Ask me no more, whither doth baste Ask me no more, where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night; For, in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, MURDERING BEAUTY. I'LL gaze no more on her bewitching face, Since ruin harbors there in every place; For my enchanted soul alike she drowns With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns. I'll love no more those cruel eyes of hers, Which, pleas'd or anger'd, still are murderers: For if she dart (like lightning) through the air Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair; If she behold me with a pleasing eye, I surfeit with excess of joy, and die. A PRAYER TO THE WIND. There suck odors, and thence skip There perfume thyself, and bring Turn each thistle to a vine, That alike both flames may shine, UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY. KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, liv'd unknown, Had not my verse exhal'd thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine, Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. RED AND WHITE ROSES. REAL in these roses the sad story, Of my hard fate, and your own glory: In the white you may discover The paleness or a fainting lover; In the red the flames still feeding On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. The white will tell you how I languish, And the red express my anguish : The white my innocence displaying, O! let your smiles but clear the weather, THE PRIMROSE. ASK me why I send you here This primrose all bepearl'd with dew; THE PROTESTATION. No more shall the meads be deck'd with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers; The fish shall in the ocean burn, Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, Love shall no more inhabit earth, ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1618-1667. [ABRAHAM COWLEY was the posthumous son of a London stationer, and was born in the latter part of the year 1618. He was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, where he remained from 1636 to 1643. He took the royalist side during the Civil War, and helped the King's cause both at Oxford and afterwards as Secretary to the Queen in her exile in Paris. In 1655 he returned to England, where he remained under strict surveillance till Cromwell's death; then he rejoined his friends in France. At the Restoration he came back, and lived in retirement at Barnes and Chertsey till his death in 1667. His poems were published in the following order: Poetical Blossomes, 1633; Love's Riddle, a comedy, 1638; The Mistress, 1047. The Guardian (surreptitiously published), 1650; the first folio edition of the Works, 1636: other editions of the same followed with the addition of such new poems and essays as he produced from time to time. The most complete editions of his works are those which appeared in 1708 and 1721.] It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can but I'll cut And march, the Muse's Hannibal. If my abused touch allow Aught to be smooth or soft but thou! If what seasonable springs, Or the eastern summer brings, Do my smell persuade at all Hence, all the flatt'ring vanities that lay Aught perfume but thy breath to call; Nets of roses in the way; Hence, the desire of honors or estate, Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days, Which intercepts my coming praise. Come, my best Friends! my books! and lead me on, 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagirite! and teach If all my senses objects be And so through thee more pow'rful pass THE WISH. WELL, then, I now do plainly see, Ah! yet, e'er I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have! And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And good as guardian angels are, THE SPRING. [From The Mistress.] THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay, As ever they were wont to be; As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a rose-bud ope this morn; I'll swear The blushing morning open'd not more fair. How could it be so fair, and you away? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year, And call'd their fellows to the sight, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Creep back into their silent barks again. Where'er you walk'd trees were as reverend made, As when of old gods dwelt in every shade. Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree. In ancient times sure they much wiser were, When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear; In vain did nature bid them stay, When Orpheus had his song begun, They call'd their wondering roots away, And bade them silent to him run. How would those learned trees have followed you? You would have drawn them, and their poet too. But who can blame them now? for, since you're gone, They're here the only fair, and shine alone. You did their natural rights invade: Although the Sun had granted it: The fairest flowers could please nc more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do. When e'er then you came hither, that shall be The time, which this to others is, to me. The little joys which here are now, The name of punishments do bear, When by their sight they let us know How we depriv'd of greater are. 'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beasts, and that for men the spring. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. [RICHARD LOVELACE was born at Woolwich in 1618; he died in Gunpowder Alley, near Shoe Lane, London, in April, 1658. His Lucasta was published in 1649, and his Posthume Poems in 1659. He was the author of The Scholar, a comedy, written in 1634, and of The Soldier, a tragedy, written in 1640, but these dramas are lost.] TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN love with uncontinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, |