Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times, Or in this land alt'reth with the Fashions?

Or haue our Pa.s.sions lesser pow'r then theirs, Who had lesse Art them liuely to expresse?

Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires, Or in our Fathers did the more transgresse?

I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true, As any Mans, that Memory can boast, And my Respects and Seruices to you Equall with his, that loues his Mistris most: Or Nature must be partiall in my Cause, Or onely you doe violate her Lawes.

36

_Cupid coniured_

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me, And suff'red her to glory in my Wracke, Thus to my aid, I lastly coniure thee; By h.e.l.lish _Styx_ (by which the THUND'RER sweares) By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power, By HECAT'S Names, by PROSERPINE'S sad Teares, When she was rapt to the infernall Bower, By thine own loued PSYCHES, by the Fires Spent on thine Altars, flaming vp to Heau'n; By all the Louers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires, By all the Wounds that euer thou hast giu'n; I coniure thee by all that I haue nam'd, To make her loue, or CUPID be thou d.a.m.n'd.

48

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know, A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be, Poore Rogue, goe p.a.w.ne thy _Fascia_ and thy Bow, For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee; Or if thou'lt not, thy Archerie forbeare, To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre, And when Corne's sowne, or growne into the Eare, Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper; Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade) Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy; They that are blind, are Minstrels often made, So may'st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy: That whilst with MARS she holdeth her old way, Thou, her Blind Sonne, may'st sit by them, and play.

52

What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart, To take all Mine, and giue me none againe?

Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art, That what They get, They euer doe retaine?

Play not the Tyrant, but take some Remorse, Rebate thy Spleene, if but for Pitties sake; Or Cruell, if thou can'st not; let vs scorse, And for one Piece of Thine, my whole heart take.

But what of Pitty doe I speake to Thee, Whose Brest is proofe against Complaint or Prayer?

Or can I thinke what my Reward shall be From that proud Beauty, which was my betrayer?

What talke I of a Heart, when thou hast none?

Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.

61

Since there 's no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part, Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me, And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart, That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free, Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes, And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not scene in either of our Browes, That We one iot of former Loue reteyne; Now at the last gaspe of Loues latest Breath, When his Pulse fayling, Pa.s.sion speechlesse lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death, And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all haue giuen him ouer, From Death to Life, thou might'st him yet recouer.

ODES

[from the Edition of 1619]

TO HIMSELFE AND THE HARPE

And why not I, as hee That's greatest, if as free, (In sundry strains that striue, Since there so many be) Th' old _Lyrick_ kind reuiue?

I will, yea, and I may; Who shall oppose my way?

For what is he alone, That of himselfe can say, Hee's Heire of _Helicon_? 10

APOLLO, and the Nine, Forbid no Man their Shrine, That commeth with hands pure; Else be they so diuine, They will not him indure.

For they be such coy Things, That they care not for Kings, And dare let them know it; Nor may he touch their Springs, That is not borne a Poet. 20

Pyreneus, _King The _Phocean_ it did proue, of_ Phocis, Whom when foule l.u.s.t did moue, _attempting to Those Mayds vnchast to make, rauish the Muses._ Fell, as with them he stroue, His Neck and iustly brake.

That instrument ne'r heard, Strooke by the skilfull Bard, It strongly to awake; But it th' infernalls skard, And made Olympus quake. 30

Sam. lib. 1. As those Prophetike strings cap. 16. Whose sounds with fiery Wings, Draue Fiends from their abode, Touch'd by the best of Kings, That sang the holy Ode.

Orpheus _the_ So his, which Women slue, Thracian _Poet_. And it int' Hebrus threw, Caput, Hebre, Such sounds yet forth it sent, lyramque Excipis. The Bankes to weepe that drue, &c. Ouid. lib. 11. As downe the streame it went. 40 Metam.

Mercury _inuentor That by the Tortoyse sh.e.l.l, of the Harpe, as_ To MAYAS Sonne it fell, Horace Ode 10. The most thereof not doubt lib. 1. _curuaq; But sure some Power did dwell, lyra parent?_. In Him who found it out.

Thebes _fayned The Wildest of the field, to haue beene And Ayre, with Riuers t' yeeld, raysed by Which mou'd; that st.u.r.dy Glebes, Musicke._ And ma.s.sie Oakes could weeld, To rayse the pyles of _Thebes_. 50

And diuersly though Strung, So anciently We sung, To it, that Now scarce knowne, If first it did belong To _Greece_, or if our Owne.

_The ancient_ The _Druydes_ imbrew'd, British _Priests_ With Gore, on Altars rude so called of With Sacrifices crown'd, their abode in In hollow Woods bedew'd, woods. Ador'd the Trembling sound. 60

Pindar _Prince of Though wee be All to seeke, the_ Greeke Of PINDAR that Great _Greeke_, lyricks, _of whom_ To Finger it aright, Horace: Pindarum The Soule with power to strike, quisquis studet, His hand retayn'd such Might.

&c. Ode 2. lib. 4.

Horace _first of Or him that _Rome_ did grace the_ Romans _in Whose Ayres we all imbrace, that kind_. That scarcely found his Peere, Nor giueth PHBVS place, For Strokes diuinely cleere. 70

_The_ Irish The _Irish_ I admire, _Harpe_. And still cleaue to that Lyre, As our Musike's Mother, And thinke, till I expire, APOLLO'S such another.

As _Britons_, that so long Haue held this Antike Song, And let all our Carpers Forbeare their fame to wrong, Th' are right skilfull Harpers. 80

Southerne, _an_ _Southerne_, I long thee spare, English _Lyrick_. Yet wish thee well to fare, Who me pleased'st greatly, As first, therefore more rare, Handling thy Harpe neatly.

To those that with despight Shall terme these Numbers slight, Tell them their Iudgement's blind, Much erring from the right, It is a n.o.ble kind. 90

_An old_ English Nor is 't the Verse doth make, _Rymer_. That giueth, or doth take, 'Tis possible to clyme, To kindle, or to slake, Although in SKELTON'S Ryme.

TO THE NEW YEERE

Rich Statue, double-faced, With Marble Temples graced, To rayse thy G.o.d-head hyer, In flames where Altars shining, Before thy Priests diuining, Doe od'rous Fumes expire.

Great IANVS, I thy pleasure, With all the _Thespian_ treasure, Doe seriously pursue; To th' pa.s.sed yeere returning, 10 As though the old adiourning, Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient Vigils yeerely, I haue obserued cleerely, Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee; Since all thy store abroad is, Giue something to my G.o.ddesse, As hath been vs'd by thee.

Giue her th' _Eoan_ brightnesse, Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse, 20 That doth trans-pierce the Ayre; The Roses of the Morning The rising Heau'n adorning, To mesh with flames of Hayre.

Those ceaselesse Sounds, aboue all, Made by those Orbes that moue all, And euer swelling there, Wrap'd vp in Numbers flowing, Them actually bestowing, For Iewels at her Eare. 30

O Rapture great and holy, Doe thou transport me wholly, So well her forme to vary, That I aloft may beare her, Whereas I will insphere her, In Regions high and starry.

And in my choise Composures, The soft and easie Closures, So amorously shall meet; That euery liuely Ceasure 40 Shall tread a perfect Measure Set on so equall feet.

That Spray to fame so fertle, The Louer-crowning Mirtle, In Wreaths of mixed Bowes, Within whose shades are dwelling Those Beauties most excelling, Inthron'd vpon her Browes.