And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,
Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balme heald all its paine,
That from her hand distilled.
But yet this heart avoyds me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to its physitian's breast;
There proudly sits inthroned.
Prize. It is not uncommonly used by the early dramatists
in this sense; but the verb TO PURCHASE is more usually found than
"Yet having opportunity, he tries,
Gets her goodwill, and with his purchase flies."
Wither's ABUSES STRIPT AND WHIPT, 1613.
Here I have hazarded an emendation of the text. In original
we read, CRUELL STILL ON. Lovelace's poems were evidently printed
without the slightest care.
Original reads IT'S.
Original has BELIEFE.
Soft, like floss.
ORPHEUS TO WOODS.
SET BY MR. CURTES.
Heark! Oh heark! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries
Was the cruell'st murder done,
That e're yet eclipst the sunne.
Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted, e're you sprout to sprigges;
Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,
Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but coffins and their tombes.
ORPHEUS TO BEASTS.
SET BY MR. CURTES.
Here, here, oh here! EURIDICE,
Here was she slaine;
Her soule 'still'd through a veine:
The gods knew lesse
That time divinitie,
Then ev'n, ev'n these
Oh! could you view the melodie
Of ev'ry grace,
And musick of her face,
You'd drop a teare,
Seeing more harmonie
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.
By Orpheus we may perhaps understand Lovelace himself,
and by Euridice, the lady whom he celebrates under the name
of Lucasta. Grainger mentions (BIOG. HIST. ii. 74) a portrait
of Lovelace by Gaywood, in which he is represented as Orpheus.
I have not seen it. The old poets were rather fond of likening
themselves to this legendary personage, or of designating
themselves his poetical children: -
"We that are ORPHEUS' sons, and can inherit
By that great title" -
Davenant's WORKS, 1673, p. 215.
Many other examples might be given. Massinger, in his CITY MADAM,
1658, makes Sir John Frugal introduce a representation of the story
of the Thracian bard at an entertainment given to Luke Frugal.
A lutenist. Wood says that after the Restoration he became
gentleman or singing-man of Christ Church, Oxford. He was one of
those musicians who, after the abolition of organs, &c. during the
civil war, met at a private house at Oxford for the purpose of
taking his part in musical entertainments.
"Such was Zuleika; such around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone;
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face."
Byron's BRIDE OF ABYDOS, canto 1.
(WORKS, ed. 1825, ii. 299.)
SET BY MR. JOHN GAMBLE.
TELL me, ALEXIS, what this parting is,
That so like dying is, but is not it?
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,
'Till kind HOW DOE YOU call's us from the fit.
If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine:
Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right for one, where we can better live.
Lu. But ah, this ling'ring, murdring farewel!
Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures the ill.
Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover,
Still to be dying, still for to recover.
Cho. Soldiers suspected of their courage goe,
That ensignes and their breasts untorne show:
Love nee're his standard, when his hoste he sets,
Creates alone fresh-bleeding bannerets.
Alex. But part we, when thy figure I retaine
Still in my heart, still strongly in mine eye?
Lu. Shadowes no longer than the sun remaine,
But his beams, that made 'em, fly, they fly.
Cho. Vaine dreames of love! that only so much blisse
Allow us, as to know our wretchednesse;
And deale a larger measure in our paine
By showing joy, then hiding it againe.
Alex. No, whilst light raigns, LUCASTA still rules here,
And all the night shines wholy in this sphere.
Lu. I know no morne but my ALEXIS ray,
To my dark thoughts the breaking of the day.
Alex. So in each other if the pitying sun
Thus keep us fixt, nere may his course be run!
Lu. And oh! if night us undivided make;
Let us sleepe still, and sleeping never wake!
Cruel ADIEUS may well adjourne awhile
The sessions of a looke, a kisse, or smile,
And leave behinde an angry grieving blush;
But time nor fate can part us joyned thus.
i.e. the poet himself.
"John Gamble, apprentice to Ambrose Beyland, a noted
musician, was afterwards musician at one of the playhouses;
from thence removed to be a cornet in the King's Chapel.
After that he became one in Charles the Second's band of violins,
and composed for the theatres. He published AYRES AND DIALOGUES
TO THE THEORBO AND BASS VIOL, fol. Lond., 1659." - Hawkins.
SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES.
When I by thy faire shape did sweare,
And mingled with each vowe a teare,
I lov'd, I lov'd thee best,
I swore as I profest.
For all the while you lasted warme and pure,
My oathes too did endure.
But once turn'd faithlesse to thy selfe and old,
They then with thee incessantly grew cold.
I swore my selfe thy sacrifice
By th' ebon bowes that guard thine eyes,
Which now are alter'd white,
And by the glorious light
Of both those stars, which of their spheres bereft,
Only the gellie's left.
Then changed thus, no more I'm bound to you,
Then swearing to a saint that proves untrue.
i.e. at once, immediately.
Original reads OF WHICH.
SET BY MR. JOHN LANEERE.
Lucasta wept, and still the bright
Inamour'd god of day,
With his soft handkercher of light,
Kist the wet pearles away.
But when her teares his heate or'ecame,
In cloudes he quensht his beames,
And griev'd, wept out his eye of flame,
So drowned her sad streames.
At this she smiled, when straight the sun
Cleer'd by her kinde desires;
And by her eyes reflexion
Fast kindl'd there his fires.
This stanza is not found in the printed copy of LUCASTA,
1649, but it occurs in a MS. of this poem written, with many
compositions by Lovelace and other poets, in a copy of Crashaw's
POEMS, 1648, 12mo, a portion of which having been formed of the
printer's proof-sheets, some of the pages are printed only on one
side, the reverse being covered with MSS. poems, among the rest
with epigrams by MR. THOMAS FULLER (about fifty in number). There
can be little doubt, from the character of the majority of these
little poems, that by "Mr. Thomas Fuller" we may understand the
TO LUCASTA. FROM PRISON
Long in thy shackels, liberty
I ask not from these walls, but thee;
Left for awhile anothers bride,
To fancy all the world beside.
Yet e're I doe begin to love,
See, how I all my objects prove;
Then my free soule to that confine,
'Twere possible I might call mine.
First I would be in love with PEACE,
And her rich swelling breasts increase;
But how, alas! how may that be,
Despising earth, she will love me?
Faine would I be in love with WAR,
As my deare just avenging star;
But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere,
Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.
Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane,
Faire thorough-shot RELIGION;
But he lives only that kills thee,
And who so bindes thy hands, is free.
I would love a PARLIAMENT
As a maine prop from Heav'n sent;
But ah! who's he, that would be wedded
To th' fairest body that's beheaded?
Next would I court my LIBERTY,
And then my birth-right, PROPERTY;
But can that be, when it is knowne,
There's nothing you can call your owne?
A REFORMATION I would have,
As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve;
That is, a cleansing of each wheele
Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.
But not a reformation so,
As to reforme were to ore'throw,
Like watches by unskilfull men
Disjoynted, and set ill againe.
The PUBLICK FAITH I would adore,
But she is banke-rupt of her store:
Nor how to trust her can I see,
For she that couzens all, must me.
Since then none of these can be
Fit objects for my love and me;
What then remaines, but th' only spring
Of all our loves and joyes, the King?
He who, being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to ecclipse his right,
Blinded we stand in our owne light.
And now an universall mist
Of error is spread or'e each breast,
With such a fury edg'd as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.
Oh, from thy glorious starry waine
Dispense on me one sacred beame,
To light me where I soone may see
How to serve you, and you trust me!
This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement
in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return
from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be
little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the
fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be
assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.
"The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin,
A nephew that dares COZEN any sin;
A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother,
Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other;
Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss,
ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS."
Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.
LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.
Eastrich! thou featherd foole, and easie prey,
That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.
O what a glorious transmigration
From this to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made! heere from a winged stone
Transform'd into a bird of paradice!
Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie
With th' arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet,
And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye
With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.
Sometime they wing her side, strive to drown
The day's eyes piercing beames, whose am'rous heat
Sollicites still, 'till with this shield of downe
From her brave face his glowing fires are beat.
But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw,
A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast,
In which her fresh aspect when as she saw,
And then her foe retired to the west.
Deare engine, that oth' sun got'st me the day,
'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat!
No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play
But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.
My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine
In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse,
And but unto our selves to all remaine
Invisible, thou feature of this face!
So said, her sad swaine over-heard and cried:
Yee Gods! for faith unstaind this a reward!
Feathers and glasse t'outweigh my vertue tryed!
Ah! show their empty strength! the gods accord.
Now fall'n the brittle favourite lyes and burst!
Amas'd LUCASTA weepes, repents and flies
To her ALEXIS, vowes her selfe acurst,
If hence she dresse her selfe but in his eyes.
This adaptation of the fan to the purposes of a mirror,
now so common, was, as we here are told, familiar to the ladies
of Lovelace's time. Mr. Fairholt, in his COSTUME IN ENGLAND,
1846, p. 496, describes many various forms which were given at
different periods to this article of use and ornament; but the
present passage in LUCASTA appears to have escaped his notice.
Ostrich. Lyly, in his EUPHUES, 1579, sig. c 4,
has ESTRIDGE. The fan here described was composed of
ostrich-feathers set with precious stones.
In allusion to the digestive powers of this bird.
Original reads NEERE.
The poet means that Lucasta, when she did not require
her fan for immediate use, wore it suspended at her side or
from her girdle.
LUCASTA, TAKING THE WATERS AT TUNBRIDGE.
Yee happy floods! that now must passe
The sacred conduicts of her wombe,
Smooth and transparent as your face,
When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.
Be proud! and if your waters be
Foul'd with a counterfeyted teare,
Or some false sigh hath stained yee,
Haste, and be purified there.
And when her rosie gates y'have trac'd,
Continue yet some Orient wet,
'Till, turn'd into a gemme, y'are plac'd
Like diamonds with rubies set.
Yee drops, that dew th' Arabian bowers,
Tell me, did you e're smell or view
On any leafe of all your flowers
Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?
But as through th' Organs of her breath
You trickle wantonly, beware:
Ambitious Seas in their just death
As well as Lovers, must have share.
And see! you boyle as well as I;
You, that to coole her did aspire,
Now troubled and neglected lye,
Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.
Yet still be happy in the thought,
That in so small a time as this,
Through all the Heavens you were brought
Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.
From this it might be conjectured, though the ground for
doing so would be very slight, that LUCASTA was a native of Kent
or of one of the adjoining shires; but against this supposition
we have to set the circumstance that elsewhere this lady is called
a "northern star."
Ah LUCASTA, why so bright?
Spread with early streaked light!
If still vailed from our sight,
What is't but eternall night?
Ah LUCASTA, why so chaste?
With that vigour, ripenes grac't,
Not to be by Man imbrac't
Makes that Royall coyne imbace't,
And this golden Orchard waste!
Ah LUCASTA, why so great,
That thy crammed coffers sweat?
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.
Ah Lucasta, why so good?
Blest with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soule and blood;
If it be not understood,
'Tis a Diamond in mud.
LUCASTA! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not bright but to the eye,
Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye,
Nor great but in this treasurie,
Nor good but in that sanctitie.
Harder then the Orient stone,
Like an apparition,
Or as a pale shadow gone,
Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.
Then receive this equall dombe:
Virgins, strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart i'th' roome,
And 'tis both her coarse and tombe.
LUCASTA PAYING HER OBSEQUIES TO THE CHAST MEMORY
OF MY DEAREST COSIN MRS. BOWES BARNE[S].
See! what an undisturbed teare
She weepes for her last sleepe;
But, viewing her, straight wak'd a Star,
She weepes that she did weepe.
Griefe ne're before did tyranize
On th' honour of that brow,
And at the wheeles of her brave eyes
Was captive led til now.
Thus, for a saints apostacy
The unimagin'd woes
And sorrowes of the Hierarchy
None but an angel knowes.
Thus, for lost soules recovery
The clapping of all wings
And triumphs of this victory
None but an angel sings.
So none but she knows to bemone
This equal virgins fate,
None but LUCASTA can her crowne
Of glory celebrate.
Then dart on me (CHAST LIGHT) one ray,
By which I may discry
Thy joy cleare through this cloudy day
To dresse my sorrow by.
This lady was probably the wife of a descendant of
Sir William Barnes, of Woolwich, whose only daughter and heir,
Anne, married the poet's father, and brought him the seat in Kent.
See GENTS. MAGAZINE for 1791, part ii. 1095.
A translation of LUCASTA, or LUX CASTA, for the sake
of the metre.
UPON THE CURTAINE OF LUCASTA'S PICTURE,
IT WAS THUS WROUGHT.
Oh, stay that covetous hand; first turn all eye,
All depth and minde; then mystically spye
Her soul's faire picture, her faire soul's, in all
So truely copied from th' originall,
That you will sweare her body by this law
Is but its shadow, as this, its; - now draw.
Pictures used formerly to have curtains before them.
It is still done in some old houses. In WESTWARD HOE, 1607,
act ii. scene 3, there is an allusion to this practice: -
"SIR GOSLING. So draw those curtains, and let's see the
pictures under 'em." - Webster's WORKS, ed. Hazlitt, i. 133.
Cold as the breath of winds that blow
To silver shot descending snow,
Lucasta sigh't; when she did close
The world in frosty chaines!
And then a frowne to rubies frose
The blood boyl'd in our veines:
Yet cooled not the heat her sphere
Of beauties first had kindled there.
Then mov'd, and with a suddaine flame
Impatient to melt all againe,
Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl'd,
And earth in ashes mournes;
The sun his blaze denies the world,
And in her luster burnes:
Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice
Disdaine had first congeal'd to ice.
And now her teares nor griev'd desire
Can quench this raging, pleasing fire;
Fate but one way allowes; behold
Her smiles' divinity!
They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold,
So fram'd up a new sky.
Thus earth, from flames and ice repreev'd,
E're since hath in her sun-shine liv'd.
Original reads SIGHT.
THE APOSTACY OF ONE, AND BUT ONE LADY.
That frantick errour I adore,
And am confirm'd the earth turns round;
Now satisfied o're and o're,
As rowling waves, so flowes the ground,
And as her neighbour reels the shore:
Finde such a woman says she loves;
She's that fixt heav'n, which never moves.
In marble, steele, or porphyrie,
Who carves or stampes his armes or face,
Lookes it by rust or storme must dye:
This womans love no time can raze,
Hardned like ice in the sun's eye,
Or your reflection in a glasse,
Which keepes possession, though you passe.
We not behold a watches hand
To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow;
Must we infer that this doth stand,
And therefore, that those do not blow?
This she acts calmer, like Heav'ns brand,
The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart,
She kils, but ere we feele the smart.
Oh, she is constant as the winde,
That revels in an ev'nings aire!
Certaine as wayes unto the blinde,
More reall then her flatt'ries are;
Gentle as chaines that honour binde,
More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew,
But as the divel not halfe so true.
AMYNTOR FROM BEYOND THE SEA TO ALEXIS.
Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,
Though so much wet and drie
Doth drowne our eye,
Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?
Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare,
Hath swallow'd me, where now
My armes do row,
I floate i'th' ocean of a teare.
Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread
Your Watry land againe.
Amyn. I'd through the raine;
Such showrs are quickly over-spread.
Conceive how joy, after this short divorce,
Will circle her with beames,
When, like your streames,
You shall rowle back with kinder force,
And call the helping winds to vent your thought.
Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where
Or in what sphere
Say, may that glorious fair be sought?
Amyn. She's now the center of these armes e're blest,
Whence may she never move,
Till Time and Love
Haste to their everlasting rest.
Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high
As yours, and burne as hot?
Am not I shot
With the selfe same artillery?
And can I breath without her air? - Amyn.
From thy tempestuous earth,
Where blood and dearth
Raigne 'stead of kings, agen
Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far
Arise, bring in our sight
The seas delight,
Lucasta, that bright northerne star.
Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare
The green god stops his fell
Chariot of shell,
And smooths the maine to ravish her.
Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done;
He as his empire's old,
And rivers, cold;
His queen now runs abed to th' sun;
But all his treasure he shall ope' that day:
Tritons shall sound: his fleete
In silver meete,
And to her their rich offrings pay.
Alex. We flye, Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent
By water, earth, or aire:
Or if with her
By fire: ev'n there
I move in mine owne element.
CALLING LUCASTA FROM HER RETIREMENT.
From the dire monument of thy black roome,
Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe,
As in the inmost cell of all earths wombe.
Sacred Lucasta, like the pow'rfull ray
Of heavenly truth, passe this Cimmerian way,
Whilst all the standards of your beames display.
Arise and climbe our whitest, highest hill;
There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill,
And see seas calme as earth, earth as your will.
Behold! how lightning like a taper flyes,
And guilds your chari't, but ashamed dyes,
Seeing it selfe out-gloried by your eyes.
Threatning and boystrous tempests gently bow,
And to your steps part in soft paths, when now
There no where hangs a cloud, but on your brow.
No showrs but 'twixt your lids, nor gelid snow,