Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 73

But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie.

Yet thus it was: the Gem, The Diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball, The Heavenly eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul, that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing!

Thomas Flatman. 1637-1688

407. The Sad Day

O THE sad day!

When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me-- 'Hark, how he groans!

Look, how he pants for breath!

See how he struggles with the pangs of death!'

When they shall say of these dear eyes-- 'How hollow, O how dim they be!

Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!'

When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.

But--when his next companions say 'How does he do? What hopes?'--shall turn away, Answering only, with a lift-up hand-- 'Who can his fate withstand?'

Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more!

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 1638-1706

408. Song Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement.

TO all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our s.h.i.+ps at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our s.h.i.+ps are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pa.s.s our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious...o...b..e play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue?

We were undone when we left you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note As if it sigh'd with each man's care For being so remote, Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness: All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: Let 's hear of no inconstancy-- We have too much of that at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701

409. To Chloris

AH, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcern'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain!

When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in the mine; Age from no face took more away Than youth conceal'd in thine.

But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.

My pa.s.sion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favour'd you, Threw a new flaming dart: Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employ'd the utmost of his art-- To make a beauty, she.

Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701

410. To Celia

NOT, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest!

For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find-- For the whole s.e.x can but afford The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true!

Aphra Behn. 1640-1689

411. Song

LOVE in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he show'd: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee.

Thus thou and I the G.o.d have arm'd And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

Aphra Behn. 1640-1689

412. The Libertine

A THOUSAND martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire, A thousand beauties have betray'd That languish in resistless fire: The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.

I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain, But both, tho' false, were well received; The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed: And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart, Love's pleasures only touch'd my heart.

Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs without pain or toil, Without the h.e.l.l the heaven of joy; And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680