F to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that when I am gone,
You or I were alone;

Then my Lucasta might I crave

Pity from blustring winde or swallowing wave.

II.

But I'le not sigh one blast or gale

To swell my saile,

Or pay a teare to swage

The foaming blew-gods rage;

For whether he will let me passe
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Of Henry and William Lawes an account may be found in Burney and Hawkins. Although the former (H. Lawes) set many of Lovelace's pieces to music, only two occur in the Ayres and Dialogues for One, Two, and Three Voyces, 1653-55-8, folio.

III.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,

Like separated soules,

All time and space controules: Above the highest sphere wee meet, Unseene, unknowne, and greet as angels greet.

IV.

So then we doe anticipate

Our after-fate,

And are alive i̇'th' skies,

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speake like spirits unconfin'd
In Heav'n, their earthy bodies left behind.

SONG.

SET BY MR. JOHN LANIERE.

TO LUCASTA. GOING TO THE WARRES.

I.

ELL me not, (sweet,) I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
To warre and armes I flie.

II.

True: a new Mistresse now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

III.

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As

you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Lov'd I not Honour more.

A PARADOX.

I.

IS true the beauteous Starre1
To which I first did bow
Burnt quicker, brighter far,

Than that which leads me now;
Which shines with more delight,
For gazing on that light
So long, neere lost my sight.

II.

Through foul we follow faire,

For had the world one face,
And earth been bright as ayre,
We had knowne neither place.
Indians smell not their neast;
A Swisse or Finne tastes best
The spices of the East.2

1 i. e. Lucasta.

2 The East was celebrated by all our early poets as the land of spices and rich gums:

III.

So from the glorious Sunne
Who to his height hath got,
With what delight we runne
To some black cave or grot!
And, heav'nly Sydney you
Twice read, had rather view
Some odde romance so new.

IV.

The god, that constant keepes
Unto his deities,

Is poore in joyes, and sleepes
Imprison'd in the skies.

This knew the wisest, who
From Juno stole, below
To love a bear or cow.

"For now the fragrant East,

The spicery o' th' world,

Hath hurl'd

A rosie tincture o'er the Phoenix nest."

Otia Sacra, by Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland,
1648, p. 37.