NOT kisse? By Jove I must, and make impression

 As longe as Cupid dares to holde his Session

Vpon my flesh and blood: our kisses shall

Outminute Time and without number fall.

  5Doe I not know these Balls of blushinge Red

That on thy Cheekes thus amorouslie are spred?

Thy snowy necke, those veynes upon thy Browe

Which with their azure crincklinge sweetly bowe

Are artificiall? Borrowed? and no more thine owne

10Then Chaines which on St. George's Day are showne,

Are proper to the wearers? Yet for this

I idole thee, and beg a luscious kisse.

The fucus, and Ceruse, which on thy face

Thy Cunninge hand layes on to add new Grace,

15Detaine me with such pleasing fraude, that I

Finde in thy art, what can in nature Lie.

Much like a painter that upon some Wall

On which the radiant Sun-beames use to fall

Paints with such art a Gilded butterflye

20That silly maides with slowe-moved fingers trye

To Catch it, and then blush at theire mistake,

Yet of this painted flye most reckonynge make:

Such is our state; since what we looke upon

Is nought but Coullor and Proportion.

25Take me a face, as full of fraud and Lies

As Gypsies in your cunninge Lotteries,

That is more false, and more Sophisticate

Than are Saints reliques, or a man of state.

Yet such being Glazed by the sleight of arte,

30Gaines admiration, winninge many a Harte.

Put case there be a difference in the molde,

Yet may thy Venus be more Chaste, and holde

A dearer treasure: oftentimes we see

Rich Candian wines in woodden Boules to bee.

35The odoriferous Civet doth not lie

Within the muskat's nose, or eare, or eye,

But in a baser place; for prudent nature

In drawinge us of various formes and stature

Gives from the curious shop of hir rich treasure

40To faire parts comeliness, to baser, pleasure.

The fairest flowers, which in the Springe doe growe

Are not so much for use, as for the showe,

As Lillies, Hyacinths, and the georgious birthe

Of all pide flowers that diaper the earthe,

45Please more with their discoloured purple traine

Then wholesome pothearbs which for use remaine.

Shall I a Gaudy Speckled Serpent kiss

For that the colours which he weares are his?

A perfumed Cordevant who will not wear

50Because the sente is borrowed elsewhere?

The roabes and vestiments, which grace us all

Are not our owne, but adventitiall.

Time rifles Natures beauty, but slye Arte

Repaires by cunninge this decayinge parte.

55Fills here a wrinckle, and there purles a veyne,

And with a nimble hand runs o're againe

The breaches dented in by th'arme of time,

And makes Deformity to be no crime.

As when great men be grip't by sicknes hand,

60Industrious Physicke pregnantly doth stand

To patch up foule diseases, and doth strive

To keepe theire totteringe Carcasses alive.

Beautie is a candlelight which every puffe

Blowes out, and leaves nought but a stinking snuffe

65To fill our nostrills with; this boldelie thinke,

The cleerest Candle makes the greatest stincke,

As your pure fode and cleerest nutryment

Gets the most hott, and nose stronge excrement.

Why hange we then on thinges so apt to varie,

70So fleetinge, brittle, and so temporarie?

That agues, Coughes, the toothache, or Catarr

(Slight hansells of diseases) spoile and marr.

But when olde age theire beauties hath in Chace,

And plowes up furrowes in theire once-smoothe face,

75Then they become forsaken, and doe showe

Like stately abbeyes ruin'd longe agoe.

Nature but gives the modell, and first draught

Of faire perfection, which by art is taught

To speake itselfe, a compleat form and birthe,

80Soe stands a Copie to these shapes on earthe.

Jove grante me then a reparable face

Which, whiles that Colours are, can want no grace.

Pigmalions painted statue I coulde love,

Soe it were warme and softe, and coulde but move.

Oh I can not holde; pardon if I kild it.

Sweet Blood, to you I aske this, that which fild it

Ran from my Ladies Brest. Come happie flea

10That dide for suckinge of that milkie Sea.

Oh now againe I well could wishe thee there,

About hir Hart, about hir anywhere;

I would vowe (Dearest flea) thou shouldst not dye,

If thou couldst sucke from hir hir crueltye.

I F shaddowes be the pictures excellence;

  And make it seeme more lively to the sence;

If starres in the bright day are hid from sight

And shine most glorious in the masque of night;

  5Why should you thinke (rare creature) that you lack

Perfection cause your haire and eyes are blacke,

Or that your heavenly beauty which exceedes

The new sprung lillies in their mayden weeds,

The damaske coullour of your cheekes and lipps

10Should suffer by their darknesse an eclipps?

Rich diamonds shine brightest, being sett

And compassed within a foyle of Jett.

Nor was it fitt that Nature should have mayde

So bright a sunne to shine without a shade.

15It seemes that Nature when she first did fancie

Your rare composure studied Necromancie,

That when to you this guift she did impart

She used altogether the black art.

By which infused power from Magique tooke

20You doe command all spiritts with a looke:

Shee drew those Magique circles in your eyes,

And mayde your hayre the chaines wherewith shee ties

Rebelling hearts: those blew veines which appeare,

Winding Meander about either spheare,

25Misterious figures are, and when you list

Your voice commandeth like the Exorcist,

And every word which from your Pallett falleth

In a deep charme your hearer's heart inthralleth.

Oh! If in Magique you have skill so farre,

30Vouchsafe me to be your familiar.

Nor hath kind Nature her black art reveal'd

To outward partes alone, some lie conceal'd,

And as by heads of springs men often knowe

The nature of the streames that run belowe,

35So your black haire and eyes do give direction

To make me thinke the rest of like complexion:

That rest where all rest lies that blesseth Man,

That Indian mine, that straight of Magellan,

That worlde dividing gulfe where he that venters,

40With swelling sayles and ravisht senses enters

To a new world of blisse. Pardon, I pray,

If my rude muse presumeth to display

Secretts unknowne, or hath her bounds orepast

In praysing sweetnesse which I ne're did tast;

45Sterved men doe know there's meate, and blind men may

Though hid from light presume there is a day.

The rover in the marke his arrowe sticks

Sometimes as well as he that shootes att prickes,

And if I might direct my shaft aright,

50The black mark would I hitt and not the white.

A ND though thy glasse a burning one become

 And turne us both to ashes on her urne,

Yet to our glory till the later day

Our dust shall daunce like attomes in her ray.

  5And when the world shall in confusion burne,

And Kinges and peasantes scramble at an urne,

Like tapers new blowne out wee happy then

Will at her beames catch fire and live againe.

But this is sence, and some one may-be glad

10That I so good a cause of sorrow had,

Will with all those whome I affect may dye

So I might please him with an elegie.

O let there never line of witt be read

To please the living that doth speake thee dead;

15Some tender-harted mother good and mild,

Who on the deare grave of her tender child

So many sad teares hath beene knowne to rayne

As out of dust would mould him up againe,

And with hir plaintes enforce the wormes to place

20Themselves like veynes so neatly on his face,

And every lymne, as if that they wer striving

To flatter hir with hope of his reviving:

Shee should read this, and hir true teares alone

Should coppy forth these sad lines on the stone

25Which hides thee dead, and every gentle hart

That passeth by should of his teares impart

So great a portion, that if after times

Ruine more churches for the Clergyes crimes,

When any shall remove thy marble hence,

30Which is lesse stone then hee that takes it thence,

Thou shalt appeare within thy tearefull cell

Much like a faire nymph bathing in a well.

But when they find thee dead so lovely fair,

Pitty and sorrow then shall straight repaire

35And weepe beside thy grave with cipresse cround,

To see the secound world of beauty dround,

And add sufficient teares as they condole

'Twould make thy body swimme up to thy soule.

Such eyes should read the lines are writ of thee;

40But such a losse should have no elegie

To palliate the wound wee tooke in hir,

Who rightly greeves admittes no comforter.

He that had tane to heart thy parting hence

Should have beene chain'd to Bedlam two houres thence,

45And not a frind of his ere shed a teare

To see him for thy sake distracted there,

But hugge himselfe for loving such as hee

That could runne mad with greefe for loosing thee.

I, haplesse soule, that never knew a frend

50But to bewayle his too untimely end,

Whose hopes (cropt in the bud) have never come

But to sitt weeping on a sencelesse tombe,

That hides not dust enough to count the teares

Which I have fruitlesse spent in so few yeares,

55I that have trusted those that would have given

For our deare Saviour and the Sonne of heaven

Ten times the valew Judas had of yore,

Onely to sell him for three peeces more;

I that have lov'd and trusted thus in vaine

60Yet weepe for thee, and till the clowdes shall daigne

To throw on Egipt more then Nile ere sweld,

These teares of mine shalbee unparellell'd.

He that hath lov'd, enjoy'd, and then beene crost,

Hath teares at will to mourne for what he lost;

65He that hath trusted and his hope appeares

Wrong'd but by death may soone dissolve in teares;

But hee unhappy man whose love and trust

Nere met fruition nor a promise just,

For him (unlesse like thee hee deadly slepe)

70'Tis easier to runn mad then 'tis to weepe;

And yet I can. Fall then yee mournefull showers,

And as old time leades on the winged howers,

Bee you their minutes, and let men forgett

To count their ages from the plague of sweat,

75From eighty eight, the Poulder-plot, or when

Men were affrayd to talke of it againe;

And in their numerations be it sayd

Thus old was I when such a teare was shed,

And when that other fell a comett rose

80And all the world tooke notice of my woes.

Yet finding them past cure, as doctores fly

Their patientes past all hope of remedy,

No charitable soule will once impart

One word of comfort to so sicke a heart;

85But as a hurt deare beaten from the heard,

Men of my shadow allmost now affeard

Fly from my woes, that whilome wont to greet mee,

And well nigh thinke it ominous to meete mee.

Sad lines go yee abroad; go saddest muse,

90And as some nations formerly did use

To lay their sicke men in the street, that those,

Who of the same disease had scapt the throwes,

Might minister releefe as they went by

To such as felt the selfsame malady,

95So haplesse lynes fly through the fairest land,

And if ye light into some blessed hand,

That hath a heart as merry as the shine

Of golden dayes, yet wrong'd as much as mine,

Pitty may lead that happy man to mee,

100And his experience worke a remedy

To those sad fittes which (spight of nature's lawes)

Torture a poore hart that out-lives the cause.

But this must never bee, nor is it fitt

An ague or some sickenes lesse then itt

105Should glory in the death of such as hee,

That had a heart of flesh and valued thee.

Brave Roman, I admire thee that would'st dy

At no lesse rate then for an empery.

Some massy diamond from the center drawne,

110For which all Europ wer an equall pawne,

Should (beaten into dust) bee drunke by him

That wanted courage good enough to swimme

Through seas of woes for thee, and much despise

To meet with death at any lower prize,

115Whilst greefe alone workes that effect in mee,

And yet no greefe but for the losse of thee.

Fortune now doe thy worst, for I have gott

By this her death so strong an antidote,

That all thy future crosses shall not have

120More then an angry smile, nor shall the grave

Glory in my last day: these lines shall give

To us a second life, and we will live

To pull the distaffe from the hand of fate;

And spinn our own thrides for so long a date,

125That death shall never seize uppon our fame

Till this shall perish in the whole world's frame.

FAREWEL ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles,

Farewel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;

Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay,

Honour the darling but of one short day.

  5Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damasked skin,

State but a golden prison, to keepe in

And torture free-born minds; imbroidered trains

Meerly but Pageants, proudly swelling vains,

And blood ally'd to greatness, is a loane

10Inherited, not purchased, not our own.

Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood and birth,

Are but the fading blossomes of the earth.

I would be great, but that the Sun doth still

Level his rayes against the rising hill:

15I would be high, but see the proudest Oak

Most subject to the rending Thunder-stroke;

I would be rich, but see men too unkind

Dig in the bowels of the richest mine;

I would be wise, but that I often see

20The Fox suspected whilst the Ass goes free;

I would be fair, but see the fair and proud

Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud;

I would be poor, but know the humble grass

Still trampled on by each unworthy Asse:

25Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;

Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, stil envied more:

I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither,

Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair, poor I'l be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir,

30Would beauties Queen entitle me the Fair,

Fame speak me fortune's Minion, could I vie

Angels with India, with a speaking eye

Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb

As wel as blind and lame, or give a tongue

35To stones, by Epitaphs, be called great Master

In the loose rhimes of every Poetaster;

Could I be more then any man that lives,

Great, fair, rich, wise in all Superlatives;

Yet I more freely would these gifts resign

40Then ever fortune would have made them mine,

And hold one minute of this holy leasure,

Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcom pure thoughts, welcom ye silent groves,

These guests, these Courts, my soul most dearly loves,

45Now the wing'd people of the Skie shall sing

My cheerful Anthems to the gladsome Spring;

A Pray'r book now shall be my looking-glasse,

Wherein I will adore sweet vertues face.

Here dwell no hateful looks, no Pallace cares,

50No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears,

Then here I'l sit and sigh my hot loves folly,

And learn t'affect an holy melancholy.

And if contentment be a stranger, then

I'l nere look for it, but in heaven again.