The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw Volume I Part 49

Poore Earth hath not enough perfection, To shaddow forth th' admired paragon.

Those sparkling twinnes of light should I now stile Rich diamonds, sett in a pure siluer foyle; Or call her cheeke a bed of new-blowne roses; And say that ivory her front composes; Or should I say, that with a scarlet waue Those plumpe soft rubies had bin drest soe braue; Or that the dying lilly did bestow Vpon her neck the whitest of his snow; Or that the purple violets did lace That hand of milky downe; all these are base; Her glories I should dimme with things soe grosse, And foule the cleare text with a muddy glosse.

Goe on then, Heauen, & limbe forth such another, Draw to this sister miracle a brother; Compile a first glorious epitome Of heauen, & Earth, & of all raritie; And sett it forth in the same happy place, And I'le not blurre it with my paraphrase.

VPON A GNATT BURNT IN A CANDLE.

Little, buzzing, wanton elfe Perish there, and thanke thy selfe.

Thou deseru'st thy life to loose, For distracting such a Muse.

Was it thy ambitious aime By thy death to purchase fame?

Didst thou hope he would in pitty Haue bestow'd a funerall ditty On thy ghoast? and thou in that To haue outliued Virgill's gnatt?

No! The treason thou hast wrought Might forbid thee such a thought.

If that Night's worke doe miscarry, Or a syllable but vary; A greater foe thou shalt me find, The destruction of thy kind.

Phoebus, to revenge thy fault, In a fiery trapp thee caught; That thy winged mates might know it, And not dare disturbe a poet.

Deare and wretched was thy sport, Since thyselfe was crushed for't; Scarcely had that life a breath, Yet it found a double death; Playing in the golden flames, Thou fell'st into an inky Thames; Scorch'd and drown'd. That petty sunne A pretty Icarus hath vndone.

FROM PETRONIUS.[91]

_Ales Phasiacis pet.i.ta Colchis, &c._

The bird that's fetch't from Phasis floud, Or choicest hennes of Africk-brood; These please our palates; and why these?

'Cause they can but seldome please.

Whil'st the goose soe goodly white, And the drake, yeeld noe delight, Though his wings' conceited hewe Paint each feather, as if new.

These for vulgar stomacks be, And rellish not of rarity.

But the dainty Scarus, sought In farthest clime; what e're is bought With s.h.i.+pwrack's toile, oh, that is sweet, 'Cause the quicksands hansell'd it.

The pretious barbill, now growne rife, Is cloying meat. How stale is wife?

Deare wife hath ne're a handsome letter, Sweet mistris sounds a great deale better.

Rose quakes at name of cinnamon.

Unlesse't be rare, what's thought vpon?

FROM HORACE.

_Ille et ne fasto te posuit die, &c._

Shame of thy mother soyle! ill-nurtur'd tree!

Sett, to the mischeife of posteritie!

That hand (what e're it wer) that was thy nurse, Was sacrilegious (sure) or somewhat worse.

Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sight Thy rising topp first stain'd the bashfull light.

That man--I thinke--wrested the feeble life From his old father, that man's barbarous knife Conspir'd with darknes 'gainst the strangers throate; (Whereof the blus.h.i.+ng walles tooke b.l.o.o.d.y note) Huge high-floune poysons, eu'n of Colchos breed, And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed, His hands haue padled in; his hands, that found Thy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground.

Perfidious totterer! longing for the staines Of thy kind Master's well-deseruing braines.

Man's daintiest care, & caution cannot spy The subtile point of his coy destiny, Wch way it threats. With feare the merchant's mind Is plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind, (Rowz'd in an angry tempest), Oh the sea!

Oh! that's his feare; there flotes his destiny: While from another (vnseene) corner blowes The storme of fate, to wch his life he owes; By Parthians bow the soldier lookes to die, (Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.) The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name, Fledg'd with her eagle's wing; the very chaine Of his captivity rings in his eares.

Thus, o thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares Farre distant from our fates, our fates, that mocke Our giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke.

A little more, & I had surely seene Thy greisly Majesty, h.e.l.l's blackest Queene; And Oeacus on his tribunall too, Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!) You euer-blus.h.i.+ng meads, where doe the blest Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest.

There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her lute Her loue's crosse fortune, that the sad dispute Runnes murmuring on the strings. Alcaeus there In high-built numbers wakes his golden lyre To tell the world, how hard the matter went, How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.

There these braue soules deale to each wondring eare Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare Without religious silence; aboue all Warre's ratling tumults, or some tyrant's fall.

The thronging clotted mult.i.tude doth feast: What wonder? when the hundred-headed beast Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly lines; _ears_ The Furies' curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines, And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire.

Prometheus selfe, and Pelops sterved sire Are cheated of their paines; Orion thinkes Of lions now noe more, or spotted linx.

EX EUPHORMIONE.

_O Dea, siderei seu tu stirpe alma tonantis, &c._

Bright G.o.ddesse (whether Joue thy father be, Or Jove a father will be made by thee) Oh crowne these praiers (mov'd in a happy bower) But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. That power Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne, Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne, Great nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. Heau'n you know And all their fellow-deities will bow Eu'n to the naked'st vowes. Thou art my fate; To thee the Parcae haue given vp of late My threds of life: if then I shall not live By thee, by thee yet lett me die; this giue, High Beautie's soveraigne, that my funerall flames May draw their first breath from thy starry beames.

The phoenix' selfe shall not more proudly burne, That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull vrne.

AN ELEGY VPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW,

FELLOW OF QUEENE'S COLLEDGE.[92]

Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine, To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane?

Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd?

Is th' Earth disrobed of her ap.r.o.n white, Kind Winter's guift, & in a greene one dight?

Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe, Wch their bright father in a pretious showre From heaven's sweet milky streame doth gently poure Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye, And with a golden waue wash cleane away Those durty s.m.u.tches, wch their faire fronts wore, And make them laugh, wch frown'd, & wept before?

If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; o then What meane these shoures of teares amongst vs men?

These cataracts of griefe, that dare eu'n vie With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie?

If Winters gone, whence this vntimely cold, That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold?

What more than winter hath that dire art found, These purple currents hedg'd with violets round.

To corrallize, wch softly wont to slide In crimson waueletts, & in scarlet tide?

If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe, And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe O tell me then, what rude outragious blast Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast?

To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath His balmy treasure to the bedd of death?

'Twas not the frozen zone; one sparke of fire, Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd its ire, And made it burne in loue: 'twas not the rage, And too vngentle nippe of frosty age: 'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest Was in the modest nunnery of his brest: Noe, none of these ravish't those virgin roses, The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies.

Wch, while they smiling sate vpon his face, They often kist, & in the sugred place Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone Of all our glorious hopes should fade, And be eclipsed with an envious shade.

Noe 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by, Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry, And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse) Murdred the Earth's just pride with a rude kisse.

A winged herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey, s.n.a.t.c.h't vpp the falling starre, soe richly gay, And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd, Amongst those lillies, wch his bosome bredd.

Where round about hovers with siluer wing A golden Summer, an aeternall Spring.

Now that his root such fruit againe may beare, Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.