Puslapio vaizdai

If souls (as some say) music be,
I've learnt from you there's one in me;
From you, whose accents make us know,
That sweeter spheres move here below;
From you, whose limbs are so well met,
That we may swear your body's set:
Whose parts are with such graces crown'd,
That th'are that music without sound.
I had this love perhaps before,
But you awak'd and made it more:
As when a gentle ev'ning shower
Calls forth, and adds scent to the flower;
Henceforth I'll think my breath is due
No more to nature, but to you.
Sing I to pleasure then, or fame,

I'll know no anthem, but your name;

This shall joy life, this sweeten death ;

You, that have taught, may claim my breath."

The following are a few pretty gems, which we will put together, thinking they may perhaps shine better when they

set off each other's lustre.

"And now the certain cause I know
Whence the rose and lilly grow,

In your fair cheeks; the often showers
Which you thus weep, do breed these flowers.

If that the floods could Venus bring,
And warlike Mars from flowers spring,

Why may not hence two gods arise,

This from your cheeks, that from your eyes?"

"But O! we scorn the proffer'd lip and face;

And angry frowns sometimes add quicker grace
Than quiet beauty: 'tis that melting kiss
That truly doth distil immortal bliss,

Which the fierce struggling youth by force, at length,
Doth make the purchase of his eager strength;

Which, from the rifled weeping virgin scant

Snatch'd, proves a conquest, rather than a grant."

To Venus.

"Venus! redress a wrong that's done
By that young sprightful boy, thy son,


He wounds, and then laughs at the sore,
Hatred itself can do no more.

If I pursue, he's small, and light,
Both seen at once, and out of sight:
If I do fly, he's wing'd, and then,
At the third step, I'm caught again :

Lest one day, thou thyself may'st suffer so,
Or clip the wanton's wings, or break his bow."

A Sigh sent to his absent Love.

"I sent a sigh unto my blest one's ear,
Which lost its way, and never did come there;

I hast'ned after, lest some other fair

Should mildly entertain this travelling air;
Each flow'ry garden I did search, for fear
It might mistake a lily for her ear;

And having there took lodging, might still dwell
Hous'd in the concave of a christal bell.

At last, one frosty morning I did spy

This subtile wand'rer journeying in the sky;
At sight of me, it trembl'd, then drew near,
Then grieving fell, and dropt into a tear :
I bore it to my saint, and pray'd her take
This new-born offspring for the master's sake;
She took it, and preferr❜d it to her ear,

And now it hears each thing that's whisper'd there.
O how I envy grief, when that I see

My sorrow makes a gem, more blest than me!

Yet, little pendant, porter to the ear,

Let not my rival have admittance there ;

But if by chance a mild access he gain,
Upon her lip inflict a gentle pain,

Only for admonition: so when she

Gives ear to him, at least, she'll think of me."


"Whiles I this standing lake, Swath'd up with ewe and cypress boughs, Do move by sighs and vows,

Let sadness only wake:

That whiles thick darkness blots the light,
My thoughts may cast another night:
In which double shade,

By heav'n, and me made,

O let me weep,
And fall asleep,
And forgotten fade.

Heark! from yond' hollow tree,
Sadly sing two anchoret owls,
Whiles the hermit wolf howls,
And all bewailing me,

The raven hovers o'er my bier,
The bittern on a reed I hear,
Pipes my elegy,

And warns me to die;
Whiles from yond' graves
My wrong'd love craves
My sad company.

Cease, Hylas, cease thy call;
Such, O such was thy parting groan,
Breath'd out to me alone,

When thou disdain'd didst fall.

Lo, thus unto thy silent tomb,
In my sad winding sheet, I come,
Creeping o'er dead bones,
And cold marble stones,

That I

may mourn

Over thy urn,

And appease thy groans."

"Her very looks were tune, we might descry
Consort, and judge of music by the eye;
So that in others that which we call fair,
In her was composition and good air."

Like one who having conducted his friend into an exhibition, and awaits his return at the door, we would ask the reader how he likes our little exhibition; whether he does not think it displays some genius for poetry, and considerable elegance of fancy? We shall next present some lines "To the Memory of a Shipwreck'd Virgin." The title is such as to promise feeling, but this it does not give. It is rather a specimen of Cartwright's fanciful, and perhaps somewhat conceited style. It certainly is not simple, the only dress feeling can wait to clothe herself in.

"Whether thy well-shap'd parts now scatter'd far
Asunder, into treasure parted are;

Whether thy tresses, now to amber grown,
Still cast a softer day where they are shewn;
Whether those eyes be diamonds now, or make
The careful goddess of the floods mistake,
Chiding their ling'ring, as if they were
Stars that forgot t'ascend unto their sphere;
Whether thy lips do into coral grow,
Making her wonder how 't came red below;
Whether those orders of thy teeth, now sown
In several pearls, enrich each channel one ;
Whether thy gentle breath in easy gales
Now flies, and chastely fills the pregnant sails;
Or whether whole turn'd syren, thou dost joy
Only to sing, unwilling to destroy;

Or else a nymph far fairer, dost encrease
The virgin train of the Nereides;

If that all sense departed not with breath,
And there is yet some memory in death,
Accept this labour, sacred to thy fame,
Swelling with thee, made poem by thy name.

Hearken, O winds, (if that ye yet have ears
Who were thus deaf unto my fair one's tears,)
Fly with this curse; may caverns you contain,
Still struggling for release, but still in vain.

Listen, O floods; black night upon you dwell,
Thick darkness still enwrap you; may you swell
Only with grief; may ye to every thirst
Flow bitter still, and so of all be curst.

And thou unfaithful, ill-compacted pine,

That in her nuptials didst refuse to shine,

Blaze in her pile. Whiles thus her death I weep,
Swim down my murmuring lute; move thou the deep
Into soft numbers as thou passest by,
And make her fate become her elegy.”

"Lesbia on her sparrow," is pretty and runs trippingly.

"Tell me not of joy: there's none
Now my little sparrow's gone;
He, just as you
Would toy and woo,

He would chirp and flatter me,
He would hang the wing awhile,
Till at length he saw me smile,
Lord, how sullen he would be?

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The following "To Chloe, who wished herself young enough for me," is as ingenious in argument as any lady of autumn's hue would wish it to be in real life.

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