They heare but when the mermaid sings, And onely see the falling starre, Who ever dare, Affirme no woman chaste and faire. Goe cure your fevers; and you'll say In copper mines no longer stay, But travell to the West, and there The right ones see, And grant all gold's not alchemie. What madman, 'cause the glow-worme's flame From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be? Nor grieve, Castara, though 'twere fraile ; 'Tis majesty to rule alone. W. HABINGTON. LXXIX CASTARA LIKE the violet which alone Prospers in some happy shade; For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i' the public view. Such is her beauty, as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace; Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She her throne makes reason climbe, And each article of time Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: W. HABINGTON. LXXX THE NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee, Whose little eyes glow, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee; Nor snake, or slow-worme bite thee : Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none t' affright thee. Let not the darke thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The starres of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers cleare without number. Then Julia let me woo thee, Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll poure into thee. R. HERRICK. LXXXI THE POWER OF LOVE THERE are two births, the one when light The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you lov'd me and I lov'd you, Love then to us did new souls give, And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his not ours: Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young, keeps young still. W. CARTWRIGHT. LXXXII TO HIS COY MISTRESS HAD we but world enough, and time, Thou by the Indian Ganges' side An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try And your quaint honour turn to dust, The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. |