ARE these the flow'ry banks? is this the mead Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours? Was't here her eyes exhal'd mine eyes' salt show'rs, And on her lap did lay my wearied head?
Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread,
Whose tender rind, cut forth in curious flow'rs
By that white hand, contains those flames of ours?
Is this the murmuring spring us musick made?
Deflourish'd mead, where is your heavenly hue?
And bank, that Arras did you late adorn?
How look'st thou, elm all wither'd and forlorn!
Only, sweet Spring, nought alter'd seems in you.
But while here chang'd each other thing appears,
To salt your streams take of mine eyes these tears.
ALEXIS, here she stay'd, among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did all alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines:
Here sate she by these musked eglantines;
The happy flow'rs seem yet the print to bear;
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.
She here me first perceiv'd, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
Here first I got a pledge of promis'd grace:
But ah! what serves 't t' have been made happy so, Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?
PLACE me where angry Titan burns the Moor,
And thirsty Africk fiery monsters brings,
Or where the new-born phoenix spreads her wings,
And troops of wond'ring birds her flight adore :
Place me by Gange or Inde's enamell'd shore,
Where smiling heavens on earth cause double springs ;
Place me where Neptune's choir of syrens sings,
Or where made hoarse through cold he leaves to roar:
Place me where Fortune doth her darlings crown,
A wonder or a spark in Envy's eye;
Or you, outrageous Fates, upon me frown,
Till Pity wailing see disaster'd me;
Affection's print my mind so deep doth prove,
I may forget myself-but not my love.
THE ivory, coral, gold,
Of breast, of lip, of hair,
So lively Sleep doth shew to inward sight,
That 'wake I think I hold
No shadow, but my fair:
Myself so to deceive
With long-shut eyes I shun the irksome light.
Such pleasure here I have
Delighting in false gleams,
If Death Sleep's brother be,
And souls bereft of sense have so sweet dreams,
How could I wish thus still to dream and die!
FAME, who with golden wings abroad doth range
Where Phoebus leaves the night or brings the day;
Fame, in one place who restless dost not stay
Till thou hast flow'd from Atlas unto Gange:
Fame, enemy to Time, that still doth change,
And in his changing course would make decay
What here below he findeth in his way,
Even making virtue to herself look strange :
Daughter of heaven! now all thy trumpets sound,
Raise up thy head unto the highest sky,
With wonder blaze the gifts in her are found;
And when she from this mortal globe shall fly,
In thy wide mouth keep long, keep long her name;
So thou by her, she by thee live shall Fame.
(THE SECOND PART OF THE FIRST EDITION.)
Of mortal glory O soon darken'd ray!
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away,
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,
And with that sun, from whence it came, combin'd,
Now makes more radiant heaven's eternal day.
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears;
Let widow'd Musick only roar and groan ;
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,
For dwelling-place on earth for thee is none:
Death hath thy temple raz'd, Love's empire foil'd,
The world of honour, worth, and sweetness spoil'd.
THOSE eyes, those sparkling sapphires of delight,
Which thousand thousand hearts did set on fire,
Of which that eye of heaven which brings the light
Oft jealous, staye amaz'd them to admire:
That living snow, those crimson roses bright,
Those pearls, those rubies which enflam'd desire,
Those locks of gold, that purple fair of Tyre,
Are wrapt (ah me!) up in eternal night.
What hast thou more to vaunt of, wretched world,
Sith she who caused all thy bliss is gone?
Thy ever-burning lamps, rounds ever whorl❜d,
Cannot unto thee model such a one:
Or if they would such beauty bring on earth,
They should be forc'd again to give her birth.
O FATE, conjur’d to pour your worst on me!
O rigorous rigour which doth all confound!
With cruel hands ye have cut down the tree,
And fruit with leaves have scatter'd on the ground.
A little space of earth my love doth bound;
That beauty which did raise it to the sky,
Turn'd in disdained dust, now low doth lie,
Deaf to my plaints, and senseless of my wound.
Ah! did I live for this? Ah! did I love?
And was 't for this (fierce powers) she did excel,
That ere she well the sweets of life did prove,
She should (too dear a guest) with darkness dwell?
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