But all doth vanish and doth turne to nought,

If once a man enricht, those fairyes know :
But now your loue (say you) is dead and gone :
But my strong faith shall giue it life againe.
By strength of fancy miricles are done,
And true beleefe doth seldom hope in vaine.
Your Phoenix loue is vnto ashes turnd,

But now the fier of my affection true,
Which long within my hart hath kyndly burnd,
Shall spreade such heate as it shall liue anew.
Or if the fyer of your celestiall loue,
Be mounted vp to heauen and cannot dye :
Another slye Prometheus will I prove,
and play the theife to steale it from the skye.
When you vouchsaft to love vnworthy me,
Your loue discended like a shower of raine;
Which on the earth, euen senceles though she bee,
when once it falls, returneth not againe.

Then why should you withdraw the heauenly dew
Which fell sometymes on your despairing lover?

Though then his earthly spirit full little knew
How good an Angel did about him houer.
O you the glory of your sex and race!
You that all tymes and places hapie make!
You that in beeing vertuous vertue grace,

and make men love it better for your

sake:

One sunbeame yet of favour cast on mee,

Let one kinde thought in your cleare fancy rise: Loue but a thought, or if that may not be

Be pleasd that I may love, it shall suffise.

WHAT

TO THE Q: [UEENE.]

Musicke shall we make to you?

To whome the strings of all men's harts

Make musicke of ten thousand parts :

In tune and measure true,

With straines and changes new.

How shall wee fraime a harmony

Worthie your eares, whose princely3 hands

Keepe harmony in sundry lands:

Whose people divers be,

In station and degree?

Heauen's tunes may onely please,

and not such aires as theise.

For you which downe from heauen are sent
Such peace vpon the earth to bring,

Haue h[e]ard ye quire of Angells sing :

and all the sphæres consent,

like a sweete instrument.

How then should theise harsh tunes you heare

Created of ye trubled ayer,

breed but distast-when you repaire

to your celestiall eare?

So that this center here

for you no musicke fynds,
but harmony of mynds.

[TO FAIRE LADYES.]

5

LADYES of Founthill, I am come to seeke

My hart amongst you, which I late did leese

Spelled here and elsewhere 'yu.' It may be noted here, that throughout these Poems, as with the Psalms, my rule has been to extend mere contraction-forms. The few left have a place for philological ends. A kind of flourish at the end of a number of words, I was disposed to regard as intended to represent 's,' but instances occur in the MS. to show that it is a mere ornamental addition : and so I leave it unrepresented. G.

5 Founthill or Fonthill in Wilts. See Prefatory Note to these hitherto unpublished MSS. G.

but many harts may be perhaps alike:

Therefore of mine, the proper markes, are theise.
It is not hard, though true as steele it be,
And like ye diomond, cleare from any spot;
Transmixt with many darts you shall it se[e],
but all by vertue, not by Cupid, shot;

It hath no wings, because it needeth none,
Being now arived and settled where it would;
Winged desires and hopes from it gon are,
but it is full of joyes as it can hold.

Faine would I find it where it doth remaine,

but would not haue it though I might againe.

UPON A PAIRE OF GARTERS.

O loveinge woode-bynde, clip with louely grace,

Go

those two sweet plants which beare ye flowers of loue;

Go silken vines, those tender elmes embrace,

Which flourish still, although their roots doe moue.

As soone as you possess your blessed places,

You are advanced and ennobled more
Then dyodemes, which were white silken laces

That ancient kings about there forehead wore :

Sweete bands, take heed lest you vnge[n]tly bynd,
Or with your stricktnes make too deepe a print :
Was neuer tree had such a tinder rynd,
Although her inward hart be hard as flynt;
And let your knots be fast, and loose at will,
she must be free, though I stand bounden still.

[TO HIS LADY-LOVE.]

IN this sweete booke, ye treasury of witt,

IN

All virtues, beautyes, passions, written be: And with such life they are sett forth in it as still methinkes yt which I read I see. But this booke's Mrs. is a liveing booke, Which hath indeed those vertues in her mynde, And in whose face though envey's selfe do looke, Even envye's eye shall all those beautyes fynd. Onely ye passions y are printed here,

In her calme thoughts can no impression make : She will not love, nor hate, nor hope, nor feare, Though others seeke theise passions for her sake. So in ye sonne, some say there is no heate though his reflecting beames doe fire begett.