THE SCRUTINIE.

SONG.

SET BY MR. THOMAS CHARLES.1

I.

FHY shouldst thou sweare I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady, it is already Morn,

And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

II.

Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve moneths 3 space?
I should all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new imbrace;
Should I still dote upon thy face.

III.

Not but all joy in thy browne haire
In others may be found;

But I must search the black and faire,

Like skilfulle minerallists that sound

For treasure in un-plow'd-up ground.

'This poem appears in Wits Interpreter, by John Cotgrave, ed. 1662, p. 214, under the title of " On his Mistresse, who unjustly taxed him of leaving her off."

2 So Cotgrave. Lucasta reads should you.

3 So Cotgrave.

Lucasta.

So Cotgrave.

5 So Cotgrave.

This is preferable to hours, the reading in

Lucasta reads must.

Lucasta has could.

So Cotgrave. Lucasta reads By.

• Unbidden-Cotgrave.

IV.

Then if, when I have lov'd my1 round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;

With spoyles of meaner beauties crown'd,
I laden will returne to thee,
Ev'n sated with varietie.

PRINCESSE LOYSA3 DRAWING.

SAW a little Diety,
Minerva in epitomy,

Whom Venus, at first blush, surpris'd,
Tooke for her winged wagge disguis❜d.
But viewing then, whereas she made
Not a distrest, but lively shade
Of Eccho whom he had betrayd,

Now wanton, and ith' coole oth' Sunne
With her delight a hunting gone,

And thousands more, whom he had slaine;
To live and love, belov'd againe:
Ah! this is true divinity!

I will un-God that toye! cri'd she;
Then markt she Syrinx running fast

To Pan's imbraces, with the haste

Shee fled him once, whose reede-pipe rent
He finds now a new Instrument.

1 thee-Cotgrave.

2 In spoil-Cotgrave.

3 Probably the second daughter of Frederic and Elizabeth of Bohemia, b. 1622. See TOWNEND's Descendants of the Stuarts, 1858, p. 7.

Theseus return'd invokes the Ayre
And windes, then wafts his faire ;
Whilst Ariadne ravish't stood

Half in his armes, halfe in the flood.
Proud Anáxerete doth fall

At Iphis feete, who smiles at1 all:
And he (whilst she his curles doth deck)
Hangs no where now, but on her neck.
Here Phoebus with a beame untombes
Long-hid Leucothoë, and doomes

Her father there; Daphne the faire
Knowes now no bayes but round her haire;
And to Apollo and his Sons,

Who pay him their due Orisons,
Bequeaths her lawrell-robe, that flame
Contemnes, Thunder and evill Fame.
There kneel'd Adonis fresh as spring,

Gay as his youth, now offering
Herself those joyes with voice and hand,
Which first he could not understand.
Transfixed Venus stood amas'd,
Full of the Boy and Love, she gaz'd,
And in imbraces seemed more

Senceless and colde then he before.
Uselesse Childe! In vaine (said she)
You beare that fond artillerie;

See heere a pow'r above the slow
Weake execution of thy bow.

So said, she riv'd the wood in two,
Unedged all his arrowes too,

'Original has of.

And with the string their feathers bound
To that part, whence we have our wound.
See, see! the darts by which we burn'd
Are bright Loysa's pencills turn'd,
With which she now enliveth more

Beauties, than they destroy'd before.

A

FORSAKEN LADY TO HER FALSE SERVANT

THAT IS DISDAINED BY HIS NEW

MISTRISS.1

you I wish

KERE it that you so shun me, 'cause
(Cruels't) a fellow in your wretchednesse,
Or that you take some small ease in your

owne

Torments, to heare another sadly groane,

I were most happy in my paines, to be
So truely blest, to be so curst by thee:
But oh! my cries to that doe rather adde,
Of which too much already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to heare my moane;
Yet sadly hearst me with derisiön.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know,
And feelst thyselfe the flames I burne in. Oh!
How can you beg to be set loose from that
Consuming stake you binde another at?

1 Carew (Poems, ed. 1651, p. 53) has some lines, entitled, "In the person of a Lady to her Inconstant Servant," which are of nearly similar purport to Lovelace's poem, but are both shorter and better.

Uncharitablest both wayes, to denie

That pity me, for which yourself must dye,
To love not her loves you, yet know the pain
What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.

Flye on, flye on, swift Racer, untill she
Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee
The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan,
What terrour 'tis t'outgo and be outgon.

Nor yet looke back, nor yet must we Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally, And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still By the weake cordage of your untwin'd will Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne, And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne; My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate Made you hate love, and fall in love with hate.

But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give My soule a noble quicknes, made me live One breath yet longer, and to will, and see Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee: That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave, Thyselfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave: That thou mightst, sinking in thy triumphs, moan, And I triumph in my destruction.

Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire Rav'd' o're my purer thoughts I feel t' expire,

1 Rav'd seems here to be equivalent to reav'd, or bereav'd. Perhaps the correct reading may be "reav'd." See Worcester's Dictionary, art. RAVE, where Menage's supposition of affinity between rave and bereave is perhaps a little too slightingly treated.