H. V.

TO MY INGENUOUS FRIEND, R. W.

When we are dead, and now, no more Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score Distracts the town; when all is spent That the base n.i.g.g.ard world hath lent Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise Of drawers, 'prentices and boys Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star; When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors, To fright us with forgotten scores; And such aged long bills carry, As might start an antiquary; When the sad tumults of the maze, Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face Of sergeants are not seen, and we No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee: When all these mulcts are paid, and I From thee, dear wit, must part, and die; We'll beg the world would be so kind, To give's one grave as we'd one mind; There, as the wiser few suspect, That spirits after death affect, Our souls shall meet, and thence will they, Freed from the tyranny of clay, With equal wings, and ancient love Into the Elysian fields remove, Where in those blessed walks they'll find More of thy genius, and my mind.

First, in the shade of his own bays, Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays The learned ghosts admire, and throng To catch the subject of his song.

Then Randolph in those holy meads, His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads, Whilst his Nightingale, close by, Sings his and her own elegy.

From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads, Through airy paths and sad abodes, They'll come into the drowsy fields Of Lethe, which such virtue yields, That, if what poets sing be true, The streams all sorrow can subdue.

Here, on a silent, shady green, The souls of lovers oft are seen, Who, in their life's unhappy s.p.a.ce, Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.

All these th' enchanted streams frequent, To drown their cares, and discontent, That th' inconstant, cruel s.e.x Might not in death their spirits vex.

And here our souls, big with delight Of their new state, will cease their flight: And now the last thoughts will appear, They'll have of us, or any here; But on those flow'ry banks will stay, And drink all sense and cares away.

So they that did of these discuss, Shall find their fables true in us.

LES AMOURS

Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize And triumph of thy scornful eyes, I sacrifice to heaven, and give To quit my sins, that durst believe A woman's easy faith, and place True joys in a changing face.

Yet ere I go: by all those tears And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears; By thy own glories, and that hour Which first enslav'd me to thy power; I beg, fair one, by this last breath, This tribute from thee after death.

If, when I'm gone, you chance to see That cold bed where I lodged be, Let not your hate in death appear, But bless my ashes with a tear: This influx from that quick'ning eye, By secret pow'r, which none can spy, The cold dust shall inform, and make Those flames, though dead, new life partake Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring O'er all the tomb a sudden spring Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds: And on each leaf, by Heaven's command, These emblems to the life shall stand Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood; The second, shot and wash'd in blood; And on this heart a dew shall stay, Which no heat can court away; But fix'd for ever, witness bears That hearty sorrow feeds on tears.

Thus Heaven can make it known, and true That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.

TO AMORET.

The Sigh.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings, Take this message and depart; Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings, At what thy airy voyage brings, That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

Tell my lovely foe that I Have no more such spies to send, But one or two that I intend, Some few minutes ere I die, To her white bosom to commend.

Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died, Whilst those water-nymphs did bring Flowers to cure what she had tried; And of my faith and love did sing.

That if my Amoret, if she In after-times would have it read, How her beauty murder'd me, With all my heart I will agree, If she'll but love me, being dead.

TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death; Doating idolater! can silence bring Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try This silent courtship of a sickly eye.

Witty to tyranny, she too well knows This but the incense of thy private vows, That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay; Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move, The language of thy tears may make her love.

Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all, By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie, The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.

Where, if you win her not, may this be read, The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.

SONG.

Amyntas go, thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late.[43]

Had she professed[44] hidden fires, Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart, I could have quench'd my first desires, And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men, And shed a lover's harmless blood, And burn him in those flames again, Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace; Durst think them feigned tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true, Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears, Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew, Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus That face hath many servants slain, Though th' end be not to ruin us, But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

FOOTNOTES:

[43] MS. _Whose pure offering comes too late._

[44] MS. _profess'd her._

[45] MS. _the._

[46] MS. _such a._

[47] MS. _by._

[48]

MS. _Your aime is sure to ruine us._ _Seeking your glory by our paine_

TO AMORET.

Walking in a Starry Evening.