SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes:
I write of Youth, of Love ;-and have access
By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white :
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King:
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall,
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
JOU say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away:
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ;-
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it:
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound :
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below:
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.
MMORTAL Love, author of this great frame,
Sprung from that beauty which can never fade;
How hath man parcelled out thy glorious name,
And thrown it on that dust which thou hast made, While mortal love doth all the title gain!
Which siding with Invention, they together
Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain-
Thy workmanship-and give thee share in neither.
Wit fancies beauty, beauty raiseth wit;
The world is theirs; they two play out the game,
Thou standing by: and though thy glorious name
Wrought our deliverance from th' infernal pit,
Who sings thy praise? Only a scarf or glove
Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.
ORD, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
Y God, where is that ancient heat towards Thee
Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did
Besides their other flames? Doth poetry
Wear Venus' livery,-only serve her turn?
Why are not sonnets made of Thee, and lays
Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise
As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?
Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the same,
Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy Name?
Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might
Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose
Than that which one day worms may chance refuse?
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