think the Northern-star;

To shew, lest we our happiness should miss,

’Tis plac’d in Friendship, Mens and Angels bliss.

Friendship, which had a scorn or mask been made,

And still had been derided or betray’d;

At which the great Physician still had laugh’d,

The Souldier stormed, and the Gallant scoff’d;

Or worn not as a Passion, but a Plot,

At first pretended, and at last forgot;

Hadst thou not been her great Deliverer,

At first discover’d, and then rescu’d her,

And raising what rude Malice had flung down,

Unveil’d her Face, and then restor’d her Crown:

By so august an action to convince,

’Tis greater to support than be a Prince.

Oh for a Voice which loud as Thunder were,

That all Mankind thy conqu’ring truths might hear!

Sure the Litigious as amaz’d would stand,

As Fairy Knights touch’d with Cambina’s Wand,

Drawn by thy softer, and yet stronger Charms,

Nations and Armies would lay down their Arms.

And what more honour can on thee be hurl’d,

Than to protect a Vertue, save a world?

But while great Friendship thou hast copied out,

Thou’st drawn thy self so well, that we may doubt

Which most appears, thy Candour or thy Art,

Whether we owe more to thy Brain or Heart.

But this we know without thine own consent,

Thou’st rais’d thy self a glorious Monument;

Temples and Statues Time will eat away,

And Tombs (like their Inhabitants) decay;

But there Palæmon lives, and so he must

When Marbles crumble to forgotten dust.

To E2v 16

To the Right Honourable Alice Countess of Carbury,
at her coming into Wales.

As when the first day dawn’d, Man’s greedy Eye

Was apt to dwell on the bright Prodigy,

Till he might careless of his Organ grow,

And let his wonder prove his danger too:

So when our Country (which was deem’d to be

Close-mourner in its own obscurity,

And in neglected Chaos so long lay)

Was rescu’d by your beams into a Day,

Like men into a sudden lustre brought,

We justly fear’d to gaze more than we ought.


From hence it is you lose most of your right,

Since none can pay’t, nor durst do’t if they might.

Perfection’s misery ’tis that Art and Wit,

While they would honour, do but injure it.

But as the Deity slights our Expence,

And loves Devotion more than Eloquence:

So ’tis our Confidence you are Divine,

Makes us at distance thus approch your Shrine.

And thus secur’d, to you who need no art,

I that speak least my wit may speak my heart:


Then much above all zealous injury,

Receive this tribute of our shades from me,

While your great Splendours, like eternal Spring,

To these sad Groves such a refreshment bring,

That the despised Country may be grown,

And justly too, the Envy of the Town.

That so when all Mankind at length have lost

The F1r 17

The Vertuous Grandeur which they once did boast,

Of you like Pilgrims they may here obtain

Worth to recruit the dying world again.

To Sir Edward Deering (the noble Silvander) on
his Dream and Navy, personating Orinda’s preferring
Rosania before Solomon’s Traffick to

“Then am I happier than is the King; My Merchandise does no such danger bring: The Fleet I traffick with fears no such harms, Sails in my sight, and anchors in my arms. Each new and unperceived grace Discovered in that mind and face, Each motion, smile, and look from thee Brings pearls and Ophir- gold to me.”

Thus far Sir Edw. Deering.

Sir, To be noble; when ’twas voted down,

To dare be good, though a whole Age should frown;

To live within, and from that even state

See all the under-world stoop to its fate;

To give the Law of Honour, and dispence

All that is handsome, great and worthy thence;

Are things at once your practice and your end,

And which I dare admire, but not commend.

But since t’oblige the world is your delight,

You must descend within our reach and sight:

For so Divinity must take disguise,

Lest Mortals perish with the bright surprise.

And thus your Muse (which can enough reward

All actions she vouchsafes but to regard,

And Honours gives, than Kings more permanent;

Above the reach of Acts of Parliament)

May suffer an acknowledgment from me,

For having thence receiv’d Eternity.

My thoughts with such advantage you express,

F I F1v 18

I hardly know them in this charming dress.

And had I more unkindness from my friend

Than my demerits e’re could apprehend,

Were the Fleet courted with this gale of wind,

I might be sure a rich return to find.

So when the Shepherd of his Nymph complain’d,

Apollo in his shape his Mistress gain’d:

She might have scorn’d the Swain, & found excuse;

But could not his great Oratour refuse.

But for Rosania’s Interest I should fear

It would be hard t’obtain your pardon here.

But your first Goodness will, I know, allow

That what was Bounty then, is Mercy now.

Forgiveness is the noblest Charity,

And nothing can worthy your favour be.

For you (God-like) are so much your own fate,

That what you will accept you must create.

To Mr. Henry Lawes.

Nature, which is the vast Creation’s Soul,

That steddy curious Agent in the whole,

The Art of Heaven, the Order of this Frame,

Is only Number in another name.

For as some King conqu’ring what was his own,

Hath choice of several Titles to his Crown;

So harmony on this score now, that then,

Yet still is all that takes and governs Men.

Beauty is but Composure, and we find

Content is but the Concord of the Mind,

Friendship the Unison of well-tun’d Hearts,

Honour the Chorus of the noblest parts,

And all the World on which we can reflect

Musick to th’ Ear, or to the Intellect.

If then each man a Little World must be,

How many Worlds are copied out in thee,

Who art so richly formed, so compleat

T’epi- F2r 19

T’epitomize all that is Good and Great;

Whose Stars this brave advantage did impart,

Thy Nature’s as harmonious as thy Art?

Thou dost above the Poets praises live,

Who fetch from thee th’ Eternity they give.

And as true Reason triumphs over sense,

Yet is subjected to intelligence:

So Poets on the lower World look down,

But Lawes on them; his Height is all his own.

For, like Divinity it self, his Lyre

Rewards the Wit it did at first inspire.

And thus by double right Poets allow

His and their Laurel should adorn his brow.

Live then, great Soul of Nature, to asswage

The savage dulness of this sullen Age.

Charm us to Sense; for though Experience fail

And Reason too, thy Numbers may prevail.

Then, like those Ancients, strike, and so command

All Nature to obey thy gen’rous hand.

None will resist but such who needs will be

More stupid than a Stone, a Fish, a Tree.

Be it thy care our Age to new-create:

What built a World may sure repair a State.

A Sea-Voyage from Tenby to Bristol, begun 1652-09-05Sept. 5.
sent from Bristol to Lucasia 1652-09-08Sept. 8. 1652

Hoise up the Sail, cry’d they who understand

No word that carries kindness for the Land:

Such sons of clamour, that I wonder not

They love the Sea, whom sure some Storm begot.

Had he who doubted Motion these men seen,

Or heard their tongues, he had convinced been.

For had our Bark mov’d half as fast as they,

We had not need cast Anchor by the way.

One of the rest pretending to more wit,

Some small Italian spoke, but murther’d it;

For F2v 20

For I (thanks to Saburra’s Letters) knew

How to distinguish ’twixt the false and true.

But t’oppose these as mad a thing would be

As ’tis to contradict a Presbyt’ry.

’Tis Spanish though, (quoth I) e’en what you please:

For him that spoke it ’tmight be Bread and Cheese.

So softly moves the Bark which none controuls,

As are the meetings of agreeing Souls:

And the Moon-beams did on the water play,

As if at Midnight ’twould create a Day.

The amorous Wave that shar’d in such dispence

Exprest at once delight and reverence.

Such trepidation we in Lovers spye

Under th’oppression of a Mistress eye.

But then the Wind so high did rise and roar,

Some vow’d they’d never trust the traitor more.

Behold the fate that all our Glories sweep,

Writ in the dangerous wonders of the Deep:

And yet behold Man’s easie folly more,

How soon we curse what erst we did adore.

Sure he that first himself did thus convey,

Had some strong passion that he would obey.

The Bark wrought hard, but found it was in vain

To make its party good against the Main,

Toss’d and retreated, till at last we see

She must be fast if ere she should be free.

We gravely Anchor cast, and patiently

Lie prisoners to the weather’s cruelty.

We had nor Wind nor Tyde, nor ought but Grief,

Till a kind Spring-tide was our first relief.

Then we float merrily, forgetting quite

The sad confinement of the stormy night.

E’re we had lost these thoughts, we ran aground,

And then how vain to be secure we found.

Now they were all surpriz’d. Well, if we must,

Yet none shall say that dust is gone to dust.

But we are off now, and the civil Tide

Assisted us the Tempests to out-ride.

But G1r 21

But what most pleas’d my mind upon the way,

Was the Ships posture that in Harbour lay:

Which to a rocky Grove so close were fix’d,

That the Trees branches with the Tackling mix’d.

One would have thought it was, as then it stood,

A growing Navy, or a floating Wood.

But I have done at last, and do confess

My Voyage taught me so much tediousness.

In short, the Heav’ns must needs propitious be,

Because Lucasia was concern’d in me.

Friendship’s Mystery, To my dearest Lucasia.

Come, my Lucasia, since we see

That Miracles Mens faith do move,

By wonder and by prodigy

To the dull angry world let’s prove

There’s a Religion in our Love.


For though we were design’d t’agree,

That Fate no liberty destroyes,

But our Election is as free

As Angels, who with greedy choice

Are yet determin’d to their joyes.


Our hearts are doubled by the loss,

Here Mixture is Addition grown;

We both diffuse, and both ingross:

And we whose minds are so much one,

Never, yet ever are alone.

G We G1v 22


We court our own Captivity

Than Thrones more great and innocent:

’Twere banishment to be set free,

Since we wear fetters whose intent

Not Bondage is, but Ornament.


Divided joyes are tedious found,

And griefs united easier grow:

We are our selves but by rebound,

And all our Titles shuffled so,

Both Princes, and both Subjects too.


Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid,

While they (such power in Friendship lies)

Are Altars, Priests, and Off’rings made:

And each Heart which thus kindly dies,

Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.

Content, To my dearest Lucasia.

Content, the false World’s best disguise,

The search and faction of the Wise,

Is so abstruse and hid in night,

That, like that Fairy Red-cross Knight,

Who treacherous Falshood for clear Truth had got,

Men think they have it when they have it not.


For Courts Content would gladly own,

But she ne’er dwelt about a Throne:

And G2r 23

And to be flatter’d, rich, and great,

Are things which do Mens senses cheat.

But grave Experience long since this did see,

Ambition and Content would ne’er agree.


Some vainer would Content expect

From what their bright Out-sides reflect:

But sure Content is more Divine

Than to be digg’d from Rock or Mine:

And they that know her beauties will confess,

She needs no lustre from a glittering dress.


In Mirth some place her, but she scorns

Th’assistance of such crackling thorns,

Nor owes her self to such thin sport,

That is so sharp and yet so short:

And Painters tell us they the same strokes place,

To make a laughing and a weeping face.


Others there are that place Content

In Liberty from Government:

But whomsoe’re Passions deprave,

Though free from shackles, he’s a slave.

Content and Bondage differ only then,

When we are chain’d by Vices, not by Men.


Some think the Camp Content does know,

And that she fits o’th’ Victor’s brow:

But in his Laurel there is seen

Often a Cypress-bow between.

Nor G2v 24

Nor will Content her self in that place give,

Where Noise and Tumult and Destruction live.


But yet the most Discreet believe,

The Schools this Jewel do receive,

And thus far’s true without dispute,

Knowledge is still the sweetest fruit.

But whilst men seek for Truth they lose their Peace;

And who heaps Knowledge, Sorrow doth increase.


But now some sullen Hermite smiles,

And thinks he all the World beguiles,

And that his Cell and Dish contain

What all mankind wish for in vain.

But yet his pleasure’s follow’d with a Groan,

For man was never born to be alone.


Content her self best comprehends

Betwixt two souls, and they two friends,

Whose either joyes in both are fix’d,

And multiply’d by being mix’d:

Whose minds and interests are so the same;

Their Griefs, when once imparted, lose that name.


These far remov’d from all bold noise,

And (what is worse) all hollow joyes,

Who never had a mean design,

Whose flame is serious and divine,

And calm, and even, must contented be,

For they’ve both Union and Society.

Then H1r 25


Then, my Lucasia, we who have

Whatever Love can give or crave;

Who can with pitying scorn survey

The Trifles which the most betray;

With innocence and perfect friendship fir’d

By Vertue joyn’d, and by our Choice retir’d.


Whose Mirrours are the crystal Brooks,

Or else each others Hearts and Looks;

Who cannot wish for other things

Then Privacy and Friendship brings:

Whose thoughts and persons chang’d and mixt are

Enjoy Content, or else the World hath none.

A dialogue of Absence ’twixt Lucasia and Orinda.

Set by Mr. Hen. Lawes.


Say, my Orinda, why so sad?


Absence from thee doth tear my heart;

Which, since with thine it union had,

Each parting splits.


And can we part?


Our Bodies must.


But never we:

Our Souls, without the help of Sense,

By wayes more noble and more free

Can meet, and hold intelligence.


And yet those Souls, when first they met,

Lookt out at windows through the Eyes.


But soon did such acquaintance get,

Not Fate nor Time can them surprize.


Absence will rob us of that bliss

To which this Friendship title brings:

Love’s fruits and joys are made by this

Useless as Crowns to captiv’d Kings.


Friendship’s a Science, and we know

There Contemplation’s most employ’d.

H Orin. H1v 26


Religion’s so, but practick too,

And both by niceties destroy’d.


But who ne’re parts can never meet,

And so that happiness were lost.


Thus Pain and Death are sadly sweet,

Since Health and Heav’n such price must cost.


But we shall come where no rude hand shall sever,

And there wee’l meet and part no more for ever.

To my dear Sister Mrs. C. P. on her Marriage.

We will not like those men our offerings pay

Who crown the cup, then think they crown
the day.

We make no garlands, nor an altar build,

Which help not Joy, but Ostentation yield.

Where mirth is justly grounded these wild toyes

Are but a troublesome, and empty noise.


But these shall be my great Solemnities,

Orinda’s wishes for Caßandra’s bliss.

May her Content be as unmix’d and pure

As my Affection, and like that endure;

And that strong Happiness may she still find

Not owing to her Fortune, but her Mind.


May her Content and Duty be the same,

And may she know no Grief but in the name.

May his and her Pleasure and Love be so

Involv’d and growing, that we may not know

Who most Affection or most Peace engrost;

Whose Love is strongest, or whose Bliss is most.

May H2r 27


May nothing accidental e’re appear

But what shall with new bonds their Souls endear;

And may they count the hours as they pass,

By their own Joys, and not by Sun or Glass:

While every day like this may sacred prove

To Friendship, Gratitude, and strictest Love.

To Mr. Henry Vaughan, Silurist, on his Poems.

Had I ador’d the multitude, and thence

Got an antipathy to Wit and Sense,

And hugg’d that fate in hope the World would grant

’Twas good affection to be ignorant;

Yet the least Ray of thy bright fancy seen,

I had converted, or excuseless been;

For each Birth of thy Muse to after-times

Shall expiate for all this Age’s crimes.

First shines thy Amoret, twice crown’d by thee,

Once by thy Love, next by thy Poetry:

Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence,

Truth cloth’d in Wit, and Love in Innocence.

So that the muddiest Lovers may learn here,

No Fountains can be sweet that are not clear.

There Juvenal reviv’d by thee declares

How flat man’s Joys are, and how mean his Cares;

And generously upbraids the World that they

Should such a value for their Ruine pay.

But when thy sacred Muse diverts her Quill,

The Landskip to design of Leon’s hill;

As nothing else was worthy her or thee,

So we admire almost t’Idolatry.

What Savage breast would not be rap’d to find

Such Jewels in such Cabinets enshrin’d?

Thou (fill’d with Joys too great to see or count)

Descend’st H2v 28

Descend’st from thence like Moses from the Mount,

And with a candid, yet unquestion’d aw,

Restor’st the Golden Age when Verse was Law.

Instructing us thou so secur’st thy fame,

That nothing can disturb it but my name;

Nay I have hopes that standing so near thine

’Twill lose its dross, and by degrees refine.

Live till the disabused World consent,

All Truths of Use, or Strength, or Ornament,

Are with such Harmony by thee display’d

As the whole World was first by Number made;

And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings,

Learn, there’s no pleasure but in serious things.

A retir’d Friendship, To Ardelia.

Come, my Ardelia, to this Bower,

Where kindly mingling Souls awhile

Let’s innocently spend an hour,

And at all serious follies smile.


Here is no quarrelling for Crowns,

Nor fear of changes in our Fate;

No trembling at the great ones frowns,

Nor any slavery of State.


Here’s no disguise nor treachery,

Nor any deep conceal’d design;

From Bloud and Plots this Place is free,

And calm as are those looks of thine.


Here let us sit and bless our Stars,

Who did such happy quiet give,

As I1r 29

As that remov’d from noise of Wars

In one anothers hearts we live.


Why should we entertain a fear?

Love cares not how the World is turn’d:

If crouds of dangers should appear,

Yet Friendship can be unconcern’d.


We wear about us such a charm,

No horrour can be our offence;

For mischief’s self can do no harm

To Friendship or to Innocence.


Let’s mark how soon Apollo’s beams

Command the flocks to quit their meat,

And not entreat the neighbouring streams

To quench their thirst, but cool their heat.


In such a scorching Age as this

Who would not ever seek a shade,

Deserve their Happiness to miss,

As having their own peace betray’d.


But we (of one anothers mind

Assur’d) the boisterous World disdain;

With quiet Souls and unconfin’d

Enjoy what Princes wish in vain.

I To I1v 30

To Mrs. Mary Carne, when Philaster courted her.

As some great Conqueror who knows no bounds,

But hunting Honour in a thousand wounds,

Pursues his rage, and thinks that Triumph cheap

That’s but attended with the common heap,

Till his more happy fortune doth afford

Some Royal Captive that deserv’d his sword,

And only now is of his Laurel proud,

Thinking his dang’rous valour well bestow’d;

But then retreats, and spending hate no more,

Thinks Mercy now what Courage was before:

As Cowardise in fight, so equally

He doth abhor a bloudy Victory:

So, Madam, though your Beauty were allow’d

To be severe unto the yielding Croud,

That were subdu’d e’re you an Object knew

Worthy your Conquest and your Mercy too;

Yet now ’tis gain’d, your Victory’s compleat.

Only your Clemency should be as great.

None will dispute the power of your Eyes,

That understands Philaster is their prize.

Hope not your Glory can have new access,

For all your future Trophees will grow less:

And with that Homage be you satisfi’d

From him that conquers all the World beside.

Nor let your Rigour now the Triumph blot,

And lose the honour which your Beauty got.

Be just and kind unto your Peace and Fame,

In being so to him, for they’re the same:

And live and die at once, if you would be

Nobly transmitted to Posterity.

Take heed lest in the story they peruse

A murther which no language can excuse:

But wisely spare the trouble of one frown;

Give him his happiness, and know your own.

Thus I2r 31

Thus shall you be as Honour’s self esteem’d,

Who have one Sex oblig’d, your own redeem’d,

This the Religion due unto your Shrine

Shall be as Universal, as Divine:

And that Devotion shall this blessing gain,

Which Law and Reason do attempt in vain.

The World shall join, maintaining but one strife,

Who shall most thank you for Philasters life.

To Mr. J.B. the noble Cratander, upon a Composition of
his which he was not willing to own publickly.

As when some injur’d Prince assumes Disguise,

And strives to make his Carriage sympathize,

Yet hath a great becoming Meen and Air,

Which speaks him Royal spight of all his care:

So th’ Issues of thy Soul can ne’re be hid,

And the Sun’s force may be as soon forbid

As thine obscur’d; there is no shade so great

Through which it will not dart forth light and heat.

Thus we discover thee by thy own Day,

Against thy will snatching the Cloud away.

Now the Piece shines, and though we will not say,

Parents can Souls, as Taper lights, convey;

Yet we must grant thy Soul transmitted here

In beams almost as lasting and as clear.

And that’s our highest praise, for but thy Mind,

Thy Works could never a resemblance find.

That mind whose search can Nature’s secret hand

At one great stroke discover and command,

Which cleareth times and things, before whose eyes

Nor Men nor Notions dare put on disguise.

And were all Authors now as much forgot

As prosperous Ignorance her self would plot,

Had we the rich supplies of thy own breast,

The knowing World would never miss the rest.

Men did before from Ignorance take their Fame,

But I2v 32

But Learning’s self is honour’d by thy Name.

Thou studiest not belief to introduce

Of Novelties, more fit for shew than use;

But think’st it nobler Charity t’uphold

The credit and the Beauty of the old:

And with one hand canst easily support

Learning and Law, a Temple and a Court.

And this secures me: for as we below

Valleys from Hills, Houses from Churches know,

But to their sight who stand extreamly high,

These forms will have one flat Equality:

So from a lower Soul I well might fear

A critick censure when survey’d too near;

But not from him who plac’d above the best

Lives in a height which levels the rest.

To the Excellent Mrs. Anne Owen, upon her receiving
the name of Lucasia, and adoption into our Society,
1651-12-28December 28. 1651.

We are compleat, and Fate hath now

No greater blessing to bestow:

Nay the dull World must now confess

We have all worth, all happiness.

Annals of State are trifles to our fame,

Now ’tis made sacred by Lucasia’s name.

But as though through a Burning-glass

The Sun more vigorous doth pass,

Yet still with general freedom shines;

For that contracts, but not confines:

So though by this her beams are fixed here,

Yet she diffuses glory every where.

Her Mind is so entirely bright,

The splendour would but wound our sight,

And must to some disguise submit,

Or K1r 33

Or we could never worship it.

And we by this relation are allow’d

Lustre enough to be Lucasia’s Cloud.

Nations will own us now to be

A Temple of Divinity;

And Pilgrims shall ten Ages hence

Approch our Tombs with reverence.

May then that time which did such bliss convey

Be kept by us perpetual Holy-day.

To the truly Noble Mrs. Anne Owen, on my first


As in a Triumph Conquerors admit

Their meanest Captives to attend on it,

Who, though unworthy, have the power confest,

And justifi’d the yielding of the rest:

So when the busie World (in hope t’excuse

Their own surprize) your Conquests do peruse,

And find my name, they will be apt to say,

Your charms were blinded, or else thrown away.

There is no honour got in gaining me,

Who am a prize not worth your Victory.

But this will clear you, that ’tis general,

The worst applaud what is admir’d by all.

But I have plots in’t: for the way to be

Secure of fame to all posterity,

Is to obtain the honour I pursue,

To tell the World I was subdu’d by you.

And since in you all wonders common are,

Your Votaries may in your Vertues share,

While you by noble Magick worth impart:

She that can Conquer, can reclaim a heart.

Of this Creation I shall not despair,

Since for your own sake it concerns your care.

K For K1v 34

For ’tis more honour that the World should know,

You made a noble Soul, than found it so.


Not to oblige Lucasia by my voice,

To boast my fate, or justifie my choice,

Is this design’d; but pity does engage

My Pen to rescue the declining Age.

For since ’tis grown in fashion to be bad,

And to be vain or angry, proud or mad,

(While in their Vices only Men agree)

Is thought the only modern Gallantry;

How would some brave Examples check the crimes,

And both reproch, and yet reform, the Times?

Nor can Morality it self reclaim

Th’apostate World like my Lucasia’s name:

Lucasia, whose rich Soul had it been known

In that Time th’Ancients call’d the Golden one,

When Innocence and Greatness were the same,

And Men no battels knew but in a game,

Chusing what Nature, not what Art, prefers;

Poets were Judges, Kings Philosophers;

Even then from her the Wise would copies draw,

And she to th’infant World had giv’n a Law.

That Souls were made of Number could not be

An Observation, but a Prophecy.

It meant Lucasia, whose harmonious state

The Spheres and Muses only imitate.

But as then Musick is best understood,

When every Chord’s examin’d and found good:

So what in others Judgment is and Will,

In her is the same even Reason still.

And as some Colour various seems, but yet

’Tis but our diff’rence in considering it:

So she now light, and then does light dispence,

But is one shining Orb of Excellence:

And K2r 35

And that so piercing when she Judgement takes,

She doth not search, but Intuition makes:

And her Discoveries more easie are

Than sar’s Conquest in his Pontick War.

As bright and vigorous her beams are pure,

And in their own rich candour so secure,

That had she liv’d where Legends were devised,

Rome had been just, and she been canonized.

Nay Innocence her self less clear must be,

If Innocence be any thing but she.

For Vertue’s so congenial to her mind,

That Liquid things, or Friends, are less combin’d.

So that in her that Sage his wish had seen,

And Vertue’s self had personated been.

Now as distilled Simples do agree,

And in th’Alembick lose variety;

So Vertue, though in pieces scatter’d ’twas,

Is by her Mind made one rich useful mass.

Nor doth Discretion put Religion down,

Nor hasty Zeal usurp the Judgment’s crown.

Wisdom and Friendship have one single Throne,

And make another Friendship of their own.

Each sev’ral piece darts such fierce pleasing rayes,

Poetick Lovers would but wrong in praise.

All hath proportion, all hath comliness,

And her Humility alone excess.

Her Modesty doth wrong a Worth so great,

Which Calumny her self would noblier treat:

While true to Friendship and to Nature’s trust,

To her own Merits only she’s unjust.

But as Divinity we best declare

By sounds as broken as our Notions are;

So to acknowledge such vast Eminence,

Imperfect Wonder is our Eloquence.

No Pen Lucasia’s glories can relate,

But they admire best who dare imitate.

Wiston K2v 36

Wiston Vault.

And why this Vault and Tomb? alike we must

Put off Distinction, and put on our Dust.

Nor can the stateliest fabrick help to save

From the corruptions of a common Grave;

Nor for the Resurrection more prepare,

Than if the Dust were scatter’d into air.

What then? Th’ambition’s just, say some, that we

May thus perpetuate our Memory.

Ah false vain task of Art! ah poor weak Man!

Whose Monument does more than’s Merit can:

Who by his Friends best care and love’s abus’d,

And in his very Epitaph accus’d:

For did they not suspect his Name would fall,

There would not need an Epitaph at all.

But after death too I would be alive,

And shall, if my Lucasia do, survive.

I quit these pomps of Death, and am content,

Having her heart to be my Monument:

Thought ne’re Stone to me, ’twill Stone for me prove,

By the peculiar miracles of Love.

There I’le Inscription have which no Tomb gives,

Not, “Here Orinda lies”, but, “Here she lives”.

Friendship in Embleme, or the Seal. To my dearest


The Hearts thus intermixed speak

A Love that no bold shock can break;

For joyn’d and growing both in one,

Neither can be disturb’d alone.

That L1r 37


That means a mutual Knowledge too;

For what is’t either heart can do,

Which by its panting Centinel

It does not to the other tell?


That Friendship Hearts so much refines,

It nothing but it self designs:

The hearts are free from lower ends,

For each point to the other tends.


They flame, ’tis true, and several wayes,

But still those Flames do so much raise,

That while to either they incline

They yet are noble and divine.


From smoke or hurt those Flames are free,

From grossness or mortality:

The Heart (like Moses Bush presumed)

Warm’d and enlightned, not consumed.


The Compasses that stand above

Express this great immortal Love;

For Friends, like them, can prove this true,

They are, and yet they are not, two.

L And L1v 38


And in their posture is exprest

Friendship’s exalted Interest:

Each follows where the other leans,

And what each does, this other means.


And as when one foot does stand fast,

And t’other circles seeks to cast,

The steddy part does regulate

And make the wandrer’s motion straight:


So Friends are only two in this,

T’reclaim each other when they miss:

For whosoe’re will grosly fall,

Can never be a Friend at all.


And as that useful Instrument

For Even lines was ever meant;

So Friendship from good Angels springs,

To teach the world Heroick things.


As these are found out in design

To rule and measure every Line;

So Friendship governs actions best,

Prescribing unto all the rest.


And as in Nature nothing’s set

So just as Lines in number met;

So Compasses for these b’ing made,

Do Friendship’s harmony perswade.

And L2r 39


And like to them, so Friends may own

Extension, not Division:

Their Points, like Bodies, separate;

But Head, like Souls, knows no such fate.


And as each part so well is knit,

That their Embraces ever fit:

So Friends are such by destiny,

And no third can the place supply.


There needs no Motto to the Seal:

But that we may the mind reveal

To the dull Eye, it was thought fit

That Friendship only should be writ.


But as there are Degrees of bliss,

So there’s no Friendship meant by this,

But such as will transmit to Fame

Lucasia and Orinda’s name.

In Memory of F.P. who died at Acton the 1660-05-2424. May
at 12 and 12 of Age.

If I could ever write a lasting Verse,

It should be laid, dear Saint, upon thy Herse.

But Sorrow is no Muse, and does confess

That it least can what it would most express.

Yet that I may some bounds to grief allow,

I’le try if I can weep in Numbers now.

Ah beauteous Blossom too untimely dead!

Whither? ah whither is thy sweetness fled?

Where L2v 40

Where are the charms that alwaies did arise

From the prevailing language of thy Eyes?

Where is thy beauteous and lovely meen,

And all the wonders that in thee were seen?

Alas! in vain, in vain on thee I rave;

There is no pity in the stupid Grave.

But so the Bankrupt sitting on the brim

Of those fierce billows which had ruin’d him,

Begs for his lost Estate, and does complain

To the inexorable Flouds in vain.

As well we may enquire when Roses die,

To what retirement their sweet Odours flie;

Whither their Virtues and their Blushes haste,

When the short triumph of their life is past;

Or call their perishing Beauties back with tears,

As adde one moment to thy finish’d years.

No, thou art gone, and thy presaging Mind

So thriftily thy early hours design’d,

That hasty Death was baffled in his Pride,

Since nothing of thee but thy Body dy’d.

Thy Soul was up betimes, and so concern’d

To grasp all Excellence that could be learn’d,

That finding nothing fill her thirsting here,

To the Spring-head she went to quench it there;

And so prepar’d, that being freed from sin

She quickly might become a Cherubin.

Thou wert all Soul, and through thy Eyes it shin’d:

Asham’d and angry to be so confin’d,

It long’d to be uncag’d, and thither flown

Where it might know as clearly as ’twas known.

In these vast hopes we might thy change have found,

But that Heav’n blinds whom it decrees to wound.

For Parts so soon at so sublime a pitch,

A Judgment so mature, Fancy so rich,

Never appear unto unthankful Men,

But as a Vision to be hid again.

So glorious Scenes in Masques, Spectators view

With the short pleasure of an hour or two;

But M1r 41

But that once past, the Ornaments are gone,

The Lights extinguish’d, and the Curtains drawn.

Yet all these Gifts were thy less noble part,

Nor was thy Head so worthy as thy Heart;

Where the Divine Impression shin’d so clear,

As snatch’d thee hence, and yet endear’d thee here:

For what in thee did most command our love

Was both the cause and sign of thy remove.

Such fools are we, so fatally we choose:

That what we most would keep we soonest loose.

The humble greatness of thy Pious thought,

Sweetness unforc’d, and Bashfulness untaught,

The native Candour of thine open breast,

And all the Beams wherein thy Worth was drest,

Thy Wit so bright, so piercing and immense,

Adorn’d with wise and lovely Innocence,

Might have foretold thou wert not so compleat,

But that our joy might be as short as great.

So the poor Swain beholds his ripened Corn

By some rough Wind without a Sickle torn.

Never, ah! never let sad Parents guess

At one remove of future happiness:

But reckon Children ’mong those passing joys

Which one hour gives, and the next hour destroys.

Alas! we were secure of our content;

But find too late that it was onely lent,

To be a Mirrour wherein we may see

How frail we are, how spotless we should be.

But if to thy blest Soul my grief appears,

Forgive and pity these injurious tears:

Impute them to Affections sad excess,

Which will not yield to Nature’s tenderness,

Since ’twas through dearest ties and highest trust

Continued from thy Cradle to thy Dust;

And so rewarded and confirm’d by thine,

That (wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine.

But I’le resign, and follow thee as fast

As my unhappy Minutes will make hast.

M Till M1v 42

Till when the fresh remembrances of thee

Shall be my Emblems of Mortality.

For such a loss as this (bright Soul!) is not

Ever to be repaired or forgot.

In memory of that excellent person Mrs. Mary Lloyd
of Bodidrist in Denbigh-shire, who died 1656-11-13Nov. 13.
after she came thither from Pembroke-shire.

Icannot hold, for though to write were rude,

Yet to be silent were Ingratitude,

And Folly too; for if Posterity

Should never hear of such a one as thee,

And onely know this Age’s brutish fame,

They would think Vertue nothing but a Name.

And though far abler Pens must her define,

Yet her Adoption hath engaged mine:

And I must own where Merit shines so clear,

’Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.

Sprung from an ancient and an honour’d Stem,

Who lent her lustre, and she paid it them;

Who still in great and noble things appeared,

Whom all their Country lov’d, and yet they feared.

Match’d to another good and great as they,

Who did their Country both oblige and sway.

Behold herself, who had without dispute

More then both Families could contribute.

What early Beauty Grief and Age had broke,

Her lovely Reliques and her Off-spring spoke.

She was by nature and her Parents care

A Woman long before most others are.

But yet that antedated season she

Improv’d to Vertue, not to Liberty.

For she was still in either state of life

Meek as a Virgin, Prudent as a Wife

And she well knew, although so young and fair,

Justly to mix Obedience Love and Care;

Whil’st M2r 43

Whil’st to her Children she did still appear

So wisely kind, so tenderly severe,

That they from her Rule and Example brought

A native Honour, which she stampt and taught.

Nor can a single Pen enough commend

So kind a Sister and so clear a Friend.

A Wisdom from above did her secure,

Which as ’twas peaceable, was ever pure.

And if well-order’d Commonwealths must be

Patterns for every private Family,

Her House, rul’d by her hand and by her eye,

Might be a Pattern for a Monarchy.

Solomon’s wisest Woman less could do;

She built her house, but this preserv’d hers too.

She was so pious that when she did die,

She scarce chang’d Place, I’m sure not Company.

Her Zeal was primitive and practick too;

She did believe, and pray, and read, and do.

A firm and equal Soul she had engrost,

Just ev’n to those that disoblig’d her most.

She grew to love those wrongs she did receive

For giving her the power to Forgive.

Her Alms I may admire, but not relate,

But her own “works shall praise her in the gate”.

Her Life was checquer’d with afflictive years,

And even her Comfort season’d in her Tears.

Scarce for a Husband’s loss her eyes were dried,

And that loss by her Children half supplied,

When Heav’n was pleas’d not these dear Props t’afford,

But tore most off by sickness or by sword.

She, who in them could still their Father boast,

Was a fresh Widow every Son she lost.

Litigious hands did her of Right deprive,

That after all ’twas Penance to survive.

She still these Griefs hath nobly undergone,

Which few support at all, but better none.

Such a submissive Greatness who can find?

A tender Heart with so resolv’d a Mind?

But M2v 44

But she, though sensible, was still the same,

Of a resigned Soul, untainted Fame,

Nor were her Vertues coarsly set, for she

Out-did Example in Civility.

To bestow blessings, to oblige, relieve,

Was all for which she could endure to live.

She had a joy higher in doing good,

Than they to whom the benefit accru’d.

Though none of Honour had a quicker sense,

Never had Woman more of complacence;

Yet lost it not in empty forms, but still

Her Nature noble was, her Soul gentile.

And as in Youth she did attract, (for she

The Verdure had without the Vanity)

So she in Age was mild and grave to all,

Was not morose, but was majestical.

Thus from all other Women she had skill

To draw their good, but nothing of their ill.

And since she knew the mad tumultuous World,

Saw Crowns revers’d, Temples to ruine hurl’d;

She in Retirement chose to shine and burn,

As a bright Lamp shut in some Roman Urn.

At last, when spent with sickness, grief and age,

Her Guardian Angel did her death presage:

(So that by strong impulse she chearfully

Dispensed blessings, and went home to die;

That so she might, when to that place removed,

Marry his Ashes whom she ever loved)

She dy’d, gain’d a reward, and paid a debt.

The Sun himself did never brighter set.

Happy were they that knew her and her end,

More happy they that did from her descend:

A double blessing they may hope to have,

One she convey’d to them, and one she gave.

All that are hers are therefore sure to be

Blest by Inheritance and Legacy.

A Royal Birth had less advantage been.

’Tis more to die a Saint than live a Queen.

To N1r 45

To the truly competent Judge of Honour, Lucasia, upon
a scandalous Libel made by J.J.

Honour, which differs Man from Man much more

Then Reason differ’d him from Beasts before,

Suffers this common Fate of all things good,

By the blind World to be misunderstood.

For as some Heathens did their Gods confine,

While in a Bird or Beast they made their shrine;

Depos’d their Deities to Earth, and then

Offer’d them Rites that were too low for Men:

So those who most to Honour sacrifice,

Prescribe to her a mean and weak disguise;

Imprison her to others false Applause,

And from Opinion do receive their Laws.

While that inconstant Idol they implore,

Which in one breath can murther and adore.

From hence it is that those who Honour court,

(And place her in a popular report)

Do prostitute themselves to sordid Fate,

And from their Being oft degenerate.

And thus their Tenents too are low and bad,

As if ’twere honourable to be mad:

Or that their Honour had concerned been

But to conceal, not to forbear, a sin.

But Honour is more great and more sublime,

Above the battery of Fate or Time.

We see in Beauty certain airs are found,

Which not one Grace can make, but all compound.

Honour’s to th’Mind as Beauty to the Sense,

The fair result of mixed Excellence.

As many Diamonds together lie,

And dart one lustre to amaze the Eye:

So Honour is that bright Ætherial Ray

Which many Stars doth in one light display.

But as that Beauty were as truly sweet,

N Were N1v 46

Were there no Tongue to praise, no Eye to see’t;

And ’tis the Privilege of a native Spark,

To shed a constant Splendour in the dark:

So Honour is its own Reward and End,

And satisfied within, cannot descend

To beg the suffrage of a vulgar Tongue,

Which by commending Vertue doth it wrong.

It is the Charter of a noble Action,

That the performance giveth satisfaction.

Other things are below’t; for from a Clown

Would any Conqueror receive his Crown?

’Tis restless Cowardice to be a drudge

To an uncertain and unworthy Judge.

So the Cameleon, who lives on air,

Is of all Creatures most inclin’d to fear.

But peaceable reflections on the Mind

Will in a silent shade Contentment find.

Honour keeps Court at home, and doth not fear

To be condemn’d abroad, if quitted there.

While I have this retreat, ’tis not the noise

Of Slander, though believ’d, can wrong my Joyes.

There is advantage in’t: for Gold uncoin’d

Had been unuseful, nor with glory shin’d:

This stamp’d my Innocency in the Ore,

Which was as much, but not so bright, before.

Till an Alembick wakes and outward draws,

The strength of Sweets lies sleeping in their Cause:

So this gave me an opportunity

To feed upon my own Integrity.

And though their Judgment I must still disclaim,

Who can nor give nor take away a fame:

Yet I’le appeal unto the knowing few,

Who dare be just, and rip my heart to you.

To N2r 47

To Antenor, on a Paper of mine which J.J. threatens
to publish to prejudice him.

Must then my Crimes become thy Scandal too?

Why, sure the Devil hath not much to do.

The weakness of the other Charge is clear,

When such a trifle must bring up the Rear.

But this is mad design, for who before

Lost his repute upon anothers score?

My Love and Life I must confess are thine,

But not my Errours, they are only mine.

And if my Faults must be for thine allow’d,

It will be hard to dissipate the Cloud:

For Eve’s Rebellion did not Adam blast,

Until himself forbidden Fruit did taste.

’Tis possible this Magazine of Hell

(Whose name would turn a verse into a spell,

Whose mischief is congenial to his life)

May yet enjoy an honourable Wife.

Nor let his ill be reckoned as her blame,

Nor yet my Follies blast Antenor’s name.

But if those lines a Punishment could call

Lasting and great as this dark Lanthorn’s gall;

Alone I’d court the Torments with content,

To testifie that thou art Innocent.

So if my Ink through malice prov’d a stain,

My Bloud should justly wash it off again.

But since that Mint of slander could invent

To make so dull a Ryme his Instrument,

Let Verse revenge the quarrel. But he’s worse

Then wishes, and below a Poet’s curse;

And more then this Wit knows not how to give,

Let him be still himself, and let him live.

N2 Rosania N2v 48

Rosania shadowed whilest Mrs. Mary Awbrey.

If any could my dear Rosania hate,

They only should her Character relate.

Truth shines so bright there, that an Enemy

Would be a better Oratour then I.

Love stifles Language, and I must confess,

I had said more if I had loved less.

Yet the most critical who that Face see

Will ne’re suspect a partiality.

Others by time and by degrees perswade,

But her first look doth every heart invade.

She hath a Face so eminently bright,

Would make a Lover of an Anchorite:

A Face where conquest mixt with modesty

Are both compleated in Divinity.

Not her least glance but sets a heart on fire,

And checks it if it should too much aspire.

Such is the Magick of her looks, the same

Beam doth both kindle and refine our flame.

If she doth smile, no Painter e’re would take

Another Rule when he would Mercy make.

And Heav’n to her such splendour hath allow’d,

That no one posture can her Beauty cloud:

For if she frown, none but would phansie then

Justice descended here to punish Men.

Her common looks I know not how to call

Any one Grace, they are compos’d of all.

And if we Mortals could the doctrine reach,

Her Eyes have language, and her Looks do teach.

And as in Palaces the outmost, worst

Rooms entertain our wonder at the first;

But once within the Presence-Chamber door,

We do despise what e’re we saw before:

So when you with her Mind acquaintance get,

You’l hardly think upon the Cabinet.

Her O1r 49

Her Soul, that Ray shot from the Deity,

Doth still preserve its native purity;

Which Earth can neither threaten nor allure,

Nor by false joys defile it, or obscure.

The Innocence which in her heart doth dwell,

Angels themselves can only parrallel.

More gently soft then is an Evening-shower:

And in that sweetness there is coucht a Power,

Which scorning Pride, doth think it very hard

That Modesty should need so mean a Guard.

Her Honour is protected by her Eyes,

As the old Flaming Sword kept Paradise.

Such Constancy of Temper, Truth and Law,

Guides all her actions, that the World may draw

From her one Soul the noblest Precedent

Of the most safe, wise, vertuous Government.

And as the highest Element is clear

From all the Tempests which disturb the Air:

So she above the World and its rude noise,

Above our storms a quiet Calm enjoys.

Transcendent things her noble thought sublime,

Above the faults and trifles of the Time.

Unlike those Gallants which take far less care

To have their Souls, then make their Bodies fair;

Who (sick with too much leisure) time do pass

With these two books, Pride, and a Looking-glass:

Plot to surprize Mens hearts, their pow’r to try,

And call that Love, which is meer Vanity.

But she, although the greatest Murtherer,

(For ev’ry glance commits a Massacre)

Yet glories not that slaves her power confess,

But wishes that her Monarchy were less.

And if she love, it is not thrown away,

As many do, onely to spend the day;

But her’s is serious, and enough alone

To make all Love become Religion.

And to her Friendship she so faithful is,

That ’tis her onely blot and prejudice:

O For O1v 50

For Envy’s self could never errour see

Within that Soul, ’bating her love to me.

Now as I must confess the name of Friend

To her that all the World doth comprehend

Is a most wild Ambition; so for me

To draw her picture is flat Lunacy.

Oh! I must think the rest; for who can write

Or into words confine what’s Infinite?

To the Queen of Inconstancy, Regina Collier,
in Antwerp.


Unworthy, since thou hast decreed

Thy Love and Honour both shall bleed,

My Friendship could not chuse to die

In better time or company.


What thou hast got by this Exchange

Thou wilt perceive, when the Revenge

Shall by those treacheries be made,

For which our Faith thou hast betray’d.


When thy Idolaters shall be

True to themselves, and false to thee,

Thou’lt see that in Heart-merchandise,

Value, not Number, makes the price.


Live to that day, my Innocence

Shall be my Friendship’s just defence:

For O2r 51

For this is all the World can find,

While thou wert noble, I was kind.


The desp’rate game that thou dost play

At private Ruines cannot stay;

The horrid treachery of that Face

Will sure undo its native place.


Then let the Frenchmen never fear

The victory while thou art there:

For if Sins will call Judgments down,

Thou hast enough to stock the Town.

To my Excellent Lucasia, on our Friendship.

Idid not live until this time

Crown’d my felicity,

When I could say without a crime,

I am not thine, but Thee.

This Carcass breath’d, and walkt, and slept,

So that the World believ’d

There was a Soul the Motions kept;

But they were all deceiv’d.

For as a Watch by art is wound

To motion, such was mine:

But never had Orinda found

A Soul till she found thine;

Which now inspires, cures and supplies,

And guides my darkned Breast:

For thou art all that I can prize,

My Joy, my Life, my Rest.

No O2v 52

No Bridegrooms nor Crown-conquerors mirth

To mine compar’d can be:

They have but pieces of this Earth,

I’ve all the World in thee.

Then let our Flames still light and shine,

And no false fear controul,

As innocent as our Design,

Immortal as our Soul.

Rosania’s private Marriage.

It was a wise and kind design of Fate,

That none should this day’s glory celebrate:

For ’twere in vain to keep a time which is

Above the reach of all Solemnities.

The greatest Actions pass without a noise,

And Tumults but prophane diviner Joys.

Silence with things transcendent nearest suits,

The greatest Emperours are serv’d by Mutes.

And as in ancient time the Deities

To their own Priests reveal’d no Mysteries

Until they were from all the World retir’d,

And in some Cave made fit to be inspir’d.

So when Rosania (who hath them out-vied,

And with more Justice might be Deified;

Who if she had their Rites and Altars, we

Should hardly think it were Idolatry)

Had found a breast that did deserve to be

Receptacle of her Divinity;

It was not fit the gazing World should know

When she convey’d her self to him, or how.

An Eagle safely may behold the Sun,

When weak Eyes are with too much Light undone.

Now as in Oracles were understood,

Not the Priest’s only, but the common good:

So P1r 53

So her great Soul would not imparted be,

But in design of general Charity.

She now is more diffusive than before;

And what men then admir’d, they now adore.

For this Exchange makes not her Power less,

But only fitter for the World’s Address.

May then that Mind (which if we will admit

The Universe one Soul, must sure be it)

Inform this All, (which, till she shin’d out, lay

As drowsie men do in a cloudy day)

And Honour, Vertue, Reason so dispence,

That all may owe them to her influence:

And while this Age is thus imploy’d, may she

Scatter new Blessings for Posterity.

I dare not any other wish prefer,

For only her bestowing adds to her.

And to a Soul so in her self complete

As would be wrong’d by any Epithete,

Whose splendour’s fix’d unto her chosen Sphere,

And fill’d with Love and Satisfaction there,

What can increase the Triumph, but to see

The World her Convert and her History?

Injuria Amicitiæ.

Lovely Apostate! what was my offence?

Or am I punish’d for Obedience?

Must thy strange Rigour find as strange a time?

The Act and Season are an equal Crime.

Of what thy most ingenious scorns could do

Must I be Subject and Spectator too?

Or were the Sufferings and Sins too few

To be sustain’d by me, perform’d by you?

Unless (with Nero) your uncurb’d desire

Be to survey the Rome you set on fire.

While wounded for and by your Power, I

At once your Martyr and your Prospect die.

P This P1v 54

This is my doom, and such a ridling Fate

As all impossibles doth complicate.

For Obligation here is Injury,

Constancy Crime, Friendship a Heresie.

And you appear so much on Ruine bent,

Your own destruction gives you now Content:

For our twin-Spirits did so long agree,

You must undo your self to ruine me.

And, like some Frantick Goddess, you’re inclin’d,

To raze the Temple where you are enshrin’d.

And, what’s the Miracle of Cruelty,

Kill that which gave you Immortality.

While glorious Friendship, whence your Honour

Lies gasping in the Crowd of common things;

And I’m so odious, that for being kind

Doubled and studied Murthers are design’d.

Thy sin’s all Paradox, for should’st thou be

Thy self again, th’wouldst be severe to me.

For thy Repentance coming now so late,

Would only change, and not relieve my Fate.

So dangerous is the consequence of ill,

Thy least of Crimes is to be cruel still.

For of thy Smiles I should yet more complain,

If I should live to be betray’d again.

Live then (fair Tyrant) in Security,

From both my Kindness and Revenge be free;

While I, who to the Swains had sung thy Fame,

And taught each Echo to repeat thy Name,

Will now my private Sorrow entertain,

To Rocks and Rivers, not to thee, complain.

And though before our Union cherish’d me,

’Tis now my pleasure that we disagree.

For from my Passion your last Rigour grew,

And you kill’d me because I worshipp’d you.

But my worst Vows shall be your Happiness,

And not to be disturb’d by my distress.

And though it would my sacred flames pollute,

To make my heart a scorned prostitute;

Yet P2r 55

Yet I’le adore the Author of my Death,

And kiss the Hand that robs me of my breath.

To Regina Collier, on her cruelty to Philaster.

Triumphant Queen of scorn! how ill doth sit

In all that Sweetness, such injurious Wit?

Unjust and Cruel! what can be your prize,

To make one heart a double Sacrifice?

Where such ingenious Rigour you do shew,

To break his Heart, you break his Image too;

And by a Tyranny that’s strange and new,

You murther him because he worships you.

No pride can raise you, or can make him start,

Since Love and Honour do enrich his heart.

Be Wise and Good, lest when Fate will be just,

She should o’rethrow those glories in the dust,

Rifle your Beauties, and you thus forlorn.

Make a cheap Victim to another’s scorn;

And in those Fetters which you do upbraid,

Your self a wretched Captive may be made.

Redeem the poyson’d Age, let it be seen

There’s no such freedom as to serve a Queen.

But you I see are lately Round-head grown,

And whom you vanquish you insult upon.

To Philaster, on his Melancholy for Regina.

Give over now thy tears, thou vain

And double Murtherer;

For every minute of thy pain

Wounds both thy self and her.

Then leave this dulness; for ’tis our belief,

Thy Queen must cure, or not deserve, thy Grief.

Phi- P2v 56

Philoclea’s parting.

Kinder than a condemned Man’s reprieve

Was your dear Company that bad me live.

When by Rosania’s silence I had been

The wretchedest Martyr any Age hath seen.

But as when Traytors faint upon the rack,

Tormentors strive to call their Spirits back;

Not out of kindness to preserve their breath,

But to increase the Torments of their Death:

So was I raised to this glorious state,

To make my fall the more unfortunate.

But this I know, none ever dy’d before

Upon a sadder or a nobler score.

To Rosania, now Mrs. Mountague, being with her.


As men that are with Visions grac’d

Must have all other thoughts displac’d,

And buy those short descents of Light

With loss of Sense; or Spirit’s flight:


So since thou wert my happiness,

I could not hope the rate was less;

And thus the Vision which I gain

Is short t’enjoy, and hard t’attain.


Ah then! what a poor trifle’s all

That thing which here we Pleasure call,

Since Q1r 357

Since what our very Souls hath cost

Is hardly got and quickly lost?


Yet is there Justice in the fate;

For should we dwell in blest estate,

Our Joys thereby would so inflame,

We should forget from whence we came.


If this so sad a doom can quit

Me for the follies I commit;

Let no estrangement on thy part

Adde a new ruine to my heart.


When on my self I do reflect,

I can no smile from thee expect:

But if thy Kindness hath no plea,

Some freedom grant for Charity.


Else the just World must needs deny

Our Friendship an Eternity:

This Love will ne’re that title hold;

For mine’s too hot and thine too cold.


Divided Rivers lose their name;

And so our too unequal flame

Parted, will Passion be in me,

And an Indifference in thee.

Q Thy Q1v 58


Thy absence I could easier find,

Provided thou wert well and kind,

Than such a Presence as is this,

Made up of snatches of my bliss.


So when the Earth long gasps for rain,

If she at last some few drops gain,

She is more parched than at first;

That small recruit increas’d the thirst.

To my Lucasia.

Let dull Philosophers enquire no more

In Nature’s womb, or Causes strive t’explore,

By what strange harmony and course of things

Each body to the whole a tribute brings;

What secret unions secret Neighbourings make,

And of each other how they do partake.

These are but low Experiments: but he

That Nature’s harmony intire would see,

Must search agreeing Souls, sit down and view

How sweet the mixture is, how full, how true;

By what soft touches Spirits greet and kiss,

And in each other can complete their bliss.

A wonder so sublime, it will admit

No rude Spectator to contemplate it.

The Object will refine, and he that can

Friendship revere must be a noble man.

How much above the common rate of things

Must they then be from whom this Union springs?

But what’s all this to me, who live to be

Disprover of my own Morality?

And Q2r 59

And he that knew my unimproved Soul,

Would say I meant all Friendship to controul.

But Bodies move in time, and so must Minds;

And though th’attempt no easie progress finds,

Yet quit me not, lest I should desp’rate grow,

And to such Friendship adde some Patience now.

O may good Heav’n but so much Vertue lend,

To make me fit to be Lucasia’s Friend!

But I’le forsake my self, and seek a new

Self in her breast that’s for more rich and true.

Thus the poor Bee unmark’d doth hum and flye,

And droan’d with age would unregarded dye,

Unless some lucky drop of precious Gum

Do bless the Insect with an Amber-tomb.

Then glorious in its funeral the Bee

Gets Eminence, and gets Eternity.

On Controversies in Religion.

Religion, which true Policy befriends,

Design’d by God to serve Man’s noblest ends,

Is by that old Deceiver’s subtle play

Made the chief party in its own decay,

And meets that Eagles destiny, whose breast

Felt the same shaft which his own feathers drest.

For that great Enemy of Souls perceiv’d,

The notion of a Deity was weav’d

So closely in Man’s Soul; to ruine that,

He must at once the World depopulate.

But as those Tyrants who their Wills pursue,

If they expound old Laws, need make no new:

So he advantage takes of Nature’s light,

And raises that to a bare useless height;

Or while we seek for Truth, he in the Quest

Mixes a Passion, or an Interest,

To make us lose it; that, I know not how,

’Tis not our Practice, but our Quarrel now.

As Q2v 60

As in the Moon’s Eclipse some Pagans thought

Their barbarous Clamours her deliverance wrought:

So we suppose that Truth oppressed lies,

And needs a Rescue by our Enmities.

But ’tis Injustice, and the Mind’s Disease,

To think of gaining Truth by losing Peace.

Knowledge and Love, if true, do still unite;

God’s Love and Knowledge are both Infinite.

And though indeed Truth does delight to lie

At some Remoteness from a Common Eye;

Yet ’tis not in a Thunder or a Noise,

But in soft Whispers and the stiller Voice.

Why should we then Knowledge so rudely treat,

Making our weapon what was meant our meat?

’Tis Ignorance that makes us quarrel so;

The Soul that’s dark will be contracted too.

Chimæra’s make a noise, swelling and vain,

And soon resolve to their own smoak again.

But a true Light the spirit doth dilate,

And robs it of its proud and sullen state;

Makes Love admir’d because ’tis understood,

And makes us Wise because it makes us Good.

’Tis to a right Prospect of things that we

Owe our Uprightness and our Charity.

For who resists a beam when shining bright,

Is not a Sinner of a common height.

That state’s a forfeiture, and helps are spent,

Not more a Sin, than ’tis a Punishment.

The Soul which sees things in their Native frame,

Without Opinion’s Mask or Custom’s name,

Cannot be clogg’d to Sense, or count that high

Which hath its Estimation from a Lie.

(Mean sordid things, which by mistake we prize,

And absent covet, but enjoy’d despise.)

But scorning these hath robb’d them of their art,

Either to swell or to subdue the Heart;

And learn’d that generous frame to be above

The World in hopes, below it all in love:

Touch’d R1r 61

Touch’d with Divine and Inward Life doth run,

Not resting till it hath its Centre won;

Moves steadily until it safe doth lie

I’ th’ Root of all its Immortality;

And resting here hath yet activity

To grow more like unto the Deity;

Good, Universal, Wise and Just as he,

(The same in kind, though diff’ring in degree)

Till at the last ’tis swallow’d up and grown

With God and with the whole Creation one;

It self, so small a part, i’ th’ Whole is lost,

And Generals have Particulars engrost.

That dark contracted Personality,

Like Mists before the Sun, will from it flie.

And then the Soul, one shining sphear, at length

With true Love’s wisdom fill’d and purged strength,

Beholds her highest good with open face,

And like him all the World she can embrace.

To the Honoured Lady E.C.


Ido not write to you that men may know

How much I’m honour’d that I may do so:

Nor hope (though I your rich Example give)

To write with more success than I can live,

To cure the Age; nor think I can be just,

Who only dare to write, because I must.

I’m full of you, and something must express,

To vent my wonder and your pow’r confess.

Had I ne’re heard of your Illustrious Name,

Nor known the Scotch or English ancient Fame;

Yet if your glorious Frame did but appear,

I could have soon read all your Grandeur there.

I could have seen in each majestick ray

What greatness Ancestors could e’re convey;

R And R1v 62

And in the lustre of your Eyes alone,

How near you were allied to the Throne:

Which yet doth lessen you, who cannot need

Those bright advantages which you exceed.

For you are such, that your Descent from Kings

Receives more Honour from you than it brings:

As much above their Glories as our Toil.

A Court to you were but a handsom foil.

And if we name the Stock on which you grew,

’Tis rather to do right to it than you:

For those that would your greatest splendour see,

Must read your Soul more than your Pedigree.

For as the sacred Temple had without

Beauty to feed those eyes that gaz’d about,

And yet had riches, state, and wonder more,

For those that stood within the shining door;

But in the Holy place the admitted few,

Lustre receiv’d and Inspiration too:

So though your Glories in your Face be seen,

And so much bright Instruction in your Meen;

You are not known but where you will impart

The treasures of your more illustrious Heart.

Religion all her odours sheds on you,

Who by obeying vindicate her too:

For that rich Beam of Heaven was almost

In nice Disputes and false Pretences lost;

So doubly injur’d, she could scarce subsist

Betwixt the Hypocrite and Casuist;

Till you by great Example did convince

Us of her nature and her residence,

And chose to shew her face, and ease her grief,

Less by your Arguments than by your Life;

Which, if it should be copied out, would be

A solid Body of Divinity.

Your Principle and Practice light would give

What we should do, and what we should believe:

For the extensive Knowledge you profess,

You do acquire with more ease than confess.

And R2r 63

And as by you Knowledge has thus obtain’d

To be refin’d, and then to be explain’d:

So in return she useful is to you,

In Practice and in Contemplation too.

For by the various succours she hath lent,

You act with Judgment, and think with Content.

Yet those vast Parts with such a Temper meet,

That you can lay them at Religion’s feet.

Nor is it half so bold as it is true,

That Vertue is her self oblig’d to you:

For being drest in your subduing Charms,

She conquers more than did the Roman Arms.

We see in you how much that Malice ly’d

That stuck on Goodness any sullen Pride;

And that the harshness some Professors wear

Falls to their own, and not Religion’s share.

But your bright sweetness if it but appear,

Reclaims the bad, and softens the austere.

Men talk’d of Honour too, but could not tell

What was the secret of that active spell.

That beauteous Mantle they to divers lent,

Yet wonder’d what the mighty nothing meant.

Some did confine her to a worthy Fame,

And some to Royal Parents gave her Name.

You having claim unto her either way,

By what a King could give, a world could pay,

Have a more living Honour in your breast,

Which justifies, and yet obscures the rest;

A Principle from Fame and Pomp unty’d,

So truly high that it despises Pride;

Buying good actions at the dearest rate,

Looks down on ill with as much scorn as hate;

Acts things so generous and bravely hard,

And in obliging finds so much Reward;

So Self-denying great, so firmly just,

Apt to confer, strict to preserve a Trust;

That all whose Honour would be justified,

Must by your standard have it stamp’d and tried.

But R2v 64

But your Perfection heightens others Crimes,

And you reproch while you inform the Times.

Which sad advantage you will scarce believe;

Or if you must, you do conceal and grieve.

You scorn so poor a foil as others ill,

And are Protectour to th’ unhappy still;

Yet are so tender when you see a spot,

You blush for those who for themselves could not.

You are so much above your Sex, that we

Believe your Life your greatest courtesie:

For Women boast, they have you while you live

A Pattern and a Representative.

And future Mothers who in Child-birth groan,

Shall wish for Daughters knowing you are one.

The world hath Kings whose Crowns are cemented

Or by the bloud they boast, or that they shed:

Yet these great Idols of the stooping crew

Have neither Pleasure sound, nor Honour true.

They either fight, or play; and Power court,

In trivial anger, or in cruel sport.

You, who a nobler Privilege enjoy,

(For you can save whom they can but destroy)

An Empire have where different mixtures kiss;

You’re grave, not sour, and kind, but not remiss.

Such sweetened Majesty, such humble State,

Do love and reverence at once create.

Pardon (dear Madam) these untaught Essayes,

I can admire more fitly than I praise.

Things so sublime are dimly understood,

And you are born so great, and are so good,

So much above the Honour of your Name,

And by neglect do so secure your Fame;

Whose Beauty’s such as captivates the Wise,

Yet only you of all the World despise;

That have so vast a Knowledge so subdued,

Religion so adorn’d, and so pursued;

A Wit so strong, that who would it define,

Will need one ten times more acute than mine;

Yet S1r 65

Yet rul’d so that its Vigour manag’d thus

Becomes at once graceful and generous;

Whose Honour has so delicate a Sense,

Who always pardon, never give offence;

Who needing nothing, yet to all are kind,

Who have so large a Heart, so rich a Mind;

Whose Friendship still’s of the obliging side,

And yet so free from Tyranny and Pride;

Who do in love like Jonathan descend,

And strip your self to cloath your happy friend;

Whose kindness and whose modesty is such,

T’expect so little and deserve so much;

Who have such candid worth, such dear concern,

Where we so much may love, and so much learn;

Whose every wonder though it fills and shines,

It never to an ill excess declines;

But all are found so sweetly opposite,

As are in Titians Pieces Shade and Light:

That he that would your great Description try,

Though he write well, would be as lost as I,

Who of injurious Zeal convicted stand,

To draw you with so bold and bad a hand;

But that, like other Glories, I presume

You will enlighten, where you might consume.

Parting with Lucasia, A Song.


Well, we will do that rigid thing

Which makes Spectators think we part;

Though Absence hath for none a sting

But those who keep each others heart.


And when our Sense is dispossest,

Our labouring Souls will heave and pant,

S And S1v 66

And gasp for one anothers breast,

Since their Conveyances they want.


Nay, we have felt the tedious smart

Of absent Friendship, and do know

That when we die we can but part;

And who knows what we shall do now?


Yet I must go: we will submit,

And so our own Disposers be;

For while we nobly suffer it,

We triumph o’re Necessity.


By this we shall be truly great,

If having other things o’recome,

To make our victory compleat

We can be Conquerors at home.


Nay then to meet we may conclude,

And all Obstructions overthrow,

Since we our Passion have subdu’d,

Which is the strongest thing I know.

Against Pleasure. Set by Dr. Coleman.


There’s no such thing as Pleasure here,

’Tis all a perfect Cheat,

Which S2r 67

Which does but shine and disappear,

Whose Charm is but Deceit:

The empty bribe of yielding Souls

Which first betrays, and then controuls.


’Tis true, it looks at distance fair;

But if we do approch,

The fruit of Sodom will impair,

And perish at a touch:

In Being than in Fancy less,

And we expect more than possess.


For by our Pleasures we are cloy’d,

And so Desire is done;

Or else, like Rivers, they make wide

The Channel where they run:

And either way true bliss destroys,

Making Us narrow, or our Joys.


We covet Pleasure easily,

But it not so possess;

For many things must make it be,

But one may make it less.

Nay, were our state as we could chuse it,

’Twould be consum’d by fear to lose it.


What art thou then, thou winged Air,

More weak and swift than Fame?

Whose next successor is Despair,

And its attendant Shame.

Th’Ex- S2v 68

Th’Experience-Prince then reason had,

Who said of Pleasure, “It is mad.”

A Prayer.

Eternal Reason, Glorious Majesty,

Compar’d to whom what can be said to be?

Whose Attributes are Thee, who art alone

Cause of all various things, and yet but One;

Whose Essence can no more be search’d by Man,

Then Heav’n thy Throne be grasped with a Span.

Yet if this great Creation was design’d

To several ends fitted for every kind;

Sure Man (the World’s Epitome must be

Form’d to the best, that is, to study thee.

And as our Dignity, ’tis Duty too,

Which is summ’d up in this, to know and do.

These comely rows of Creatures spell thy Name,

Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,

By thy own Chain of Causes brought to think

There must be one, then find that highest Link.

Thus all created Excellence we see

Is a resemblance faint and dark of thee.

Such shadows are produc’d by the Moon-beams

Of Trees or Houses in the running streams.

Yet by Impressions born with us we find

How good, great, just thou art, how unconfin’d.

Here we are swallowed up and gladly dwell,

Safely adoring what we cannot tell.

All we know is, thou art supremely good,

And dost delight to be so understood.

A spicy Mountain on the Universe,

On which thy richest Odours do disperse.

But as the Sea to fill a Vessel heaves

More greedily than any Cask receives,

Besieging round to find some gap in it,

Which will a new Infusion admit:

So T1r 69

So dost thou covet that thou mayst dispence

Upon the empty World thy Influence;

Lov’st to disburse thy self in kindness: Thus

The King of Kings waits to be graeicus.

On this account, O God, enlarge my heart

To entertain what thou wouldst fain impart.

Nor let that Soul, by several titles thine,

And most capacious form’d for things Divine,

(So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss,

’Tis in mistaken pantings after Bliss)

Degrade it self in sordid things delight,

Or by prophaner mixtures lose its right.

Oh! that with fixt unbroken thoughts it may

Admire the light which does obscure the day.

And since ’tis Angels work it hath to do,

May its composure be like Angels too.

When shall these clogs of Sense and Fancy break,

That I may hear the God within me speak?

When with a silent and retired art

Shall I with all this empty hurry part?

To the Still Voice above, my Soul, advance;

My light and joy plac’d in his Countenance.

By whose dispence my Soul to such frame brought,

May tame each trech’rous, fix each scat’ring thought;

With such distinctions all things here behold,

And so to separate each dross from gold,

That nothing my free Soul may satisfie,

But t’imitate, enjoy and study thee.

To Mris. M.A. upon Absence.


Tis now since I began to die

Four Months, yet still I gasping live;

Wrapp’d up in sorrow do I lie,

Hoping, yet doubting, a Reprieve.

T Adam T1v 70

Adam from Paradise expell’d

Just such a wretched Being held.


’Tis not thy Love I fear to lose,

That will in spight of absence hold;

But ’tis the benefit and use

Is lost, as in imprison’d Gold:

Which though the Sum be ne’re so great,

Enriches nothing but conceit.


What angry Star then governs me

That I must feel a double smart,

Prisoner to fate as well as thee;

Kept from thy face, link’d to thy heart?

Because my Love all love excells,

Must my Grief have no Parallels?


Sapless and dead as Winter here

I now remain, and all I see

Copies of my wild state appear,

But I am their Epitome.

Love me no more, for I am grown

Too dead and dull for thee to own.

To Mrs. Mary Awbrey.

Soul of my Soul, my joy, my crown, my Friend,

A name which all the rest doth comprehend;

How happy are we now, whose Souls are grown

By an incomparable mixture one:

Whose well-acquainted Minds are now as near

As T2r 71

As Love, or Vows, or Friendship can endear?

I have no thought but what’s to thee reveal’d,

Nor thou desire that is from me conceal’d.

Thy Heart locks up my Secrets richly set,

And my Breast is thy private Cabinet.

Thou shed’st no tear but what my moisture lent,

And if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent.

United thus, what Horrour can appear

Worthy our Sorrow, Anger, or our Fear?

Let the dull World alone to talk and fight,

And with their vast Ambitions Nature fright;

Let them despise so Innocent a flame,

While Envy, Pride and Faction play their game:

But we by Love sublim’d so high shall rise,

To pity Kings, and Conquerours despise,

Since we that Sacred Union have engrost

Which they and all the factious World have lost.

In Memory of Mr. Cartwright.

Stay, Prince of Phancie, stay, we are not fit

To welcome or admire thy Raptures yet:

Such horrid Ignorance benights the Times,

That Wit and Honour are become our Crimes.

But when those happy Pow’rs which guard thy dust

To us and to thy Mem’ry shall be just,

And by a flame from thy blest Genius lent

Rescue us from our dull Imprisonment,

Unsequester our Fancies, and create

A Worth that may upon thy Glories wait:

We then shall understand thee and descry

The splendour of restored Poetry.

Till when let no bold hand profane thy shrine,

’Tis high Wit-Treason to debase thy coin.

Mr. T2v 72

Mr. Francis Finch, the Excellent Palæmon.

This is confest Presumption, for had I

All that rich stock of Ingenuity

Which I could wish for this, yet it would be

Palæmon’s blot, a pious Injury.

But as no Votaries are scorn’d when they

The meanest Victim in Religion pay;

Not that the Pow’r they worship needs a Gum,

But that they speak their thanks for all with some:

So though the most contemptible of all

That do themselves Palæmon’s Servants call,

I know that Zeal is more than Sacrifice,

(For God did not the Widow’s Mite despise,)

And that Palæmon hath Divinity,

And Mercy is his highest property:

He that doth such transcendent Merit own,

Must have imperfect Offerings or none.

He’s one rich Lustre which doth Rayes dispense,

As Knowledge will when set in Innocence.

For Learning did select his noble breast,

Where (in her native Majesty) to rest;

Free from the Tyranny and Pride of Schools,

Who have confin’d her to Pedantick Rules;

And that gentiler Errour which does take

Offence at Learning for her Habit’s sake:

Palæmon hath redeem’d her, who may be

Esteem’d himself an University;

And yet so much a Gentleman, that he

Needs not (though he enjoys) a Pedigree.

Sure he was built and sent to let us know

What man completed could both be and do.

Freedom from Vice is in him Nature’s part,

Without the help of Discipline or Art.

He’s his own Happiness and his own Law,

Whereby he keeps Passion and Fate in awe.

Nor V1r 73

Nor was this wrought in him by Time and Growth,

His genius had anticipated both.

Had all men been Palæmons, Pride had ne’re

Taught one man Tyranny, the other Fear;

Ambition had been full as Monstrous then

As this ill World doth render Worthy men.

Had men his Spirit, they would soon forbear

Groveling for dirt, and quarreling for air.

Were his harmonious Soul diffus’d in all,

We should believe that men did never fall.

It is Palæmon’s Soul that hath engrost

Th’ingenous candour that the World hath lost;

Whose one mind seats him quiet, safe and high,

Above the reach of Time or Destiny.

’Twas he that rescu’d gasping Friendship when

The Bell toll’d for her Funeral with men:

’Twas he that made Friends more then Lovers burn,

And then made Love to sacred Friendship turn:

’Twas he turn’d Honour inward, set her free

From Titles and from Popularity.

Now fix’d to Vertue she begs Praise of none,

But’s Witness’d and Rewarded both at home.

And in his breast this Honour’s so enshrin’d,

As the old Law was in the Ark confin’d:

To which Posterity shall all consent,

And less dispute then Acts of Parliament.

He’s our Original, by whom we see

How much we fail, and what we ought to be.

But why do I to Copy him pretend?

My Rymes but libel whom they would commend.

’Tis true; but none can reach what’s set so high:

And though I miss, I’ve noble Company:

For the most happy language must confess,

It doth obscure Palæmon, not express.

V To V1v 74

To Mrs. M.A. at parting.


I Have examin’d and do find,

Of all that favour me

There’s none I grieve to leave behind

But only only thee.

To part with thee I needs must die,

Could parting sep’rate thee and I.


But neither Chance nor Complement

Did element our Love;

’Twas sacred Sympathy was lent

Us from the Quire above.

That Friendship Fortune did create,

Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.


Our chang’d and mingled Souls are grown

To such acquaintance now,

That if each would resume their own,

Alas! we know not how.

We have each other so engrost,

That each is in the Union lost.


And thus we can no Absence know,

Nor shall we be confin’d;

Our active Souls will daily go

To learn each others mind.

Nay, should we never meet to Sense,

Our Souls would hold Intelligence.

In- V2r 75


Inspired with a Flame Divine

I scorn to court a stay;

For from that noble Soul of thine

I ne’re can be away.

But I shall weep when thou dost grieve;

Nor can I die whil’st thou dost live.


By my own temper I shall guess

At thy felicity,

And only like my happiness

Because it pleaseth thee.

Our hearts at any time will tell

If thou, or I, be sick, or well.


All Honour sure I must pretend,

All that is Good or Great;

She that would be Rosania’s Friend,

Must be at least compleat.

If I have any bravery,

’Tis cause I have so much of thee.


Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie,

And all thy thoughts reveal;

Then back again with mine shall flie,

And thence to me shall steal.

Thus still to one another tend;

Such is the sacred name of “Friend”.

9. Thus V2r 76


Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow,

And teach the World new Love,

Redeem the Age and Sex, and shew

A Flame Fate dares not move:

And courting Death to be our friend,

Our Lives together too shall end.


A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb

Of such a quality,

That fighting Armies, thither come,

Shall reconciled be.

We’ll ask no Epitaph, but say

Orinda and Rosania.

To my dearest Antenor, on his Parting.

Though it be just to grieve when I must part

With him that is the Guardian of my Heart;

Yet by an happy change the loss of mine

Is with advantage paid in having thine.

And I (by that dear Guest instructed) find

Absence can do no hurt to Souls combin’d.

As we were born to love, brought to agree

By the impressions of Divine Decree:

So when united nearer we became,

It did not weaken, but encrease, our Flame.

Unlike to those who distant joys admire,

But slight them when possest of their desire.

Each of our Souls did its own temper fit,

And in the other’s Mould so fashion’d it,

That now our Inclinations both are grown,

Like to our Interests and Persons, one;

And X1r 77

And Souls whom such an Union fortifies,

Passion can ne’re destroy, nor Fate surprize.

Now as in Watches, though we do not know

When the Hand moves, we find it still doth go:

So I, by secret Sympathy inclin’d,

Will absent meet, and understand thy mind;

And thou at thy return shalt find thy Heart

Still safe, with all the love thou didst impart.

For though that treasure I have ne’re deserv’d,

It shall with strong Religion be preserv’d.

And besides this thou shalt in me survey

Thy self reflected while thou art away.

For what some forward Arts do undertake,

The Images of absent Friends to make,

And represent their actions in a Glass,

Friendship it self can only bring to pass,

That Magick which both Fate and Time beguiles,

And in a moment runs a thousand miles.

So in my Breast thy Picture drawn shall be,

My Guide, Life, Object, Friend, and Destiny:

And none shall know, though they employ their wit,

Which is the right Antenor, thou, or it.

Engraven on Mr. John Collier’s Tomb-stone at

Here what remains of him doth lie,

Who was the World’s Epitome,

Religion’s Darling, Merchants Glory,

Mens true Delight, and Vertue’s Story;

Who, though a Prisoner to the Grave,

A glorious Freedom once shall have:

Till when no Monument is fit,

But what’s beyond our love and wit.

X On X1v 78

On the little Regina Collier, on the same Tomb-stone.

Virtue’s Blossom, Beauty’s Bud,

The Pride of all that’s fair and good,

By Death’s fierce hand was snatched hence

In her state of Innocence:

Who by it this advantage gains,

Her wages got without her pains.


Let the dull brutish World that know not Love

Continue Hereticks, and disapprove

That noble Flame; but the refined know

’Tis all the Heaven we have here below.

Nature subsists by Love, and they do tie

Things to their Causes but by Sympathy.

Love chains the different Elements in one

Great Harmony, link’d to the Heav’nly Throne.

And as on Earth, so the blest Quire above

Of Saints and Angels are maintain’d by Love;

That is their Business and Felicity,

And will be so to all Eternity.

That is the Ocean, our Affections here

Are but streams borrow’d from the Fountain there.

And ’tis the noblest Argument to prove

A Beauteous mind, that it knows how to Love:

Those kind Impressions which Fate can’t controul,

Are Heaven’s mintage on a worthy Soul.

For Love is all the Arts Epitome,

And is the Sum of all Divinity.

He’s worse than Beast that cannot Love, and yet

It is not bought for Money, Pains or Wit;

For no chance or design can Spirits move,

But the Eternal destiny of Love:

And X2r 79

And when two Souls are chang’d and mixed so,

It is what they and none but they can do.

This, this is Friendship, that abstracted flame

Which groveling Mortals know not how to name.

All Love is sacred, and the Marriage-tie

Hath much of Honour and Divinity.

But Lust, Design, or some unworthy ends

May mingle there, which are despis’d by Friends.

Passion hath violent extreams, and thus

All oppositions are contiguous.

So when the end is serv’d their Love will bate,

If Friendship make it not more fortunate:

Friendship, that Love’s Elixir, that pure fire

Which burns the clearer ’cause it burns the higher.

For Love, like earthly fires (which will decay

If the material fuel be away)

Is with offensive smoke accompanied,

And by resistance only is supplied:

But Friendship, like the fiery Element,

With its own Heat and Nourishment content,

Where neither hurt, nor smoke, nor noise is made,

Scorns the assistance of a foreign aid.

Friendship (like Heraldry) is hereby known,

Richest when plainest, bravest when alone;

Calm as a Virgin, and more Innocent

Than sleeping Doves are, and as much content

As Saints in Visions; quiet as the Night,

But clear and open as the Summer’s light;

United more than Spirits Faculties,

Higher in thoughts than are the Eagle’s eyes;

What shall I say? when we true friends are grown,

W’are like —Alas, w’are like our selves alone.

The X2v 80

The Enquiry.


If we no old Historian’s name

Authentick will admit,

But think all said of Friendship’s fame

But Poetry or Wit:

Yet what’s rever’d by Minds so pure

Must be a bright Idea sure.


But as our Immortality

By inward sense we find,

Judging that if it could not be,

It would not be design’d:

So here how could such Copies fall,

If there were no Original?


But if Truth be in ancient Song,

Or Story we believe,

If the inspir’d and graver Throng

Have scorned to deceive;

There have been Hearts whose Friendship gave

Them thoughts at once both soft and brave.


Among that consecrated Few,

Some more Seraphick shade

Lend me a favourable Clew

Now mists my eyes invade.

Why, having fill’d the World with Fame,

Left you so little of your flame?

Why Y1r 81


Why is’t so difficult to see

Two Bodies and one Mind?

And why are those who else agree

So differently kind?

Hath Nature such fantastick art,

That she can vary every Heart?


Why are the bands of Friendship tied

With so remiss a knot,

That by the most it is defied,

And by the rest forgot?

Why do we step with so light sense

From Friendship to Indifference.


If Friendship Sympathy impart,

Why this ill-shuffled game,

That Heart can never meet with Heart,

Or Flame encounter Flame?

What does this Cruelty create?

Is’t the Intrigue of Love or Fate?


Had Friendship ne’re been known to Men,

(The Ghost at last confest)

The World had been a stranger then

To all that Heaven possest.

But could it all be here acquir’d,

Not Heaven it self would be desir’d.

Y To Y1v 82

To my Lucasia, in defence of declared Friendship.


Omy Lucasia, let us speak our Love,

And think not that impertinent can be,

Which to us both doth such assurance prove,

And whence we find how justly we agree.


Before we knew the treasures of our Love,

Our noble aims our joys did entertain;

And shall enjoyment nothing then improve?

’Twere best for us then to begin again.


Now we have gain’d, we must not stop, and sleep

Out all the rest of our mysterious reign:

It is as hard and glorious to keep

A victory, as it is to obtain.


Nay to what end did we once barter Minds,

Only to know and to neglect the claim?

Or (like some Wantons) our Pride pleasure finds

To throw away the thing at which we aim.


If this be all our Friendship does design,

We covet not enjoyment then, but power:

To our Opinion we our Bliss confine,

And love to have, but not to smell, the flower.

Ah! Y2r 83


Ah! then let Misers bury thus their Gold,

Who though they starve no farthing will produce:

But we lov’d to enjoy and to behold,

And sure we cannot spend our stock by use.


Think not ’tis needless to repeat desires;

The fervent Turtles alwaies court and bill,

And yet their spotless passion never tires,

But does encrease by repetition still.


Although we know we love, yet while our Soul

Is thus imprison’d by the Flesh we wear,

There’s no way left that bondage to controul,

But to convey transactions through the Ear.


Nay, though we read our passions in the Eye,

It will oblige and please to tell them too:

Such joys as these by motion multiply,

Were’t but to find that our Souls told us true.


Believe not then, that being now secure

Of either’s heart, we have no more to do:

The Spheres themselves by motion do endure,

And they move on by Circulation too.

And Y2v 84


And as a River, when it once hath paid

The tribute which it to the Ocean owes,

Stops not, but turns, and having curl’d and play’d

On its own waves, the shore it overflows.


So the Soul’s motion does not end in bliss,

But on her self she scatters and dilates,

And on the Object doubles till by this

She finds new joys which that reflux creates.


But then because it cannot all contain,

It seeks a vent by telling the glad news,

First to the Heart which did its joys obtain,

Then to the Heart which did those joys produce.


When my Soul then doth such excursions make,

Unless thy Soul delight to meet it too,

What satisfaction can it give or take,

Thou being absent at the interview?


’Tis not Distrust; for were that plea allow’d,

Letters and Visits all would useless grow:

Love’s whole expression then would be its cloud,

And it would be refin’d to nothing so.

If Z1r 85


If I distrust, ’tis my own worth for thee,

’Tis my own fitness for a love like thine;

And therefore still new evidence would see,

T’assure my wonder that thou canst be mine.


But as the Morning-Sun to drooping Flowers,

As weary Travellers a Shade do find,

As to the parched Violet Evening-showers;

Such is from thee to me a Look that’s kind.


But when that Look is drest in Words, ’tis like

The mystick pow’r of Musick’s unison;

Which when the finger doth one Viol strike,

The other’s string heaves to reflection.


Be kind to me, and just then to our love,

To which we owe our free and dear Converse;

And let not tract of Time wear or remove

It from the privilege of that Commerce.


Tyrants do banish what they can’t requite:

But let us never know such mean desires;

But to be grateful to that Love delight

Which all our joys and noble thoughts inspires.

Z A Z1v 86

A Resvery.

Achosen Privacy, a cheap Content,

And all the Peace a Friendship ever lent,

A Rock which civil Nature made a Seat,

A Willow that repulses all the heat,

The beauteous quiet of a Summer’s day,

A Brook which sobb’d aloud and ran away,

Invited my Repose, and then conspir’d

To entertain my Phancie thus retir’d.

As Lucian’s Ferry-man aloft did view

The angry World, and then laugh’d at it too:

So all its sullen Follies seem to me

But as a too-well acted Tragedy.

One dangerous Ambition doth befool,

Another Envies to see that man Rule:

One makes his Love the Parent of his Rage,

For private Friendship publickly t’engage:

And some for Conscience, some for Honour die;

And some are meanly kill’d they know not why.

More different then mens faces are their ends,

Whom yet one common Ruine can make Friends.

Death, Dust and Darkness they have only won,

And hastily unto their Periods run.

Death is a Leveller; Beauty, and Kings,

And Conquerours, and all those glorious things,

Are tumbled to their Graves in one rude heap,

Like common dust as quiet and as cheap.

At greater Changes who would wonder then,

Since Kingdoms have their Fates as well as men?

They must fall sick and die; nothing can be

In this World certain, but uncertainty.

Since Pow’r and Greatness are such slippery things,

Who’d pity Cottages, or envy Kings?

Now least of all, when, weary of deceit,

The World no longer flatters with the Great.

Though Z2r 87

Though such Confusions here below we find,

As Providence were wanton with Mankind:

Yet in this Chaos some things do send forth,

(Like Jewels in the dark) a Native worth.

He that derives his high Nobility,

Not from the mention of a Pedigree;

Who thinks it not his Praise that others know

His Ancestors were gallant long ago;

Who scorns to boast the Glories of his blood,

And thinks he can’t be great that is not good;

Who knows the World, and what we Pleasure call,

Yet cannot sell one Conscience for them all;

Who hates to hoard that Gold with an excuse,

For which he can find out a nobler use;

Who dares not keep that Life that he can spend,

To serve his God, his Country, and his Friend;

Who flattery and falsehood doth so hate,

He would not buy ten Lives at such a rate;

Whose Soul, then Diamonds more rich and clear,

Naked and open as his face doth wear;

Who dares be good alone in such a time,

When Vertue’s held and punish’d as a Crime;

Who thinks dark crooked Plots a mean defence,

And is both safe and wise in Innocence;

Who dares both fight and die, but dares not fear;

Whose only doubt is, if his cause be clear;

Whose Courage and his Justice equal worn,

Can dangers grapple, overcome and scorn,

Yet not insult upon a conquer’d foe,

But can forgive him and oblige him too;

Whose Friendship is congenial with his Soul,

Who where he gives a heart bestows it whole;

Whose other ties and Titles here do end,

Or buried or completed in the Friend;

Who ne’re resumes the Soul he once did give,

While his Friend’s Honesty and Honour live;

And if his Friend’s content could cost the price,

Would count himself a happy Sacrifice;

Whose Z2v 88

Whose happy days no Pride infects, nor can

His other Titles make him slight the man;

No dark Ambitious thoughts do cloud his brow,

Nor restless cares when to be Great, and how;

Who scorns to envy Wealth where e’re it be,

But pities such a Golden Slavery;

With no mean fawnings can the people court,

Nor wholly slight a popular report;

Whose house no Orphan groans do shake or blast,

Nor any riot help to serve his taste;

Who from the top of his Prosperities

Can take a fall, and yet without surprize;

Who with the same august and even state

Can entertain the best and worst of Fate;

Whose suffering’s sweet, if Honour once adorn it;

Who slights Revenge, yet does not fear, but scorn it;

Whose Happiness in ev’ry Fortune lives,

For that no Fortune either takes or gives;

Who no unhandsome ways can bribe his Fate,

Nay, out of Prison marches through the Gate;

Who losing all his Titles and his Pelf,

Nay, all the World, can never lose himself;

This Person shines indeed, and he that can

Be Vertuous is the great Immortal man.

A Country-life.

How Sacred and how Innocent

A Country-life appears,

How free from Tumult, Discontent,

From Flattery or Fears!

This was the first and happiest Life,

When man enjoy’d himself;

Till Pride exchanged Peace for Strife,

And Happiness for Pelf.

’Twas here the Poets were inspir’d,

Here taught the multitude;

The Aa1r 89

The brave they here with Honour fir’d,

And civiliz’d the rude.

That Golden Age did entertain

No Passion but of Love;

The thoughts of Ruling and of Gain

Did ne’re their Fancies move.

None then did envy Neighbour’s wealth,

Nor Plot to wrong his bed:

Happy in Friendship and in Health,

On Roots, not Beasts, they fed.

They knew no Law nor Physick then,

Nature was all their Wit.

And if there yet remain to men

Content, sure this is it.

What Blessings doth this World afford

To tempt or bribe desire?

Her Courtship is all Fire and Sword,

Who would not then retire?

Then welcome dearest Solitude,

My great Felicity;

Though some are pleas’d to call thee rude,

Thou art not so, but we.

Them that do covet only rest,

A Cottage will suffice:

It is not brave to be possest

Of Earth, but to despise.

Opinion is the rate of things,

From hence our Peace doth flow;

I have a better Fate then Kings,

Because I think it so.

When all the stormy World doth roar

How unconcern’d am I?

I cannot fear to tumble lower

Who never could be high.

Secure in these unenvi’d walls

I think not on the State,

And pity no mans case that falls

From his Ambition’s height.

Aa Silence Aa1v 90

Silence and Innocence are safe;

A heart that’s nobly true

At all these little Arts can laugh

That do the World subdue.

While others Revel it in State,

Here I’le contented sit,

And think I have as good a Fate

As Wealth and Pomp admit.

Let some in Courtship take delight,

And to th’ Exchange resort;

Then Revel out a Winter’s night,

Not making Love, but Sport.

These never know a noble Flame,

’Tis Lust, Scorn, or Design:

While Vanity plays all their Game,

Let Peace and Honour mine.

When the inviting Spring appears,

To Hide-parke let them go,

And hasting thence be full of fears

To lose Spring-Garden shew.

Let others (nobler) seek to gain

In Knowledge happy Fate,

And others busie them in vain

To study ways of State.

But I, resolved from within,

Confirmed from without,

In Privacy intend to spin

My future Minutes out.

And from this Hermitage of mine

I banish all wild toyes,

And nothing that is not Divine

Shall dare to tempt my Joyes.

There are below but two things good,

Friendship and Honesty,

And only those of all I would

Ask for Felicity.

In this retir’d and humble seat

Free from both War and Strife,

I Aa2r 91

I am not forc’d to make retreat

But chuse to spend my Life.

To Mrs. Wogan, my Honoured Friend, on the
Death of her Husband.

Dry up your tears, there’s enough shed by you,

And we must pay our share of Sorrows too.

It is no private loss when such men fall,

The World’s concern’d, and Grief is general.

But though of our Misfortune we complain,

To him it is injurious and vain.

For since we know his rich Integrity,

His real Sweetness, and full Harmony;

How free his heart and house were to his Friends,

Whom he obliged without Design or Ends;

How universal was his courtesie,

How clear a Soul, how even, and how high;

How much he scorn’d disguise or meaner Arts,

But with a native Honour conquer’d Hearts;

We must conclude he was a Treasure lent,

Soon weary of this sordid Tenement.

The Age and World deserv’d him not, and he

Was kindly snatch’d from future Misery.

We can scarce say he’s Dead, but gone to rest,

And left a Monument in ev’ry breast.

For you to grieve then in this sad excess,

Is not to speak your Love, but make it less.

A noble Soul no Friendship will admit,

But what’s Eternal and Divine as it.

The Soul is hid in mortal flesh we know,

And all its weaknesses must undergo,

Till by degrees it does shine forth at length,

And gathers Beauty, Purity, and Strength:

But never yet doth this Immortal Ray

Put on full splendour till it put off Clay:

So Infant Love is in the worthiest breast

By Aa2v 92

By Sense and Passion fetter’d and opprest;

But by degrees it grows still more refin’d,

And scorning clogs, only concerns the mind.

Now as the Soul you lov’d is here set free

From its material gross capacity;

Your Love should follow him now he is gone,

And quitting Passion, put Perfection on.

Such Love as this will its own good deny,

If its dear Object have Felicity.

And since we cannot his great Loss Reprieve,

Let’s not lose you in whom he still doth Live.

For while you are by Grief secluded thus,

It doth appear your Funeral to us.

In memory of the most justly honoured, Mrs.
Owen of Orielton.

As when the ancient World by Reason liv’d,

The Asian Monarchs deaths were never griev’d:

Their glorious Lives made all their Subjects call

Their Rites a Triumph, not a Funeral:

So still the Good are Princes, and their Fate

Invites us not to weep, but imitate.

Nature intends a progress of each stage

Whereby weak Man creeps to succeeding Age,

Ripens him for that Change for which he’s made,

Where th’active Soul is in her Centre staid.

And since none stript of Infancy complain,

’Cause ’tis both their necessity and gain:

So Age and Death by slow approches come,

And by that just inevitable doom

By which the Soul (her cloggy dross once gone)

Puts on Perfection, and resumes her own.

Since then we mourn a happy Soul, O why

Disturb we her with erring Piety?

Who’s so enamour’d on the beauteous Ground,

When with rich Autumn’s livery hung round,

As Bb1r 93

As to deny a Sickle to his Grain,

And not undress the teeming Earth again?

Fruits grow for use, Mankind is born to die;

And both Fates have the same necessity.

Then grieve no more, sad Relatives, but learn;

Sigh not, but profit by your just concern.

Read over her Life’s volume: wise and good,

Not ’cause she must be so, but ’cause she wou’d.

To chosen Vertue still a constant friend,

She saw the Times which chang’d, but did not mend.

And as some are so civil to the Sun,

They’d fix his beams, and make the Earth to run:

So she unmov’d beheld the angry Fate

Which tore a Church, and overthrew a State:

Still durst be Good, and own the noble Truth,

To crown her Age which had adorn’d her Youth.

Great without Pride, a Soul which still could be

Humble and high, full of calm Majesty.

She kept true state within, and could not buy

Her Satisfaction with her Charity.

Fortune or Birth ne’re rais’d her Mind, which stood

Not on her being rich, but doing good.

Oblig’d the World, but yet would scorn to be

Paid with Requitals, Thanks or Vanity.

How oft did she what all the World adore,

Make the Poor happy with her useful store?

So general was her Bounty, that she gave

Equality to all before the Grave.

By several means she different persons ty’d,

Who by her Goodness onely were ally’d.

Her Vertue was her Temper, not her Fit;

Fear’d nothing but the Crimes which some commit;

Scorn’d those dark Arts which pass for Wisdom now;

Nor to a mean ignoble thing could bow.

And her vast Prudence had no other end,

But to forgive a Foe, endear a Friend:

To use, but slight, the World; and fixt above,

Shine down in beams of Piety and Love.

Bb Why Bb1v 94

Why should we then by poor unjust complaint

Prove envious Sinners ’cause she is a Saint?

Close then the Monument; let not a Tear

That may prophane her Ashes now appear:

For her best Obsequies are that we be

Prudent and Good, Noble and Sweet, as she.

A Friend.


Love, Nature’s Plot, this great Creation’s Soul,

The Being and the Harmony of things,

Doth still preserve and propagate the whole,

From whence Mans Happiness and Safety springs:

The earliest, whitest, blessedst Times did draw

From her alone their universal Law.


Friendship’s an Abstract of this noble Flame,

’Tis Love refin’d and purg’d from all its dross,

The next to Angels Love, if not the same,

As strong as passion is, though not so gross:

It antedates a glad Eternity,

And is an Heaven in Epitome.


Nobler then Kindred or then Marriage-band,

Because more free; Wedlock-felicity

It self doth only by this Union stand,

And turns to Friendship or to Misery.

Force or Design Matches to pass may bring,

But Friendship doth from Love and Honour spring.

4. If Bb2r 95


If Souls no Sexes have, for Men t’exclude

Women from Friendship’s vast capacity,

Is a Design injurious or rude,

Onely maintain’d by partial tyranny.

Love is allow’d to us and Innocence,

And noblest Friendships do proceed from thence.


The chiefest thing in Friends is Sympathy:

There is a Secret that doth Friendship guide,

Which makes two Souls before they know agree,

Who by a thousand mixtures are ally’d,

And chang’d and lost, so that it is not known

Within which breast doth now reside their own.


Essential Honour must be in a Friend,

Not such as every breath fans to and fro;

But born within, is its own judge and end,

And dares not sin though sure that none should

Where Friendship’s spoke, Honesty’s understood;

For none can be a Friend that is not Good.


Friendship doth carry more then common trust,

And Treachery is here the greatest sin.

Secrets deposed then none ever must

Presume to open, but who put them in.

They that in one Chest lay up all their stock,

Had need be sure that none can pick the Lock.

8. A Bb2v 96


A breast too open Friendship does not love,

For that the others Trust will not conceal;

Nor one too much reserv’d can it approve,

Its own Condition this will not reveal.

We empty Passions for a double end,

To be refresh’d and guarded by a Friend.


Wisdom and Knowledge Friendship does require,

The first for Counsel, this for Company;

And though not mainly, yet we may desire

Both complaisance and Ingenuity.

Though ev’ry thing may love, yet ’tis a Rule,

He cannot be a Friend that is a Fool.


Discretion uses Parts and best knows how;

And Patience will all Qualities commend:

That serves a need best, but this doth allow

The Weaknesses and Passions of a Friend.

We are not yet come to the Quire above:

Who cannot Pardon here, can never Love.


Thick Waters shew no Images of things;

Friends are each others Mirrours, and should be

Clearer then Crystal or the Mountain Springs,

And free from Clouds, Design or Flattery.

For vulgar Souls no part of Friendship share:

Poets and Friends are born to what they are.

12. Friends Cc1r 97


Friends should observe and chide each others Faults,

To be severe then is most just & kind;

Nothing can ’scape their search who knew the

This they should give and take with equal Mind.

For Friendship, when this Freedom is deny’d,

Is like a Painter when his hands are ty’d.


A Friend should find out each Necessity,

And then unask’d reliev’t at any rate:

It is not Friendship, but Formality,

To be desir’d, for Kindness keeps no state.

Of Friends he doth the Benefactour prove,

That gives his Friend the mean’s t’ express his Love.


Absence doth not from Friendship’s right excuse:

Them who preserve each others heart and fame,

Parting can ne’re divide, it may diffuse;

As a far stretch’d out River’s still the same.

Though Presence help’d them at the first to greet,

Their Souls know now without those aids to meet.


Constant and Solid, whom no storms can shake,

Nor death unfix, a right Friend ought to be;

And if condemned to survive, doth make

No second choice, but Grief and Memory.

But Friendship’s best Fate is, when it can spend

A Life, a Fortune, all to serve a Friend.

Cc L’Accord Cc1v 98

L’Accord du Bien.


Order, by which all things are made,

And this great World’s foundation laid,

Is nothing else but Harmony,

Where different parts are brought t’agree.


As Empires are still best maintain’d

Those ways which first their Greatness gain’d:

So in this universal Frame

What made and keeps it is the same.


Thus all things unto peace do tend;

Even Discords have it for their end.

The cause why Elements do fight,

Is but their Instinct to Unite.


Musick could never please the Sense

But by United excellence:

The sweetest Note which Numbers know,

If struck alone, would tedious grow.


Man, the whole World’s Epitome,

Is by creation Harmony.

’Twas Sin first quarrell’d in his breast,

Then made him angry with the rest.

6. But Cc2r 99


But Goodness keeps that Unity,

And loves its own society

So well, that seldom we have known

One real Worth to dwell alone.


And hence it is we Friendship call

Not by one Vertue’s name, but all.

Nor is it when bad things agree

Thought Union but Conspiracy.


Nature and Grace, such enemies

That when one fell t’other did rise,

Are now by Mercy even set,

As Stars in Constellations met.


If Nature were it self a sin,

Her Author (God) had guilty been,

But Man by sin contracting stain,

Shall purg’d from that be clear again.


To prove that Nature’s excellent

Even Sin it self’s an argument:

Therefore we Nature’s stain deplore,

Because it self was pure before.

11: And Cc2v 100


And Grace destroys not, but refines,

Unveils our Reason, then it shines;

Restores what was deprest by sin,

The fainting beam of God within.


The main spring (Judgment) rectify’d,

Wi’l all the lesser Motions guide,

To spend our Labour, Love and Care,

Not as things seem, but as they are.


’Tis Fancy lost, Wit thrown away,

In trifles to imploy that Ray,

Which then doth in full lustre shine

When both Ingenious and Divine.


To Eyes by Humours vitiated

All things seem falsly coloured:

So ’tis our prejudicial thought

That makes clear Objects seem in fault.


They scarce believe united good,

By whom ’twas never understood:

They think one Grace enough for one,

And ’tis because their selves have none.

16. We Dd1r 101


We hunt Extreams, and run so fast,

We can no steddy judgment cast:

He best surveys the Circuit round

Who stands i’ th’ middle of the ground.


That happy mean would let us see

Knowledge and Meekness may agree;

And find, when each thing hath its name,

Passion and Zeal are not the same.


Who studies God doth upwards flye,

And height still lessens to our eye;

And he that knows God, soon will see

Vast cause for his Humility.


For by that search it will be known

There’s nothing but our Will our own:

And who doth so that stock imploy,

But finds more cause for Shame then Joy.


We know so little and so dark,

And so extinguish our own spark,

That he who furthest here can go,

Knows nothing as he ought to know.

Dd 21. It Dd1v 102


It will with the most Learned sute

More to enquire then dispute:

But Vapours swell within a Cloud;

’Tis Ignorance that makes us proud.


So whom their own vain Heart belies,

Like Inflammations quickly rise:

But that Soul which is truly great

Is lowest in its own conceit.


Yet while we hug our own mistake,

We Censures, but not Judgments, make,

And thence it is we cannot see

Obedience stand with Liberty.


Providence still keeps even state;

But he can best command his Fate,

Whose Art by adding his own Voice

Makes his Necessity his Choice.


Rightly to rule ones self must be

The hardest, largest Monarchy:

Whose Passions are his Masters grown,

Will be a Captive in a Throne.

26. He Dd2r 103


He most the inward freedom gains,

Who just Submissions entertains:

For while in that his Reason sways,

It is himself that he obeys.


But onely in Eternity

We can these beauteous Unions see:

For Heaven it self and Glory is

But one harmonious constant Bliss.

Invitation to the Country.

Be kind my dear Rosania, though ’tis true

Thy Friendship will become thy Penance too;

Though there be nothing can reward the pain,

Nothing to satisfie or entertain;

Though all be empty, wild, and like to me,

Who make new Troubles in my Company:

Yet is the action more obliging great;

’Tis Hardship only makes Desert complete.

But yet to prove Mixtures all things compound,

There may in this be some advantage found;

For a Retirement from the noise of Towns,

Is that for which some Kings have left their Crowns:

And Conquerours, whose Laurel prest the brow,

Have chang’d it for the quiet Myrtle-bow.

For Titles, Honours and the World’s Address,

Are things too cheap to make up Happiness:

The easie Tribute of a giddy race,

And pay’d less to the Person then the place.

So false reflected and so short content

Is that which Fortune and Opinion lent,

That who most try’d it have of Fate complain’d,

With Titles burthen’d and to greatness chain’d.

For Dd2v 104

For they alone enjoy’d what they possest,

Who relisht most and understood it best.

And yet that understanding made them know

The empty swift dispatch of all below.

So that what most can outward things endear,

Is the best means to make them disappear:

And even that Tyrant (Sense) doth these destroy,

As more officious to our Grief then Joy.

Thus all the glittering World is but a cheat,

Obtruding on our Sense things Gross for Great.

But he that can enquire and undisguise,

Will soon perceive the sting that hidden lies;

And find no Joys merit esteem but those

Whose Scene lies only at our own dispose.

Man unconcern’d without himself may be

His own both Prospect and Security.

Kings may be Slaves by their own Passions hurl’d,

But who commands himself commands the World.

A Country-life assists this study best,

Where no distractions do the Soul arrest:

There Heav’n and Earth lie open to our view,

There we search Nature and its Author too;

Possest with Freedom and a real State

Look down on Vice, and Vanity, and Fate.

There (my Rosania) will we, mingling Souls,

Pity the Folly which the World controuls:

And all those Grandeurs which the World do prize

We either can enjoy, or will despise.

In Memory of Mrs. E. H.

As some choice Plant cherish’d by Sun and Air,

And ready to requite the Gard’ner’s care,

Blossoms and flourishes, but then we find

Is made the Triumph of some ruder Wind:

So thy untimely Grave did both entomb

Thy Sweetness now, and wonders yet to come.

Hung Ee1r 105

Hung full of hopes thou sell’st a lovely prize,

Just as thou didst attract all Hearts and Eyes.

Thus we might apprehend, for had thy years

Been lengthen’d to have paid those vast arrears

The World expected, we should then conclude,

The Age of Miracles had been renew’d.

For thou already hast with ease found out

What others study with such pains and doubt;

That frame of Soul which is content alone,

And needs no Entertainment but its own.

Thy even Mind, which made thee good and great,

Was to thee both a shelter and retreat.

Of all the Tumults which this World do fill

Thou wert an unconcern’d Spectatour still:

And, were thy duty punctually supply’d,

Indifferent to all the World beside.

Thou wert made up within resolv’d and fix’d,

And wouldst not with a base Allay be mix’d;

Above the World, couldst equally despise

Both its Temptations and its Injuries;

Couldst summe up all, and find not worth desire

Those glittering Trifles which the most admire;

But with a nobler aim, and higher born,

Look down on Greatness with contempt and scorn.

Thou hadst no Arts that others this might see,

Nor lov’dst a Trumpet to thy Piety:

But silent and retir’d, calm and serene,

Stol’st to thy blessed Haven hardly seen.

It were vain to describe thee then, but now

Thy vast accession harder is to know;

How full of light, and satisfi’d thou art,

So early from this treach’rous World to part;

How pleas’d thou art reflexions now to make,

And find thou didst not things below mistake;

In how abstracted converse thou dost live,

How much thy Knowledge is intuitive;

How great and bright a glory is enjoy’d

With Angels, and with Mysteries employ’d.

Ee ’Tis Ee1v 106

’Tis sin then to lament thy Fate, but we

Should help thee to a new Eternity;

And by successive Imitation strive,

Till Time shall die, to keep thee still alive;

And (by thy great Example furnish’d) be

More apt to live then write thy Elogy.

On Rosania’s Apostacy, and Lucasia’s Friendship.

Great Soul of Friendship whither art thou fled,

Where dost thou now chuse to repose thy head?

Or art thou nothing but voice, air and name,

Found out to put Souls in pursuit of fame?

Thy flames being thought Immortal, we may doubt

Whether they e’re did burn that see them out.

Go weary’d Soul find out thy wonted rest,

In the safe Harbour of Orinda’s brest,

There all unknown Adventures thou hast found

In thy late transmigrations expound;

That so Rosania’s darkness may be known

To be her want of Lustre, not thy own.

Then to the Great Lucasia have recourse,

There gather up new excellence and force,

Till by a free unbyass’d clear Commerce,

Endearments which no Tongue can e’re rehearse,

Lucasia and Orinda shall thee give

Eternity, and make even Friendship live.

Hail Great Lucasia, thou shalt doubly shine,

What was Rosania’s own is now twice thine;

Thou saw’st Rosania’s Chariot and her flight,

And so the double portion is thy right:

Though ’twas Rosania’s Spirit be content,

Since ’twas at first from thy Orinda sent.

To Ee2r 107

To my Lady Elizabeth Boyle, Singing now affairs &c.

Subduing fair! what will you win

To use a needless Dart:

Why then so many to take in

One undefended heart?

I came expos’d to all your Charms,

’Gainst which the first half hour

I had no will to take up Armes,

And in the next no Power.

How can you chuse but win the Day,

Who can resist your Siege,

Who in one action know the way

To Vanquish and Oblige?

Your Voice which can in melting strains

Teach Beauty to be blind,

Confines me yet in stronger Chains,

By being soft and kind.

Whilst you my trivial fancy sing,

You it to wit refine,

As Leather once stamp’d by a King

Became a Current Coin.

By this my Verse is sure to gain

Eternity with men,

Which by your voice it will obtain,

Though never by my Pen.

I’d rather in your favour live

Then in a lasting name,

And much a greater rate would give

For Happiness then Fame.

Submission. Ee2v 108


Tis so, and humbly I my will resign,

Nor dare dispute with Providence Divine.

In vain, alas! we struggle with our chains,

But more entangled by the fruitless pains.

For as i’ th’ great Creation of this All,

Nothing by chance could in such order fall;

And what would single be deform’d confest,

Grows beauteous in its union with the rest:

So Providence like Wisdom we allow,

(For what created once does govern now)

And the same Fate that seems to one Reverse,

Is necessary to the Universe.

All these particular and various things,

Link’d to their Causes by such secret Springs,

Are held so fast, and govern’d by such Art,

That nothing can out of its order start.

The World’s God’s watch, where nothing is so small,

But makes a part of what composes all:

Could the least Pin be lost or else displac’d,

The World would be disorder’d and defac’d.

It beats no Pulse in vain, but keeps its time,

And undiscern’d to its own height doth climb;

Strung first, and daily wound up by his hand

Who can its motions guide and understand.

No secret cunning then nor multitude

Can Providence divert, cross or delude.

And her just full decrees are hidden things,

Which harder are to find then Births of Springs.

Yet all in various Consorts fitly found,

And by their Discords Harmony compound.

Hence is that Order, Life and Energy,

Whereby Forms are preserv’d though Matters die;

And shifting dress keep their own living state:

So that what kills this, does that propagate.

This Ff1r 109

This made the ancient Sage in Rapture cry,

That sure the world had full Eternity.

For though it self to Time and Fate submit,

He’s above both who made and governs it;

And to each Creature hath such Portion lent,

As Love and Wisdom sees convenient.

For he’s no Tyrant, nor delights to grieve

The Beings which from him alone can live.

He’s most concern’d, and hath the greatest share

In man, and therefore takes the greatest care

To make him happy, who alone can be

So by Submission and Conformity.

For why should Changes here below surprize,

When the whole World its revolution tries?

Where were our Springs, our Harvests pleasant use,

Unless Vicissitude did them produce?

Nay, what can be so wearisome a pain

As when no Alterations entertain?

To lose, to suffer, to be sick and die,

Arrest us by the same Necessity.

Nor could they trouble us, but that our mind

Hath its own glory unto dross confin’d.

For outward things remove not from their place,

Till our Souls run to beg their mean embrace;

Then doting on the choice make it our own,

By placing Trifles in th’Opinion’s Throne.

So when they are divorc’d by some new cross,

Our Souls seem widow’d by the fatal loss:

But could we keep our Grandeur and our state,

Nothing below would seem unfortunate;

But Grace and Reason, which best succours bring,

Would with advantage manage every thing;

And by right Judgment would prevent our moan

For losing that which never was our own.

For right Opinion’s like a Marble grott,

In Summer cool, and in the Winter hot;

A Principle which in each Fortune lives,

Bestowing Catholick Preservatives.

Ff ’Tis Ff1v 110

’Tis this resolves, there are no losses where

Vertue and Reason are continued there.

The meanest Soul might such a Fortune share,

But no mean Soul could so that Fortune bear.

Thus I compose my thoughts grown insolent,

As th’Irish Harper doth his Instrument;

Which if once struck doth murmur and complain,

But the next touch will silence all again.

INTERNAL ERROR. Please report to wwp@neu.edu that regMe is unmatched.2 Cor. 5. 19. God was in Christ Reconciling the
World to himself.

When God, contracted to Humanity,

Could sigh and suffer, could be sick and die;

When all the heap of Miracles combin’d

To form the greatest, which was, save Mankind:

Then God took stand in Christ, studying a way

How to repair the Ruin’d World’s decay.

His Love, Pow’r, Wisdom, must some means procure

His Mercy to advance, Justice secure:

And since Man in such Misery was hurl’d,

It cost him more to save then make the World.

Oh! what a desp’rate load of sins had we,

When God must plot for our Felicity?

When God must beg us that he may forgive,

And dye himself before Mankind could live?

And what still are we, when our King in vain

Begs his lost Rebels to be Friends again?

What flouds of Love proceed from Heaven’s smile,

At once to pardon and to reconcile?

What God himself hath made he cannot hate,

For ’tis one act to Love and to Create:

And he’s too perfect full of Majesty,

To need additions from our Misery.

He hath a Father’s, not a Tyrant’s, joy;

Shews more his Pow’r to save, then to destroy.

Did there ten thousand Worlds to ruine fall,

One Ff2r 111

One God could save, one Christ redeem them all.

Be silent then, ye narrow Souls, take heed

Lest you restrain the Mercy you will need.

But, O my Soul, from these be different,

Imitate thou a nobler Precedent:

As God with open Arms the World does woo,

Learn thou like God to be enlarged too;

As he begs thy consent to pardon thee,

Learn to submit unto thy Enemy;

As he stands ready thee to entertain,

Be thou as forward to return again;

As he was Crucify’d for and by thee,

Crucifie thou what caus’d his Agony;

And like to him be mortify’d to sin,

Die to the World as he dy’d for it then.

The World.

We falsly think it due unto our Friends,

That we should grieve for their untimely

He that surveys the World with serious eyes,

And strips her from her gross and weak disguise,

Shall find ’tis Injury to mourn their Fate;

He only dies untimely who dies late.

For if ’twere told to Children in the Womb,

To what a Stage of Mischiefs they must come;

Could they foresee with how much toil and sweat

Men court that guilded nothing, being Great;

What pains they take not to be what they seem,

Rating their bliss by others false esteem,

And sacrificing their Content, to be

Guilty of grave and serious Vanity;

How each Condition hath its proper Thorns,

And what one man admires, another scorns;

How frequently their Happiness they miss,

So far even from agreeing what it is,

That the same Person we can hardly find,

Who Ff2v 112

Who is an hour together in one mind:

Sure they would beg a Period of their breath,

And what we call their Birth would count their

Mankind is mad; for none can live alone,

Because their Joys stand by comparison:

And yet they quarrel at Society,

And strive to kill they know not whom, nor why.

We all live by Mistake, delight in Dreams,

Lost to our selves, and dwelling in Extremes;

Rejecting what we have, though ne’re so good,

And prizing what we never understood.

Compar’d t’ our boisterous inconstancy

Tempests are calm, and Discords harmony.

Hence we reverse the World, and yet do find

The God that made can hardly please our Mind.

We live by chance, and slip into Events;

Have all of Beasts except their Innocence.

The Soul, which no man’s pow’r can reach, a thing

That makes each Woman Man, each Man a King,

Doth so much lose, and from its height so fall,

That some contend to have no Soul at all.

’Tis either not observ’d, or at the best

By Passion fought withal, by Sin deprest.

Freedom of Will (God’s Image) is forgot;

And if we know it, we improve it not.

Our Thoughts, though nothing can be more our own,

Are still unguided, very seldom known.

Time ’scapes our hands as Water in a Sieve,

We come to die e’re we begin to live.

Truth, the most sutable and noble prize,

Food of our Spirits, yet neglected lies.

Errour and Shadows are our choice, and we

Owe our perdition to our own decree.

If we search Truth, we make it more obscure;

And when it shines, cannot the light endure.

For most men now, who plod, and eat, and drink,

Have nothing less their bus’ness then to think.

And those few that enquire, how small a share

Of Gg1r 113

Of Truth they find, how dark their Notions are!

That serious Evenness that calms the Breast,

And in a Tempest can bestow a Rest,

We either not attempt, or else decline,

By ev’ry trifle snatch’d from our design.

(Others he must in his deceits involve,

Who is not true unto his own Resolve.)

We govern not our selves, but loose the Reins,

Counting our Bondage to a thousand chains;

And with as many Slaveries content

As there are Tyrants ready to torment,

We live upon a Rack extended still

To one Extreme or both, but always ill.

For since our Fortune is not understood,

We suffer less from bad then from the good.

The Sting is better drest and longer lasts,

As Surfeits are more dangerous then Fasts.

And to complete the misery to us,

We see Extremes are still contiguous.

And as we run so fast from what we hate,

Like Squibs on Ropes, to know no middle state;

So outward storms strengthned by us, we find

Our Fortune as disordered as our Mind.

But that’s excus’d by this, it doth its part;

A trech’rous World befits a trech’rous Heart.

All ill’s our own, the outward storms we loath

Receive from us their Birth, their Sting, or both.

And that our Vanity be past a doubt,

’Tis one new Vanity to find it out.

Happy are they to whom God gives a Grave,

And from themselves as from his wrath doth save.

’Tis good not to be born; but if we must,

The next good is, soon to return to dust.

When th’ uncag’d Soul fled to Eternity

Shall rest, and live, and sing, and love, and see.

Here we but crawl and grovel, play and cry;

Are first our own, then others, enemy:

But there shall be defac’d both stain and score,

For Time, and Death, and Sin shall be no more.

Gg The Gg1v 114

The Soul.


How vain a thing is Man, whose noblest part,

That Soul which through the World doth rome,

Traverses Heav’n, finds out the depth of Art,

Yet is so ignorant at home?


In every Brook or Mirrour we can find

Reflections of our face to be;

But a true Optick to present our Mind

We hardly get, and darkly see.


Yet in the search after our selves we run,

Actions and Causes we survey;

And when the weary Chase is almost done,

Then from our Quest we slip away.


’Tis strange and sad, that since we do believe

We have a Soul must never die,

There are so few that can a Reason give

How it obtains that Life, or why.


I wonder not to find those that know most,

Profess so much their Ignorance;

Since in their own Souls greatest Wits are lost,

And of themselves have scarce a glance.

6. But Gg2r 115


But somewhat sure doth here obscurely lie,

That above Dross would fain advance,

And pants and catches at Eternity,

As ’twere its own Inheritance.


A Soul self-mov’d which can dilate, contract,

Pierces and judges things unseen:

But this gross heap of Matter cannot act,

Unless impulsed from within.


Distance and Quantity, to Bodies due,

The state of Souls cannot admit;

And all the Contraries which Nature knew

Meet there, nor hurt themselves, nor it.


God never Body made so bright and clean,

Which Good and Evil could discern:

What these words Honesty and Honour mean,

The Soul alone knows how to learn.


And though ’tis true she is imprison’d here,

Yet hath she Notions of her own,

Which Sense doth only jog, awake, and clear,

But cannot at the first make known.

11. The Gg2v 116


The Soul her own felicity hath laid,

And independent on the Sense,

Sees the weak terrours which the World invade

With pity or with negligence.


So unconcern’d she lives, so much above

The Rubbish of a sordid Jail,

That nothing doth her Energy improve

So much as when those structures fail.


She’s then a substance subtile, strong and pure,

So immaterial and refin’d,

As speaks her from the Body’s fate secure,

And wholly of a diff’rent kind.


Religion for reward in vain would look,

Vertue were doom’d to misery,

All actions were like bubbles in a brook,

Were’t not for Immortality.


But as that Conquerour who Millions spent

Thought it too mean to give a Mite;

So the World’s Judge can never be content

To bestow less then Infinite.

16. Treason Hh1r 117


Treason against Eternal Majesty

Must have eternal Justice too;

And since unbounded Love did satisfie,

He will unbounded Mercy shew.


It is our narrow thoughts shorten these things,

By their companion Flesh inclin’d;

Which feeling its own weakness gladly brings

The same opinion to the Mind.


We stifle our own Sun, and live in Shade;

But where its beams do once appear,

They make that person of himself afraid,

And to his own acts most severe.


For ways, to sin close, and our breasts disguise

From outward search, we soon may find:

But who can his own Soul bribe or surprise,

Or sin without a sting behind?


He that commands himself is more a Prince

Then he who Nations keeps in awe;

Who yield to all that does their Souls convince,

Shall never need another Law.

Hh Happiness. Hh1v 118


Nature courts Happiness, although it be

Unknown as the Athenian Deity.

It dwells not in Man’s Sense, yet he supplies

That want by growing fond of its disguise.

The false appearances of Joy deceive,

And seeking her unto her like we cleave.

For sinking Man hath scarce sense left to know

Whether the Plank he grasps will hold or no.

While all the business of the World is this,

To seek that Good which by mistake they miss.

And all the several Passions men express

Are but for Pleasure in a diff’rent dress.

They hope for Happiness in being Great,

Or Rich, or Lov’d, then hug their own conceit.

But the Good man can find this treasure out,

For which in vain others do dig and doubt;

And hath such secret full Content within,

Though all abroad be storms, yet he can sing.

His peace is made, all’s quiet in that place,

Where Nature’s cur’d and exercis’d by Grace.

This inward Calm prevents his Enemies,

For he can neither envy nor despise:

But in the beauty of his ordered Mind

Doth still a new rich satisfaction find.

Innocent Epicure! whose single breast

Can furnish him with a continual feast.

A Prince at home, and Scepters can refuse,

Valuing only what he cannot lose.

He studies to do good; (a man may be

Harmless for want of Opportunity:)

But he’s industrious kindness to dispence,

And therein onely covets eminence.

Others do court applause and fame, but he

Thinks all that giddy noise but Vanity.

He Hh2r 119

He takes no pains to be observ’d or seen,

While all his acts are echoed from within.

He’s still himself, when Company are gone,

Too well employ’d ever to be alone.

For studying God in all his volumes, he

Begins the business of Eternity.

And unconcern’d without, retains a power

To suck (like Bees) a sweet from ev’ry flower.

And as the Manna of the Israelites

Had several tastes to please all Appetites:

So his Contentment is that catholick food,

That makes all states seem fit as well as good.

He dares not wish, nor his own fate propound;

But, if God sends, reads Love in every wound:

And would not lose for all the joys of Sense

The glorious pleasures of Obedience.

His better part can neither change nor lose,

And all God’s will can bear, can do, can chuse.



How weak a Star doth rule Mankind,

Which owes its ruine to the same

Causes which Nature had design’d

To cherish and preserve the frame!


As Commonwealths may be secure,

And no remote Invasion dread;

Yet may a sadder fall endure

From Traitors in their bosom bred:

3. So Hh2v 120


So while we feel no violence,

And on our active Health do trust,

A secret hand doth snatch us hence,

And tumbles us into the dust.


Yet carelesly we run our race,

As if we could Death’s summons wave;

And think not on the narrow space

Between a Table and a Grave.


But since we cannot Death reprieve,

Our Souls and Fame we ought to mind,

For they our Bodies will survive;

That goes beyond, this stays behind.


If I be sure my Soul is safe,

And that my Actions will provide

My Tomb a nobler Epitaph,

Then that I onely liv’d and dy’d.


So that in various accidents

I Conscience may and Honour keep;

I with that ease and innocence

Shall die, as Infants go to sleep.

To Ii1r 121

To the Queen’s Majesty, on her late Sickness and

The publick Gladness that’s to us restor’d,

For your escape from what we so deplor’d,

Will want as well resemblance as belief,

Unless our Joy be measur’d by our Grief.

When in your Fever we with terrour saw

At once our Hopes and Happiness withdraw;

And every crisis did with jealous fear

Enquire the News we scarce durst stay to hear.

Some dying Princes have their Servants slain,

That after death they might not want a Train.

Such cruelty were here a needless sin;

For had our fatal Fears prophetick been,

Sorrow alone that service would have done,

And you by Nations had been waited on.

Your danger was in ev’ry Visage seen,

And onely yours was quiet and serene.

But all our zealous Grief had been in vain,

Had not Great Charles’s call’d you back again:

Who did your suff’rings with such pain discern,

He lost three Kingdoms once with less concern.

Lab’ring your safety he neglected his,

Nor fear’d he Death in any shape but this.

His Genius did the bold Distemper tame,

And his rich Tears quench’d the rebellious Flame.

At once the Thracian Hero lov’d and griev’d,

Till he his lost Felicity retriev’d;

And with the moving accents of his wo

His Spouse recover’d from the shades below.

So the King’s grief your threatned loss withstood,

Who mourn’d with the same fortune that he woo’d:

And to his happy Passion we have been

Now twice oblig’d for so ador’d a Queen.

But how severe a Choice had you to make,

Ii When Ii1v 122

When you must Heav’n delay, or Him forsake?

Yet since those joys you made such haste to find

Had scarce been full if he were left behind,

How well did Fate decide your inward strife,

By making him a Present of your Life?

Which rescu’d Blessing he must long enjoy,

Since our Offences could it not destroy.

For none but Death durst rival him in you;

And Death himself was baffled in it too.

Upon Mr. Abraham Cowley’s Retirement.



No, no, unfaithful World, thou hast

Too long my easie Heart betray’d,

And me too long thy Foot-ball made:

But I am wiser grown at last,

And will improve by all that I have past.

I know ’twas just I should be practis’d on;

For I was told before,

And told in sober and instructive lore,

How little all that trusted thee have won:

And yet I would make haste to be undone.

Now by my suff’ring I am better taught,

And shall no more commit that stupid fault.

Go, get some other Fool,

Whom thou mayst next cajole:

On me thy frowns thou dost in vain bestow;

For I know how

To be as coy and as reserv’d as thou.


In my remote and humble seat

Now I’m again possest

Of Ii2r 123

Of that late fugitive, my Breast,

From all thy tumults and from all thy heat

I’le find a quiet and a cool retreat;

And on the Fetters I have worn

Look with experienc’d and revengeful scorn

In this my sov’raign Privacy.

’Tis true I cannot govern thee,

But yet my self I may subdue;

And that’s the nobler Empire of the two.

If ev’ry Passion had got leave

Its satisfaction to receive,

Yet I would it a higher pleasure call,

To conquer one, then to indulge them all.


For thy inconstant Sea, no more

I’le leave that safe and solid Shore:

No, though to prosper in the cheat,

Thou shouldst my Destiny defeat,

And make me be Belov’d, or Rich, or Great:

Nor from my self shouldst me reclaim

With all the noise and all the pomp of Fame.

Judiciously I’le these despise;

Too small the Bargain, and too great the Price,

For them to cozen twice.

At length this secret I have learn’d;

Who will be happy, must be unconcern’d,

Must all their Comfort in their Bosom wear,

And seek their treasure and their power there.


No other Wealth will I aspire,

But that of Nature to admire;

Nor envy on a Laurel will bestow,

Whil’st I have any in my Garden grow.

And when I would be Great,

’Tis Ii2v 124

’Tis but ascending to a Seat

Which Nature in a lofty Rock hath built;

A Throne as free from trouble as from guilt.

Where when my Soul her wings does raise

Above what Worldlings fear or praise,

With innocent and quiet pride I’le sit,

And see the humble waves pay tribute to my feet.

O Life Divine, when free from joys diseas’d,

Not always merry, but ’tis always pleas’d!


A Heart, which is too great a thing

To be a Present for a Persian King,

Which God himself would have to be his Court,

Where Angels would officiously resort,

From its own height should much decline,

If this Converse it should resign

(Ill-natur’d World!) for thine.

Thy unwise rigour hath thy Empire lost;

It hath not onely set me free,

But it hath made me see,

They onely can of thy possession boast,

Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most.

For lo, the Man whom all Mankind admir’d,

(By ev’ry Grace adorn’d, and ev’ry Muse inspir’d)

Is now triumphantly retir’d.

The mighty Cowley this hath done,

And over thee a Parthian Conquest won:

Which future Ages shall adore,

And which in this subdues thee more

Then either Greek or Roman ever could before.

The Kk1r 125

The Irish Grey-hound.

Behold this Creature’s Form and state,

Which Nature therefore did create;

That to the World might be exprest

What meen there can be in a Beast.

And that we in this shape may find

A Lion of another kind.

For this Heroick beast does seem

In Majesty to Rival him.

And yet vouchsafes, to Man, to shew

Both service and submission too.

From whence we this distinction have,

That Beast is fierce, but this is brave.

This Dog hath so himself subdu’d,

That hunger cannot make him rude:

And his behaviour does confess

True Courage dwells with Gentleness.

With sternest Wolves he dares engage

And acts on them successful rage.

Yet too much courtesie may chance

To put him out of countenance.

When in his opposers blood,

Fortune hath made his vertue good;

This Creature from an act so brave

Grow’s not more sullen, but more grave.

Mans Guard he would be, not his sport,

Believing he hath ventur’d for’t;

But yet no blood or shed or spent

Can ever make him insolent.

Few Men of him, to do greaat things have learn’d,

And when th’ are done, to be so unconcern’d.

Kk Song. Kk1v 126


To the tune of Sommes nous pas trop heureux.


How prodigious is my fate,

Since I can’t determine clearly,

Whether you’l do more severely

Giving me your love or hate!

For if you with kindness bless me,

Since from you I soon must part;

Fortune will so dispossess me,

That your Love will break my heart.


But since Death all sorrow cures,

Might I chuse my way of dying,

I could wish the arrow flying

From Fortunes Quiver, not from yours.

For in the sad unusual story

How my wretched heart was torn,

It will more concern your glory,

I by absence fell then scorn.

A Dialogue betwixt Lucasia, and Rosania, Imitating
that of Gentle Thersis.


My Lucasi a, leave the Mountain tops,

And like a nearer air.


How shall I then forsake my Lovely Flocks

Bequeathed to my care?


Shepherdess, thy Flocks will not be less,

Although thou should’st come hither.

Luc. Kk2r 127


But I fear, the World will be severe,

Should I leave them to go thither.


O! my friend, if you on that depend,

You’l never know content.


Rather I near thee would live and dye,

Would Fortune but consent.


But did you ask leave to love me too,

That others should deprive me?


Not all Mankind, a stratagem can find

Which from that heart should drive me.


Better ’t had been, I thee had never seen,

Then that content to lose.


Such are thy Charms, I’d dwell within thine arms

Could I my station chuse.


When Life is done, the World to us is gone,

And all our cares do end.


Nay I know there’s nothing sweet below

Unless it be a Friend.


Then whilst we live, this Joy lets take and give,

Since death us soon will sever.


But I trust, when crumbled into dust,

We shall meet and love for ever.

Song to the Tune of Adieu Phillis.

Tis true, our Life is but a long disease

Made up of real pain and seeming ease.

You Stars, who these entangled fortunes give,

O tell me why

It is so hard to dye,

Yet such a task to Live?

If with some pleasure we our griefs betray,

It costs us dearer then it can repay.

For time or Fortune all things so devours;

Our hopes are crost,

Or else the object lost,

E’re we can call it ours.

An Kk2v 128

An Epitaph on my Honoured Mother-in-Law
Mrs. Phillips of Portheynon in Cardigan-shire,
who dyed 1663-01-01Jan. 1. Anno 166⅔

Reader stay, it is but just;

Thou dost not tread on common dust.

For underneath this stone does lye

One whose Name can never dye:

Who from an Honour’d Linage sprung,

Was to another matched Young;

Whose happiness she ever sought;

One blessing was, and many brought.

And to her spouse her faith did prove

By fifteen pledges of their Love.

But when by Death of him depriv’d,

An honourable Widow liv’d

Full four and twenty years, wherein

Though she had much afflicted been,

Saw many of her Children fall,

And publick Ruine threaten all.

Yet from above assisted, she

Both did and suffer’d worthily.

She to the Crown, and Church adher’d,

And in their Sorrows them rever’d,

With Piety which knew no strife,

But was as sober as her life.

A furnish’d Table, open door,

That for her Friends, this for the Poor

She kept; yet did her fortune find,

Too narrow for her nobler Mind;

Which seeking objects ro relieve,

Did food to many Orphans give,

Who in her Life no want did know,

But all the Poor are Orphans now.

Yet hold, her Fame is much too safe,

To need a written Epitaph.

Her Ll1r 129

Her Fame was so confess’d, that she

Can never here forgotten be,

Till Cardigan it self become,

To its own ruin’d heaps a Tomb.

Lucasia, Rosania, and Orinda parting at
a Fountain, 1663-07July 1663.


Here, here are our enjoyments done,

And since the Love and Grief we wear

Forbids us either word or tear,

And Art wants here expression,

See Nature furnish us with one.


The kind and mournful Nimph which here

Inhabits in her humble Cells,

No longer her own sorrow tells,

Nor for it now concern’d appears,

But for our parting sheds these tears.


Unless she may afflicted be,

Lest we should doubt her Innocence;

Since she hath lost her best pretence

Unto a matchless purity;

Our Love being clearer far then she.


Cold as the streams that from her flow

Or (if her privater recess

A greater Coldness can express)

Ll Then Ll1v 130

Then cold as those dark beds of Snow

Our hearts are at this parting blow.


But Time that has both wings and feet,

Our Suffering Minutes being spent,

Will Visit us with new Content.

And sure, if kindness be so sweet,

’Tis harder to forget then meet.


Then though the sad adieu we say,

Yet as the wine we hither bring,

Revives, and then exalts the Spring;

So let our hopes to meet allay,

The fears and Sorrows of this day.

A Farewel to Rosania.

My Dear Rosania, sometimes be so kind,

To think upon the friend thou leav’st behind,

And wish Thee here, to make my joys compleat,

Or else me there, to share thy blest Retreat.

But to the Heart which for thy Loss doth mourn,

The kindest thought is that of quick return.

To my Lady Anne Boyle, saying I look’d angrily
upon her.

Ador’d Valeria, and can you conclude,

Orinda lost in such Ingratitude?

And so mis-spell the Language of my face,

When in my heart you have so great a Place?

Ah Ll2r 131

Ah be assur’d I could no look direct

To you, not full of passion and respect.

Or if my looks have play’d that treach’rous part,

And so much mis-interpreted my heart,

I shall forgive them that one falshood, less

Than all their folly, and their ugliness,

And had much rather chuse they should appear

Always unhandsome, than once unsincere.

But I must thank your errour, which procures

Me such obliging jealousie as yours.

For at that quarrel I can ne’re repine,

Which shews your kindness, though it questions

To your Concern I pardon your distrust,

And prize your Love, ev’n when it is unjust.

On the Welch Language.

If Honour to an ancient Name be due,

Or Riches challenge it for one that’s new,

The British Language claims in either sense,

Both for its Age, and for its Opulence.

But all great things must be from us remov’d,

To be with higher reverence belov’d.

So Landskips which in Prospects distant lye,

With greater wonder draw the pleased Eye.

Is not great Troy to one dark ruine hurl’d?

Once the fam’d Scene of all the fighting world.

Where’s Athens now, to whom Rome Learning owes,

And the safe Lawrels that adorn’d her brows?

A strange reverse of Fate she did endure,

Never once greater, than she’s now obscure.

E’ne Rome her self can but some footsteps show

Of Scipio’s times, or those of Cicero.

And as the Roman and the Grecian State,

The British fell, the spoil of Time and Fate.

But though the Language hath the beauty lost,

Yet she has still some great Remains to boast.

For Ll2v 132

For ’twas in that, the sacred Bards of old,

In deathless Numbers did their thoughts unfold.

In Groves, by Rivers, and on fertile Plains,

They civiliz’d and taught the list’ning Swains;

Whilst with high raptures, and as great success,

Virtue they cloath’d in Musick’s charming dress.

This Merlin spoke, who in his gloomy Cave,

Ev’n Destiny her self seem’d to enslave.

For to his sight the future time was known,

Much better than to others is their own:

And with such state, Predictions from him fell,

As if he did Decree, and not Foretel.

This spoke King Arthur, who, if Fame be true,

Could have compell’d Mankind to speak it too.

In this once Boadicca valour taught,

And spoke more nobly than her Souldiers fought:

Tell me what Hero could do more than she,

Who fell at once for Fame and Liberty?

Nor could a greater Sacrifice belong,

Or to her Childrens, or her Countries wrong.

This spoke Caractacus, who was so brave,

That to the Roman Fortune check he gave:

And when their Yoke he could decline no more,

He it so decently and nobly wore,

That Rome her self with blushes did believe,

A Britain would the Law of Honour give;

And hastily his chains away she threw,

Lest her own Captive else should her subdue.

To the Countess of Thanet, upon her marriage.

Since you who Credit to all wonders bring,

That Lovers can believe, or Poets sing;

Whose only shape and fashion does express,

Your Vertue is your nature not your dress;

In whom the most admir’d extreams appear,

Humble and Fair, Prudent and yet sincere:

Whose Mm1r 133

Whose matchless worth transmits such splendid raies,

As those that envy it are forc’d to praise.

Since you have found such an illustrious sphere,

And are resolv’d to fix your glories there;

A heart whose bravery to his Sex secures

As much Renown as you have done to yours;

And whose perfections in obtaining you,

Are both discover’d and rewarded too;

’Twere almost equal boldness to invent

How to increase your Merit, or Content.

Yet sure the Muses somewhat have to say,

But they will send it you a better way:

The Court, which so much to your lustre owes,

Must also pay you its officious vows.

But whilst this shews respect, and those their art,

Let me too speak the language of my heart;

Whose ruder Off’rings dare approach your shrine,

For you, who merit theirs, can pardon mine.

Fortune and Virtue with such heat contend

(As once for Rome) now to make you their friend:

And you so well can this prefer to that,

As you can neither fear, nor mend your Fate:

Yet since the votes of joy from all are due,

A love like mine, must find some wishes too.

May you in this bright Constellation set,

Still shew how much the Good outshine the Great:

May you be courted with all joies of sense,

Yet place the highest in your innocence;

Whose praise may you enjoy, but not regard,

Finding within both motive and reward.

May Fortune still to your commands be just,

Yet still beneath your kindness or your trust.

May you no trouble either feel or fear,

But from your pity for what others wear;

And may the happy owner of your breast,

Still find his passion with his joys encreas’d;

Whi’st every moment your concern makes known,

And gives him too, fresh reason for his own:

Mm And Mm1v 134

And from their Parents may your Off-spring have

All that is wise and lovely, soft and brave:

Or if all wishes we in one would give,

For him, and for the world, Long may you live.


On her Son H. P. at St. Syth’s Church where her body
also lies Interred.

What on Earth deserves our trust?

Youth and Beauty both are dust.

Long we gathering are with pain,

What one moment calls again.

Seven years childless, marriage past,

A Son, a son is born at last:

So exactly lim’d and fair,

Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air,

As a long life promised,

Yet, in less than six weeks dead.

Too promising, too great a mind

In so small room to be confin’d:

Therefore, as fit in Heav’n to dwell,

He quickly broke the Prison shell.

So the subtle Alchimist,

Can’t with Hermes Seal resist

The powerful spirit’s subtler flight,

But t’will bid him long good night.

And so the Sun if it arise

Half so glorious as his Eyes,

Like this Infant, takes a shrowd,

Buried in a morning Cloud.

On Mm2r 135

On the death of my Lord Rich, only Son to the Earl
of Warwick
, who dyed of the small Pox,

Have not so many lives of late

Suffis’d to quench the greedy thirst of Fate?

Though to encrease the mournful purple Flood.

As well as Noble, she drank Royal Blood;

That not content, against us to engage

Our own wild fury, and Usurpers rage;

By sickness now, when all that storm is past,

She strives to hew our Heros down as fast?

And by the Prey she chuses, shews her Aim

Is to extinguish all the English Fame.

Else had this generous Youth we now have lost,

Been still his Friends delight, and Country’s boast,

And higher rais’d the Illustrious Name he bore,

Than all our Chronicles had done before.

Had Death consider’d e’re he struck this blow,

How many noble hopes ’twould overthrow;

The Genius of his House (who did complain

That all her Worthies now dy’d o’re again)

His flourishing, and yet untainted years;

His Fathers anguish, and his Mothers tears;

Sure he had been perswaded to relent,

Nor had for so much early sweetness, sent

That fierce Disease, which knows not how to spare

The Young, the Great, the Knowing, or the Fair.

But we as well might flatter every wind,

And court the Tempests to be less unkind,

As hope from churlish Death to snatch his Prey,

Who is as furious and as deaf as they;

And who hath cruelly surpriz’d in him,

His Parents joy, and all the World’s esteem.

Say treacherous hopes that whisper in our ear,

Still to expect some steady comfort here,

And Mm2v 136

And though we oft discover all your Arts,

Would still betray our disappointed Hearts;

What new delusion can you now prepare,

Since this pale object shews how false you are?

’Twill fully answer all you have to plead,

If we reply, Great Warwick’s Heir is dead:

Blush humane Hopes and Joies, and then be all

In solemn mourning at this Funeral.

For since such expectations brittle prove,

What can we safely either Hope or Love?

The Virgin.

The things that make a Virgin please,

She that seeks, will find them these;

A Beauty, not to Art in debt,

Rather agreeable than great;

An Eye, wherein at once do meet,

The beams of kindness, and of wit;

An undissembled Innocence,

Apt not to give, nor take offence:

A Conversation, at once, free

From Passion, and from Subtlety;

A Face that’s modest, yet serene,

A sober, and yet lively Meen;

The vertue which does her adorn,

By honour guarded, not by scorn;

With such wise lowliness indu’d,

As never can be mean, or rude;

That prudent negligence enrich,

And Time’s her silence and her speech;

Whose equal mind, does alwaies move,

Neither a foe, nor slave to Love;

And whose Religion’s strong and plain,

Not superstitious, nor prophane.

Upon Nn1r 137

Upon the graving of her Name upon a Tree in
Barnelmes Walks.

Alas how barbarous are we,

Thus to reward the courteous Tree,

Who its broad shade affording us,

Deserves not to be wounded thus;

See how the Yielding Bark complies

With our ungrateful injuries.

And seeing this, say how much then

Trees are more generous then Men,

Who by a Nobleness so pure

Can first oblige and then endure.

To my dearest friend Mrs. A. Owen, upon her
greatest loss.

As when two sister rivelets who crept

From that dark bed of snow wherein they slept,

By private distant currents under ground

Have by Mœanders eithers bosom found,

They sob aloud and break down what withstood,

Swoln by their own embraces to a flood:

So when my simpathy for thy dear grief

Had brought me near, in hope to give relief,

I found my sorrow heightned when so joyn’d,

And thine increas’d by being so combin’d,

Since to the bleeding hopes of many years,

I could contribute nothing but my tears;

Fears which to thy sad fate were justly due,

And to his loss, by all who that loss knew;

For thy Charistus was so much above

The Eloquence of all our grief and love,

That it would be Injurious to his Hearse

To think to crowd his worth into a verse.

Nn Could Nn1v 138

Could I (by miracle) such praise indite,

Who with more ease and Justice weep then write,

He was all that which History can boast,

Or bolder Poetry had ere engross’d.

So pious, just, noble, discreet, and kind,

Their best Idea knew not how to find.

His strong Religion not on trifles spent,

Was useful, firm, early, and eminent,

Never betray’d to indigested heat,

Nor yet entic’d from what was safely great.

And this so soon, as if he had foresight,

He must begin betimes whose noon is night.

His vertue was his choice, and not his chance,

Not mov’d by Age, nor born of Ignorance.

He well knew whom, and what he did believe,

And for his Faith did not dispute, but live,

And liv’d just like his infant Innocence,

But that was crown’d with free obedience.

How did he scorn design, and equally

How much abhorr’d this Ages vanity!

He neither lik’d it’s tumults, nor its Joys,

Slighted alike Earths pleasures, and her noise.

But unconcern’d in both, in his own mind

Alone could power and satisfaction find.

A treasury of merit there lay hid,

Which though he ne’re confes’d, his actions did.

His modesty unto his vertue lent

At once a shadow and an ornament.

But what could hide those filial rites he paid;

How much he lov’d how prudently obey’d?

How as a Brother did he justly share

His kind concern betwixt respect and care?

And to a wife how fully did he prove

How wisely he could judge, how fondly love?

As Husbands serious, but as Lovers kind

He valu’d all of her, but lov’d her mind;

And with a passion made this Riddle true,

’Twas ever perfect, and yet still it grew.

Such Nn2r 139

Such handsome thoughts his Breast did ever fill,

He durst do any thing, but what was ill;

Unlike those Gallants who so use their time,

As oppertunity to act their crime,

And lost in wine or vanity when young

They dye too soon, because they liv’d too long:

But he has hallowed so his early death,

’Tis almost shame to draw a longer breath.

I can no more, they that can must have learn’d

To be more eloquent, and less concern’d.

But all that Noble Justice to his Name

His own good Angel will commit to Fame.

Could grief recall this happiness again,

Of thy dear sorrow I would nere complain,

But such an opportunity would take

To grieve an useless life out for thy sake.

But since it cannot, I must pray thee live,

That so much of Charistus may survive,

And that thou do no act so harsh to Love,

As that his glory should thy sorrow move:

Endure thy loss till Heav’n shall it repay,

Upon thy last and glorious wedding-day,

When thou shalt know him more, and quickly find

The love increas’d by being so refin’d,

And there possess him without parting fears,

As I my friendship free from future tears.

Orinda to Lucasia parting 1661-10October 1661 at London.

Adieu dear object of my Love’s excess,

And with thee all my hopes of happiness,

With the same fervent and unchanged heart

Which did it’s whole self once to thee impart,

(And which though fortune has so sorely bruis’d,

Would suffer more, to be from this excus’d)

I to resign thy dear Converse submit,

Since I can neither keep, nor merit it.

Thou Nn2v 140

Thou hast too long to me confined been,

Who ruine am without, passion within.

My mind is sunk below thy tenderness,

And my condition does deserve it less;

I’m so entangl’d and so lost a thing

By all the shocks my daily sorrow bring,

That would’st thou for thy old Orinda call

Thou hardly could’st unravel her at all.

And should I thy clear fortunes interline

With the incessant miseries of mine?

No, no, I never lov’d at such a rate

To tye thee to the rigours of my fate,

As from my obligations thou art free,

Sure thou shalt be so from my Injury,

Though every other worthiness I miss,

Yet I’le at least be generous in this.

I’d rather perish without sigh or groan,

Then thou shoul’dst be condemn’d to give me one;

Nay in my soul I rather could allow

Friendship should be a sufferer, then thou;

Go then, since my sad heart has set thee free,

Let all the loads and chains remain on me.

Though I be left the prey of sea and wind,

Thou being happy wilt in that be kind;

Nor shall I my undoing much deplore,

Since thou art safe, whom I must value more.

Oh! mayst thou ever be so, and as free

From all ills else, as from my company,

And may the torments thou hast had from it

Be all that heaven will to thy life permit.

And that they may thy vertue service do,

Mayest thou be able to forgive them too:

But though I must this sharp submission learn,

I cannot yet unwish thy dear concern.

Not one new comfort I expect to see,

I quit my Joy, hope, life, and all but thee;

Nor seek I thence ought that may discompose

That mind where so serene a goodness grows.

I Oo1r 141

I ask no inconvenient kindness now,

To move thy passion, or to cloud thy brow;

And thou wilt satisfie my boldest plea

By some few soft remembrances of me,

Which may present thee with this candid thought,

I meant not all the troubles that I brought.

Own not what Passion rules, and Fate does crush,

But wish thou couldst have don’t without a blush,

And that I had been, ere it was too late,

Either more worthy, or more fortunate.

Ah who can love the thing they cannot prize?

But thou mayst pity though thou dost despise.

Yet I should think that pity bought too dear,

If it should cost those precious Eyes a tear.

Oh may no minutes trouble, thee possess,

But to endear the next hours happiness;

And maist thou when thou art from me remov’d,

Be better pleas’d, but never wor