A nectared kiss, the wind dares not reveal
The pleasure I possess. The wind conspires
To our blest interview, and in our fires
Bathes like a salamander, and doth sip,
Like Bacchus from the grape, life from thy lip.
Nor think of night's approach. The world's great eye,
Though breaking Nature's law, will us supply
With his still-flaming lamp, and to obey
Our chaste desires, fix here perpetual day.
But should he set, what rebel night dares rise,
To be subdued i' th' victory of the eyes?
UPON THOUGHT OF AGE AND DEATH.
The breath of Time shall blast the flowery spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheek, and with it bring
So dark a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy fair eyes in an eternal night.
Some melancholy chamber of the earth,
(For that like Time devours whom it gave birth,)
Thy beauties shall entomb, while all whoe'er
Loved nobly, offer up their sorrows there.
But I, whose grief no formal limits bound,
Beholding the dark cavern of that ground,
Will there immure myself. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my own funeral.
Else by the weeping magic of my verse,
Thou had'st revived to triumph o'er thy hearse.
Thou art returned (great light) to that blest hour
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joined with Castara hearts; and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increased, but that by Love's decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne'er could greater be.
But tell me, (glorious lamp) in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakness? I since that have seen
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
Why should we fear to melt away in death?
May we but die together! When beneath
In a cool vault we sleep, the world will prove
Religious, and call it the shrine of love.
There, when o' th' wedding eve some beauteous maid,
Suspicious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vows, o' th' sudden she
Two violets sprouting from the tomb will see,
And cry out: "Ye sweet emblems of their zeal
Who live below, sprang ye up to reveal
The story of our future joys, how we
The faithful patterns of their love shall be?
If not, hang down your heads, oppressed with dew,
And I will weep, and wither hence with you."
Ye, blushing virgins, happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts,
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow,
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than i̇' th' open field.
In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath;
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be:
There wants no marble for a tomb,
Whose breast hath marble been to me.
UPON CASTARA'S DEPARTURE.
Vows are vain. No suppliant breath
Stays the speed of swift-heeled Death.
Life with her is gone, and I
Learn but a new way to die.
See the flowers condole, and all
Wither in my funeral.
The bright lily, as if day
Parted with her, fades away.
Violets hang their heads, and lose
All their beauty. That the rose
A sad part in sorrow bears,
Witness all those dewy tears
Which as pearl, or diamond like,
Swell upon her blushing cheek.
All things mourn; but O, behold
How the withered marigold
Closeth up, now she is gone,
Judging her the setting sun.
["Madagascar, with other Poems." 1635.]
THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.
PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl!
To purify the air;
Thy tears to thread instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
And wakes the louder drum;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb.
For I must go where lazy Peace
Will hide her drowsy head;
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.
But first I'll chide thy cruel theft:
Can I in war delight,
Who being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight?
Thou know'st the sacred laws of old,
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, seven-fold
What he had stolen away.
Thy payment shall but double be;
O then with speed resign
My own seducéd heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.
The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes this window for the east,
And to implore your light, he sings:
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are,
Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.
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