Oh, then accept the all that left me is, Devout oblations of a sacred wish!

When she walks forth, ye perfum'd wings oth' East, Fan her, 'til with the Sun she hastes to th' West, And when her heav'nly course calles up the day, And breakes as bright, descend, some glistering ray, To circle her, and her as glistering haire,

That all may say a living saint shines there.
Slow Time, with woollen feet make thy soft pace,
And leave no tracks ith' snow of her pure face;
But when this vertue must needs fall, to rise
The brightest constellation in the skies;

When we in characters of fire shall reade,

How cleere she was alive, how spotless, dead.

All

you that are a kinne to piety:

For onely you can her close mourners be,

Draw neer, and make of hallowed teares a dearth:
Goodnes and justice both are fled the earth.

If this be to be thankful, I'v a heart
Broaken with vowes, eaten with grateful smart,
And beside this, the vild1 world nothing hath
Worth anything but her provoked wrath;
So then, who thinkes to satisfie in time,
Must give a satisfaction for that crime :
Since she alone knowes the gifts value, she
Can onely to her selfe requitall be,
And worthyly to th' life paynt her owne story
In its true colours and full native glory;

A very common form of vile among early writers.

Which when perhaps she shal be heard to tell,
Buffoones and theeves, ceasing to do ill,
Shal blush into a virgin-innocence,

And then woo others from the same offence;
The robber and the murderer, in 'spite
Of his red spots, shal startle into white:
All good (rewards layd by) shal stil increase
For love of her, and villany decease;1
Naught be ignote, not so much out of feare
Of being punisht, as offending her.

So that, when as my future daring bayes
Shall bow it selfe3 in lawrels to her praise,
To crown her conqu'ring goodnes, and proclaime
The due renowne and glories of her name:
My wit shal be so wretched and so poore
That, 'stead of praysing, I shal scandal her,
And leave, when with my purest art I'v done,
Scarce the designe of what she is begunne:
Yet men shal send me home, admir'd, exact;
Proud, that I could from her so wel detract.

1 This reads like a parody on the fourth Eclogue of Virgil. The early English poets were rather partial to the introduction of miniature-pictures of the Golden Age on similar occasions to the present. Thus Carew, in his poem To Saxham, says:— "The Pheasant, Partridge, and the Lark

Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.

The willing Oxe of himself came

Home to the slaughter with the Lamb.

And every beast did thither bring

Himself, to be an offering."

CAREW'S Poems, 1651, p. 34.

2 Vice.

3 We should read themselves.

Where, then, thou bold instinct, shal I begin
My endlesse taske? To thanke her were a sin
Great as not speake, and not to speake, a blame
Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a name;
So thou my all, poore gratitude, ev'n thou
In this wilt an unthankful office do:

Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have:
My life, my love, my very soule, a slave?
Tye my free spirit onely unto her,
And yeeld up my affection prisoner?

Fond thought, in this thou teachest me to give
What first was hers, since by her breath I live;
And hast but show'd me, how I may resigne
Possession of those things are none of mine.

A LADY WITH A FALCON ON HER FIST.

TO THE HONOURABLE MY COUSIN

A[NNE] LOVELACE.]

I.

HIS Queen of Prey (now prey to you),
Fast to that pirch of ivory

In silver chaines and silken clue,

Hath now made full thy victory:

II.

The swelling admirall of the dread

Cold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire!

Wast not enough, but thou must lead

Bound, too, the Princesse of the aire?

III.

Unarm'd of wings and scaly oare,
Unhappy crawler on the land,

To what heav'n fly'st? div'st to what shoare,
That her brave eyes do not command?

IV.

Ascend the chariot of the Sun

From her bright pow'r to shelter thee:

Her captive (foole) outgases him;

Ah, what lost wretches then are we !

V.

Now, proud usurpers on the right

dombe;

Of sacred beauty, heare your Recant your sex, your mastry, might; Lower you cannot be or'ecome :

VI.

Repent, ye er'e nam'd he or head,
For y' are in falcon's monarchy,
And in that just dominion bred,
In which the nobler is the shee.

A PROLOGUE TO THE SCHOLARS.

A COMEDY PRESENTED AT THE WHITE FRYERS.1

GENTLEMAN, to give us somewhat new,
Hath brought up Oxford with him to show

you;

Pray be not frighted-Tho the scene and
gown's

The Universities, the wit's the town's;
The lines each honest Englishman may speake:
Yet not mistake his mother-tongue for Greeke,
For stil 'twas part of his vow'd liturgie :-
From learned comedies deliver me!

Wishing all those that lov'd 'em here asleepe,
Promising scholars, but no scholarship.

You'd smile to see, how he do's vex and shake, Speakes naught; but, if the prologue do's but take, Or the first act were past the pikes once, thenThen hopes and joys, then frowns and fears agen, Then blushes like a virgin, now to be

Rob'd of his comicall virginity

This was the theatre in Salisbury Court. See Collier, H. E. D. P. iii. 289, and Halliwell's Dictionary of Old Plays, art. SCHOLAR. From the terms of the epilogue it seems to have been a piece occupying two hours in the performance. Judging, I presume, from the opening lines, Mr. Halliwell supposes it to have been originally acted at Gloucester Hall. Probably Mr. Halliwell is right.