TO PHYLLIS, TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM
LIVE, live with me, and thou shalt see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee; What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board. The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed With crawling woodbine over-spread ; By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown Made of the fleece's purest down. The tongues of kids shall be thy meat, Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread, With cream of cowslips buttered; Thy feasting-tables shall be hills With daisies spread and daffodils, Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody. I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave ; So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it. On holidays, when virgins meet To dance the heyes with nimble feet, Thou shalt come forth, and then ap pear
The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-fac'd plum, all simp'ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribands to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.
Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be If thou wilt love, and live with me.
ART ABOVE NATURE: TO JULIA
WHEN I behold a forest spread With silken trees upon thy head, And when I see that other dress Of flowers set in comeliness; When I behold another grace In the ascent of curious lace, Which like a pinnacle doth show The top, and the top-gallant too. Then, when I see thy tresses bound Into an oval, square, or round, And knit in knots far more than I Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie; Next, when those lawny films I see Play with a wild civility, And all those airy silks to flow, Alluring me, and tempting so: I must confess mine eye and heart Dotes less on Nature than on Art.
WHENAS in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!
Go thou forth, my book, though late: Yet be timely fortunate.
It may chance good luck may send Thee a kinsman, or a friend, That may harbour thee, when I With my fates neglected lie.
If thou know'st not where to dwell, See, the fire's by: farewell.
NOBLE NUMBERS
[Publ. with Hesperides, 1648]
HIS LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT
IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drown'd in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill Has, or none, or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill; Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small;
A little buttery, and therein A little bin
Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unclipt, unflead.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it.
Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand, That soils my land;
And giv'st me for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one. Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year,
The while the conduits of my kine Run cream for wine.
All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise: May sweets grow here: and smoke from hence Fat frankincense:
Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument.
May no wolf howl, or screech-owl stir A wing about thy sepulchre !
No boisterous winds, or storms, come hither To starve or wither Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing.
May all shy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flow'rs' May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense burn
Upon thine altar! then return, And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
TO KEEP A TRUE LENT Is this a fast, to keep
The larder lean? And clean From fat of veals and sheep?
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still To fill
The platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragg'd to go,
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